“Then will you let me be a scholar of Gwendolyn, and dig you up bit by bit? Ease into it, one secret at a time so you can see that with each new bit of yourself you show, I will not run.”
“That… that sounds bearable, doable.”
“Gwendolyn, I only wish to know… are you free? To wed?”
“Yes. If I wish to.”
“Then you may take your time telling me all. Just don’t leave.”
“I cannot promise not to leave. I will do what I must to keep you safe.”
Unacceptable. If she left, he could not protect her. She’d sealed her fate showing him that letter. He’d never let her go now. But he’d not push her this moment. Because with Gwendolyn in his arms and her promise to try to trust him on her lips, he wanted more. Greedy man, he was.
He kissed her—firm, decided. No holding back now. She trusted him with a hard truth, a vulnerable pain, and he’d take what she offered, show her his thanks. What use were words when lips could communicate in better ways?
She kissed him back, not even hesitating to pour herself into the mold that was him, her, them together, with confident limbs and eager lips. No hesitation? New, that. He was not fool enough to question it. He accepted it for the gift it was and gave her as much of himself as he could, gave her all.
She curled against him like perfection, her softness pushing him toward hardness—hard body, hard need as well. High above, stars twinkled like gems, gossiping cold flames that could not keep them warm.
She shivered.
“You’re cold.” She wore no pelisse or coat, no scarf or gloves, and when he pressed a palm into her cheek, it was ice. He spit a curse. “You must return indoors.”
“No. I like being here with you under the night sky. It feels… free. I’ve not felt free in so long. I wish to enjoy it.” She snuggled deeper into his embrace, a miracle. “And I wish to continue kissing you.”
“How convenient. I wish to continue kissing you.” So he kissed her again. And she kissed him back, and they held each other up and gave each other heat and made promises without words even though darkness draped around them like a cloak, even though those gossiping stars twinkled coldly above them, so far away.
She drank from his lips, and he tangled his hands up in her hair so that it fell free and cascaded down her back, a torrent of gold in the dark, lighting up the night, lighting up him, then—
She shivered, and he cursed and broke the kiss, folded her hand in his own, and dragged her out of the garden and a short distance across the lawn to the greenhouse. It rose before them, white marble glowing in the night, a beacon of warmth and privacy.
She went willingly, easily, her feet a soft cadence patting against the ground that matched his own, and when he closed the door behind them, shutting the humid heat of the greenhouse across their shivering skin, he twirled her, pressed her back against the marble, and found his way home.
Fifteen
The cold skittered across Gwendolyn’s skin, but heat rushed through her veins. She pressed her palms against Jackson’s burning chest as he pressed her against the frigid marble. A riot of hot and cold in the pure midnight air. Despite the glass ceiling, no moonlight encroached, no winking stars. Just windows shuttered to keep in the heat, and vines, branches, and exotic blooms tangled all about.
Shefelt tangled. Trysts in greenhouses not part of the plan. Only taking hands with Jackson and digging together into the quiet recesses of the heart, who they used to be and who they wanted to be. Together.
Faulty thinking to dive in all at once. She would move into the recitation of her past as if into a pond, one step at a time, and perhaps that way find the means to conquer her fears, find the means to once more reinvent herself. Not to run and hide, but so she could give Jackson the key to herself he deserved.
More importantly, so she could give herself whatshewanted, whatshedeserved.
She would dig. She would lay bare her past one bit at a time, and she would start finding her courage now. But why not this too? Why not this tangle of limbs and meeting of beating hearts and impatient mouths? A bit of a reward for facing the pain.
She bit his lower lip and sucked it briefly. He moaned, and she’d made it happen, and the knowledge felt like power surging through her. He cupped her face with solid hands, kissed her like she was the final dregs of daylight before an entire winter of darkness. He gasped as he pulled away. She’d thought there no light in this moonless jungle, but his eyes were stars, shining for her. His hands wandered down her neck, her shoulders, and cupped around her upper arms. He dropped his lips to hers once more and dragged her to the side until the marble fell away. She gasped, but he swallowed it and steadied her, picked her up, and set her back down on a wide, marble window seat. The smooth glass at her back cut cold against her as his hands grasped her thighs, spread them apart, as he stepped between her legs and sank to one knee then the other.
She braced her hands on either side of her hips and melted her body weight into her palms.
The warm velvet of his hands found her ankles, bound them loosely, and followed the curve of her legs upward, raising the hem of her gown up, up, up. Chill even here, the air cut through her stockings and pricked gooseflesh across her bare thighs as he settled her skirts in a puddle over her lap. He stroked her legs from thigh to ankle and back up again. Her breasts ached and her head fell back on her neck with a low moan of his name.
“Almost, Mistress Midnight,” he promised. He kissed the top of each knee, and she wished her stockings to hell. She wanted nothing between her skin and his hands, cupped and warm. Then those hands spread her legs farther apart, and he nipped and licked a path from her knee much, much higher.
She found the muscles to open further for him, and he kissed her at the apex of her legs. Another moan rocked through her, and she felt his grin against her. Not for long though, for he soon found other things to do with those lips—kissing and licking and delving. His hands played along her thighs, banishing the cold, and each touch and taste he took of her curled her tight as the curling vines around them. Her fingernails dug into the marble windowsill, and she closed her eyes, closed out the shadows of the world as he curled a hand around her hip, squeezed, and snuck the other hand to join his mouth between her legs. His thumb, clever digit, found her bud and spiraled soft circles into and around it.
She needed to touch him, to replace cold windowsills with solid flesh, so she did, digging fingernails into his shoulders. The touch sent a jerk of approval through his body. He inhaled and exhaled sharply, his thumb never letting up, his other fingers slipping inside her.
And she shattered, giving in to the sensation of his breath and skin against her. Her muscles locked, and she dragged herself close to his body to keep herself upright when those solid stone muscles gave way to exhausted flesh, and she collapsed. He stood and pulled her into his arms like a babe, but she wiggled free, finding the energy and strength because they were not done yet. Far from it. She pressed him into the seat she’d just vacated and stepped between his legs, a reversal of their earlier position. She sank to her knees and set her fingers to work about the buttons of his fall.
