Page 49 of Loving Mister Stratford
She leaned forward and changed the angle to one of delicious torture, bringing her bosom within his reach. He nuzzled the improbably soft pillows, licked the deep crevasse between them, savored the salt of her passionate sweat and the light hint of her own delicate musk. His hands spread wide on the globes of her buttocks, rocking her just so, until she stiffened in his arms and lowered her forehead to his, crying out, gasping in the rapturous joy of her climax. Even when her tremors eventually slowed, Simon remained relentless.
His fingers held her close in a bruising grip as he planted his feet and surged up into her again, and again, and again. He filled her, stretched her wide with every inch of his desire, trying to use his body to convey the words he would not, could not say. Their pounding flesh and Odette’s soft cries of passion, finally drove Simon over that soaring precipice. He buried himself deep within her, nestled safe and hot as wave after wave of his release threatened to drown him. His mind was blank, his world went dark as he screwed his eyes shut and growled through his climax, but he didn’t feel lost. And he realized he never felt lost as long as they were in one another’s arms.
Simon stood in the front hall of their townhouse and accepted the proffered hat and cloak from his butler. He made certain the cream-colored envelopes still waited in a neat row on the small, spindle-legged table Odette had selected for the entryway. On it sat a simple crystal vase with a fluted neck; in it was a small bouquet of pink and white blooms. The hint of their perfume floated on the air and struck Simon like a punch to the stomach.
“See that those messages are delivered.” Simon tilted his chin in the direction of the table. One each to Meredith and Lily, another to his father’s solicitor who handled Simon’s funds. A short note awaited Odette on her dressing table. He’d been torn about whether or not to leave it for her, but, faced with her naked sleeping form bared from the waist up where the sheet had slipped low, he simply hadn’t been able to leave her with nothing.
Following their lovemaking in the study, he’d carried her up to their bedchamber and there, they’d shared the bed for the remainder of the night. He’d intended the second time that evening to be softer, gentler, something to savor, but he had failed miserably. Odette hadn’t seemed to mind. She’d pressed back into his pounding thrusts, clawed at him to come closer when he flipped her over and covered her body with his. She’d wrapped her legs around his hips and locked her ankles to keep him deep within her as he spilled his hot seed deep, deep inside of her.
Simon couldn’t lie to himself. He recognized in his bones that he did not wish to leave Odette; he simply knew that he had to. He couldn’t allow his presence to drag her down. She’d deny it, but he knew it would eat at her gradually. She was warmth and light and Simon…his presence would only hinder her finding her place in Society.
“Of course, Sir,” replied the butler, snapping Simon back to the present.
He nodded and walked through the open door and down to the hired carriage that would bring him to the far flung estate of his colleague. The luggage had already been loaded and the conveyance was weighed down with numerous trunks of papers, notes, and books.
As the carriage jerked into motion, Simon steadfastly refused to look out the window and watch the Townhouse—and Odette—slip away.
Chapter Nineteen
Odette lay abed long after she awoke the following morning.
It was her habit to bound from the mattress nearly as soon as her eyes opened; she’d been like this even as a girl, much to her mother’s chagrin. This day, however, was one she did not wish to face. She loathed the rising sun, the chirping birds and cooing pigeons swooping and strutting through the light morning traffic in St. James’s Square, even the laughter of children as they evaded their nanny’s scolding and darted between the trees. Absolutely everything seemed to somehow bring her mind back to her husband.
She’d awoken alone; the pillow upon which he’d rested his head just a few short hours before was already cold. As much as she wanted to curl into the warm space he had abandoned, Simon hadn’t even left her that much of himself.
In that dreamlike state between sleep and wakefulness, she’d almost been able to convince herself that Simon had simply risen without waking her and was busy collecting her favorite sugar-dusted pastries and other delicious treats with which they might break their fast together in bed. Her reasoning became more desperate as the minutes tipped by, however.
Maybe his delay was due to another early fencing practice.
Then, maybe he’d become sidetracked by a particularly riveting piece of his work or a book he’d come across.
But as Odette’s mind grew more alert, she knew with fierce, cruel certainty what the reality was: Simon had left her.
Even after their lovemaking.
Even after he’d held her.
Even after she’d repeatedly told him she loved him.
Odette was wrecked by the thought of having to face this day without her husband.
Truthfully, it wasn’t so much that she would not see him or be near him and more so that she didn’t know when or if that would happen again.
When.
There had to be a when. She had to believe that Simon would finish his work and see past whatever obstacle he seemed to perceive lay within their marriage and then he would come home to her.
Odette screwed her eyes shut, inhaling one last deep, bracing breath, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Initially, she was rather proud of herself for maintaining her stiff upper lip. She didn’t cry when she saw his toiletries were missing, nor when she didn’t stub her toe on one of the trunks in the dressing room—imagine that—nor when she noticed his second pair of boots had also been removed.
Her facade all came crashing down, however, when she caught sight of the letter laid so carefully on her vanity table, propped up against her crystal scent bottle.
The folded note had no address—it didn’t need one for her to know it was for her and just from whom it came. She stared at it for several minutes, like a chess player regarded an opponent, before swiping it up and unfolding the parchment. She both needed to know what it said and feared what Simon had deemed important enough to write down. He was an expeditious man and simply transcribing the words he’d already spoken the night before was something she was sure he’d deem superfluous.
Odette’s eyes flew through his neat script, now so familiar to her from his journals. She hadn’t believed her heart might possibly sink further than it had, but she was wrong. So very wrong.
Odette,
