Page 147

A h, yes.

They both belonged in Bedlam.

Celia melted into Barnaby as the kiss turned into something words couldn’t explain. She felt everything. The hard ridges of his chest, his strong arms holding her close, and his mouth—Lord—his mouth on hers was warm and breathless and all-consuming.

This was madness.

But her tongue was too busy to protest. Even if it weren’t, she doubted the words would have come. Mostly, or rather, simply, because she couldn’t tell him that. Because it wasn’t madness. It wasn’t a mistake.

It was them .

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Celia’s fingers dug into his shoulders, and a low growl left his throat, the sound vibrating against her lips, and then, his hands slid down her back to grip her bum, lifting her up against him.

Celia gasped, her chemise sliding up as her legs wrapped around his waist. She could feel every inch of him—the solid planes of his chest, the taut muscles of his arms, and oh, merciful heaven—the undeniable hardness of his desire pressed against her in a way that made her dizzy.

That, that . . .

A groan stole her attention back to him as his tongue teased against the roof of her mouth. His fingers dug into her skin, leaving her body trembling, aching, burning. She had never felt like this before—never wanted like this before. It was madness. Beautiful, reckless, all-consuming madness.

She couldn’t help a small moan as Barnaby kissed down the column of her throat, his lips hot against her damp skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he ground out, his mouth brushing the sensitive spot beneath her ear, sending a riot of shivers dancing along her spine.

She couldn’t. Lord help her, she couldn’t.

She didn’t want to stop.

Instead, she tilted her head back, granting him access, silently urging him on.

A ragged noise left his throat, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and then his lips were on her again, claiming, demanding. His hands roamed her back, pressing her closer until there was no space left between them. Celia clutched at him, her nails embedding into his shoulders.

Barnaby’s arms tightened as he carried her through the water to the embankment and laid her down on the grass, his hands dragging up her leg.

“Celia,” he whispered against her lips, his voice rough with hunger. “If you don’t stop me now...”

She silenced him with another kiss, pouring everything into it, everything she couldn’t say, everything she had been too afraid to admit.

They belonged to this moment.

To the heat. To the madness.

To each other.

“Do not stop.”

He did, eyes boring into hers. “Do you know what that means?”

“I do, but at the moment I don’t care.” All she could think was that if he did stop, she might just expire on the spot!

A curse slipped from his lips before his mouth captured hers again, sealing their fate with a kiss that marked her, claimed her, and Celia surrendered completely, arching into him, letting herself feel, letting herself want.

His tongue swept against hers, coaxing, teasing, tasting.

She gasped when his palm skated up her thigh, fingertips tracing the curve of her hip before slipping beneath the soaked fabric.

A wicked sound rumbled in his throat as he cupped her, the intimate pressure sending a shudder through her body.

His fingers teased her, slipping into her as his thumb rubbed over the most sensitive spot. What on earth were they doing? How could they ever go back to way things were after this , after the way he was touching her? Did it even matter at the moment?

No.

At the moment nothing mattered.

The foundation of her world cracked, and she no longer knew where she ended and he began.

She only knew that she never wanted this moment to stop.

He parted her thighs, his lips never leaving hers, as he pressed against her, the barrier of his damp trousers a tormenting tease.

The slow, deliberate grind of his hips sent a pulse of pleasure through her, and she arched into him again, a plea slipping past her lips.

A tremor wracked him, his breath feverish against her cheek. “Bloody hell,” he rasped, voice raw with impatience, of need barely held in check.

Me, too.

“ Barnaby ,” she whispered, tugging at his trousers.

With a low curse, he undid the buttons and shoved them past his hips.

Lord, oh, Lord!

Celia couldn’t look away. She watched, entranced, as he shifted from her to peel them from his legs, casting them aside.

Quite frankly, the moment stole her breath.

This was Barnaby Westbrook.

How handsome was he? She traced his thigh, marveling at the way he trembled beneath her touch. When he lowered over her, positioning himself at her entrance, she opened for him. He entered her in a single thrust.

Celia gasped at the exquisite sensation, the intimacy of it, of him.

He groaned her name, his forehead pressing against hers. “Christ, Celia. You feel like heaven.”

She curled her fingers around the nape of his neck, pulling him down until his lips hovered over hers. “I feel full.”

And hot.

And mad.

And liberated.

“So do I.” He pressed his head into the curve of her collarbone and grazed his teeth over her skin. Celia clenched tightly, causing him to groan. Then he gave a low thrust, and another, and another, trailing his tongue along her neckline, as if he had been waiting for this, aching for this.

Everything was on fire.

Celia dissolved into him, into the heat, into the truth of it.

There would be no going back now.

*

The blood in Barnaby’s veins burned. Every thrust brought him closer to heaven.

Not because of how soft and taut she was—though there was that, too—but mostly because of the way Celia’s breath whispered over his skin, her fingers digging into his body, and her legs tightening around his waist, as if to root him against her forever.

But Christ.

The sound of her moans, a melody of pleasure, pushed him beyond reason. She was as wild as the ripples that rolled across the lake, every curve of her body pulling him deeper, urging him closer.

His mouth settled over her breast, and he could feel her heart hammering beneath his lips, matching the frantic beat of his, and nothing existed but this. Her. Him. Their bodies. The wild beat of their desire.

He couldn’t get enough.

His hands slid down her body, over her hips, grasping at her, trying to hold on, but the intensity of it all—the overwhelming heat of her, the tension building too fast—had him right at the edge.

Then she tightened around him, her breath faltering.

She was so close, ever so close, and the way her body shuddered around him—clinging to him as if she could not bear to let him go—was his undoing.

With a ragged groan, Barnaby let go.

The world spun, his body stiffening, every nerve exploding in a wave of sensation as he buried himself deep inside her again and again. The roar of it—raw, primal—seemed to stretch time, as though nothing else had ever mattered, as if he had been waiting for this release forever.

Bloody everlasting damnation.

He collapsed beside her, chest heaving, the force of his breath heavy on the air.

For a moment, he could do nothing but pull her over into his arms, holding her against him as though she were the only thing that moored him to earth.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, absorbing the heat of her skin, the scent of her hair, absorbing the tremor of her body as it slowly, gently began to still.

Undone.

He was undone.

Barnaby would never be the same. Not now, not ever.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of their breath unfolding in the night air. He lay motionless, his body still pulsing with the quivers of pleasure, his arms locked around Celia. If he let go, it would surely unravel him entirely.

His mind had yet to catch up with what had just happened, with what they had done, and if he could stop it from doing so, he would.

Barnaby shifted, just enough to look at her.

Soft silver light skimmed over her flushed cheeks, her lips still parted, her gaze unfocused as if she, too, was lost in the moment.

She blinked up at him, their eyes locking.

Barnaby swallowed.

He opened his mouth—only to find it utterly barren of speech. What did one say after... this? After a moment so shattering that it had unwound everything he thought he knew about himself?

He tried again. Failed.

Then, simply, “Celia.”

She exhaled shakily. “Barnaby.”

They lapsed into quiet again.

There was too much to say. And not nearly enough words to say it.

His fingers twitched against her skin, while hers rested against his chest, unmoving. The intimacy between them had shifted—not gone, but different. As though they had stepped into unfamiliar terrain with no map, no sense of direction, and only each other as a guide.

Then—a rustle.

They both froze.

The sound came again, somewhere to their left, a soft disturbance in the underbrush. A small animal? A bird? Or—

“Shite,” Barnaby muttered under his breath.

Celia sat bolt upright. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered back, suddenly all too aware of their state on the lakeshore.

She made a strangled noise and scrambled to yank down her chemise. Barnaby rolled onto his side, reaching for his discarded trousers. His fingers fumbled in the grass—bloody hell, where was his shirt?

Another rustle.

More distinct this time.

Panic flickered across Celia’s face. “We have to go.”

He didn’t argue. He had no desire to be caught bare arsed by whomever—or whatever—was out there.

He snatched up his shirt, and together, they stumbled toward the nearest bush.

A twig snapped.

Celia sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, God.”

Barnaby clamped a hand over her mouth, pressing them both deeper into the shadows of the bush. His pulse pounded in his ears as he listened, heart hammering in his chest.

The night air stretched taut with suspense.

Then—silence.

He exhaled slowly, lowering his hand.

Celia’s shoulders shook. At first, he thought she was trembling with fear. Then he realized—

She was laughing.

Quiet, breathless, incredulous laughter.

Barnaby stared at her, then shook his head. He was nearly scared to death. “You think this is something to laugh about?”

She bit down on her lip, but her eyes were sparkling. “Just a little.”

He let out a soft, disbelieving chuckle and raked a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, woman.”

She smothered another laugh against his shoulder.

And just like that, the tension shifted once more—not gone, but softer, lighter, knitting into something else entirely.

Something dangerously close to joy.

Barnaby sighed, tugging his sodden shirt over his head. “Come on, let’s get back before we’re actually caught.”

Celia nodded, and he led them down a small path few knew about.

They might not have been caught, but what the blazes did they do now?