Page 47 of A Delicate Deception
Sydney let out a totally unexpected burst of laughter, not only at the idea of Amelia reading his mother’s book and taking its lessons to heart, but at the unvarnished thrill on Amelia’s face at having found the right sugar. “I’ll be sure to let her know in my next letter.”
And it occurred to him that his mother would like Amelia. They would disagree six times out of ten, but they would both enjoy doing so. They would respect one another. It also occurred to Sydney that this mattered to him more than he could have anticipated.
When they stepped into the cottage, the room Sydney saw before him was very much of a piece with the outside of the house. Mismatched chintz furniture, books scattered in a somewhat even layer across every surface, vases of flowers wedged in between the books, a fine dusting of cat hair throughout. Sunlight streamed in through a large window. Fancy promptly hopped onto the sofa and shut her eyes.
“Is this where you write?” he asked.
“No, that’s upstairs. Do you want to see?”
“Of course I want to see. I need to know where the muses live when they whisper murderous nothings into your ear. Lead the way.” He was dimly aware that this was inappropriate, but then he remembered that things between them had progressed quite beyond the stage where traditional concepts of propriety were even remotely applicable.
Her writing room was a small, low-ceilinged garret at the top of the house, into which an improbable quantity of furniture had been crammed. There were a desk and chair, two bookcases, and a sofa that he guessed was deemed too shabby for downstairs. There was an abundance of blankets and cushions throughout. The result of all this—he hesitated to call it clutter—was that he and Amelia were standing very close.
“It’s a mess,” she said. “Always is, no matter what I do.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” The words came out gruffly, and she turned towards him in question. “I missed you,” he said. “But I missed you even before I left. I missed our walks and”—he swallowed—“all that, and I suppose it stands to reason that I’d miss you even more not even being in the same county.” She was looking at him with an expression that shifted from confused to pleased to something heated and hungry. “In any event—”
She shut him up with a kiss, rising onto her toes and meeting his mouth as if they had done this a dozen times, as if they had spent half a lifetime doing this. And when she licked into his mouth, that’s how it felt—like she had always been there, like she would always be there, like they had been waiting and looking for one another without realizing it.
“I missed you too,” she said, pulling away enough to speak the words. Her hands were in his hair, pulling him close, and he staggered under the force of it, accidentally pushing her against the wall. The memory of the last time they had been in this position, their hands all over one another, their breaths coming hot and fast, made his desire coalesce into something urgent and needful.
“Amelia,” he said. He thought that maybe he ought to step back, stop pawing at her, but she didn’t seem to want him to stop and God knew he didn’t either. So he hauled her into his arms and deposited her onto her desk.
“Please tell me you’re not going to sit me here and then go away,” she said, laughter in her voice, the sunshine from the window behind her making her hair into a fiery crown.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “I’ll stay as long as you want me.” He almost believed it was true.
It was extremely gratifying to be hauled about as if she were no more substantial than a cup of tea or a bunch of grapes. It was also gratifying that Sydney seemed utterly unconscious that he had knocked over a stack of books and sent a sheaf of papers floating to the floor. All he seemed to care about was touching as much of her as possible, and as that aligned nicely with her own interests, she did not protest.
Sitting on the edge of the desk did nothing to level out the difference in their heights; if anything, it exaggerated the difference, so that Sydney had to bend over her to properly kiss her, and it seemed only logical for her to wrap her legs around his waist for leverage. His mouth was soft on her own, a pleasant contrast with the coarseness of his stubbled jaw. One of his hands was at the small of her back, holding her in place, and the other cupped her breast, his thumbnail sliding across the fabric that covered her nipple. He bent his head and kissed that place, biting gently until she gasped.
“This gown has to go,” he said, his voice rough. “God help me, get it off before I tear it off.” The hand that fumbled at the buttons and tapes at the waist of her gown was shaking, and she put her own hand over it, holding it steady against her waist.
“The fastenings are at the back,” she said, “but really I wouldn’t mind if you tore it.”
He set her on her feet, then with a firm hand on her hips, spun her around so her back was to him. “Another time,” he said. “Another time I’ll tear anything you please.” And that almost made her laugh because it was a thoroughgoing lie—he’d never ruin her gown.
As he worked open the fastenings, he pressed a kiss over each inch of exposed skin on the nape of her neck down to the middle of her back. She expected him to whisk the gown over her head, but instead he shoved it down a bit, then unlaced her corset. She let out a shaky breath when she felt his hands slide purposefully under her dress, then tug the corset down, letting it fall in two pieces to the floor. Now his hands were on her breasts, thumbing over her nipples, as he kissed the side of her neck.
The hardness of his erection pressed against the small of her back, and she pushed back against him. His arm came around her middle, pressing her to him. And then, with a groan that sounded like capitulation, he eased her forward, so her hands were on the desk before her. The hem of her skirt brushed against the back of her thighs as he lifted her shift, the air suddenly cool against her skin. She looked over her shoulder and watched him looking at her, his eyes frantic and hungry, his body totally still, as if paralyzed by want. She knew she was exposed, she knew he liked what he saw. He unfastened his trousers and took himself in hand.
“What are you going to do about that?” she asked, and with a helpless laugh he passed his hand over his jaw.
“Amelia,” he groaned, “you’ll be the death of me.” With a steadying hand on her hip, he slid between her legs, hot and close but not actually entering her. Instead, he got his hand under her skirts and touched her clitoris. She held on to the edges of the desk, wanting to push forward into his hand and back against his erection, but at the same time wanting to rub her breasts on the smooth surface of the desk. She was made of sensation, her nerves on fire. He was kissing the back of her neck as he touched between her legs, his erection hot and heavy, and she wanted it inside her.
“Please,” she said, rocking back into him.
He laughed, a warm burst of air at the nape of her neck. Then he shifted his stance, widening her legs with his knees in a way that made her groan with anticipation. He slid into her, filling her, stretching her, and—this was what all the fuss was about. The first time had been good, but now there was no sting to undercut the pleasure, only the sensation of it being too much and just right all at once. She understood how people could make terrible choices, decisions that would alter the course of their lives, chasing after this feeling.
He entered her slowly, building up to a steady rhythm that she felt she knew by heart. As she edged closer to her climax, his breathing grew ragged, and it was the knowledge that he was barely holding on to control that pushed her over into her orgasm. Her fingernails dug into the varnish on the desk as the wave of pleasure crested over her. And then his hands were covering hers, his lips on hers as she turned her head, and he thrust a few final times into her before he withdrew.
Without the solid presence of him behind her, she sank to her knees, but he caught her and hauled her to the sofa. He sat sideways, and pulled her against his chest.
“Be careful,” she said, “it’s an old sofa.”
“I noticed,” he answered. “That’s why we used the desk.”
She didn’t know why, but this foresight—he had bent her over the desk so as to spare her sofa a misfortune—made her laugh. “How chivalrous,” she said. And maybe the orgasm had made her giddy, because another inane thought occurred to her. “Was that meant to be my tearful deflowering?” she asked.
