Unraveled (Turner #3)(52)

“Oh God,” she heard herself moan. “God, Smite. Do that again.”

He did. He did it harder and faster, until the heat pulsed around them in waves, until she felt elevated on high. Her orgasm passed through her, tearing her to pieces. Her fists clenched in her skirts, and she screamed. It wasn’t just a release. It was a vindication of sorts.

He pulled away an inch and reached for his own trousers. Miranda had a moment of dim comprehension, before she set her hands atop his.

“Wait. I don’t have my sponge in.”

He paused for only the briefest of moments. “Where is it?”

“Upstairs. My bedchamber.”

He slipped one arm under her knees and the other about her shoulders. Before she quite knew what was happening, he lifted her in the air. Her hand slid across the straining muscles in his back. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you upstairs.”

He did. She never would have imagined that it might feel so lovely to be held. He cradled her close, up the two flights of stairs. When he arrived in her bedchamber, he set her on her bed, and then crossed to her chest of drawers. He pulled the stopper on the vial of vinegar and a sweetly sour scent filled the room; glass clinked, and he turned back to her.

She held out her hand, but he didn’t give the sponge to her. Instead, he climbed beside her. He pulled up her skirts and parted her legs. The sponge was cold for one second against her flesh—but he pushed it inside her, trailing both heat and cold in his wake.

“Is that right?” he asked, his fingers still lodged inside her.

“Yes.”

He curled his finger inside her passage. “And that?”

“God,” she breathed. “Yes.”

“What about this?” His thumb ran along her.

“Too much. Not enough.” She pulled his hands away from her, sat up, and reached for his trousers. This time, the buttons came undone easily. His member sprang out, hot and hard.

“I want you,” she said.

He made a deep noise in his throat, almost a growl. He kicked off his trousers and knelt before her. “Say it again.”

His hands found her thighs.

“I want you,” she repeated.

He pushed inside her, stretching her. “God. You’re so good.”

She gripped his arms and watched his face. His thrusts were hard and impatient; he bit his lip in concentration. His breath grew ragged. He was warm, so warm, and so alive. His hands found hers and clenched tightly around her fingers. And she was connected to him—deeply, intimately, perfectly. He drove away the last cold threads of fear from her, replacing them with life. He came hard inside her in a burst of heat.

He collapsed on top of her. They didn’t speak for long minutes. He played his hand through her hair, twirling it about his fingers casually.

This was the point where she would have reached up and caressed his jaw. She would have run her fingers down the bridge of his nose and cupped his cheek in her palm. Instead, she took his hand in hers. She spread his fingers across her own cheek, guided him to stroke the side of her face.

“This is what I’d give you,” she whispered. If she could.

His eyes drifted shut. She maneuvered his hand along her jaw; his fingers trailed along her lips. She couldn’t touch his face, but she could still touch him. She could feel him relaxing against her, all that residual awareness seeping away. She entangled his fingers in hers.

“Stay with me,” she heard herself whisper. Stay all night.

He must have known what she was asking. His arm curled around her. He inclined his head to hers.

“Miranda,” he murmured. “Darling.”

There had been a space between the words, a single breath. He hadn’t stayed with her before, but tonight…tonight was different. Tonight she needed to be held. She needed someone warm and vital to remind her that not all youth ended in death.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Can’t?”

He let out another breath. “Won’t,” he clarified.

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain. Miranda had never expected to have all of him, and so no matter how she yearned to hold him, she opened her hands and let him go.

SMITE HAD SET THE term of his arrangement with Miranda at one month because he’d thought it just short enough that they’d both avoid unnecessary emotional entanglement.

As the curtain rose at the Theatre Royal six days into the affair, he was contemplating how enormously he’d mistaken the matter. He was entangled already.

Miranda sat beside him, her gloved hands folded in her lap. Her attention was fixed on the stage before them. Her eyes were bright and she leaned forward eagerly.

They had taken seats in the pit of the theater. Both of them had dressed in plainer, simpler clothing, so as to not draw attention to themselves. It had been a tactical decision on his part to sit among the common folk. In a box, dressed in finery, everyone would see them. And everyone would talk.

Smite had enough ribald jokes to contend with from his fellow magistrates; he didn’t want them to add Miranda to their repertoire.

Normally, he’d have kept Miranda in seclusion. But when she talked of the theater, her eyes lit. Her voice grew animated. And maybe—just maybe—he’d wanted to see them light more.

He was definitely in danger.