Page 31 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

He guided her up the staircase, his desire for her swelling with every step.

He had no doubt that if he’d come to her in the year since they’d reunited, she would have welcomed him, but he’d wanted to do it right this time.

He’d wanted to give her time to heal, both physically and emotionally, from the years they’d been apart.

He’d wanted her to trust him again. He’d wanted her to know that he cherished her enough to wait.

Most of all, he’d wanted any future children they might share to be born in the shelter of their union.

Their hands remained entwined; every few steps, he squeezed hers as if to confirm that she was real, that she would not slip away from him again.

At the threshold of the master suite, Silas hesitated.

The door had been left ajar, spilling a thin fan of golden light onto the hall carpet.

He pushed it open, and the room beyond felt like a world apart.

The bed was dressed in fresh ivory linens, a cascade of winter roses arcing over the headboard, the great hearth ablaze.

The windows were frosted with ice, making the inside seem warmer by contrast. A crystal decanter with two small glasses waited on a table before the roaring fire.

For a moment, they stood in silence, simply taking it in. His housekeeper had outdone herself.

Grace stepped in first, her arms folded close about her waist. “It’s so lovely,” she said, her voice tentative and low.

Silas smiled. “I told Mrs. Greaves to make it into a winter wonderland.”

He followed her, letting the door fall shut behind them. The night outside the windows was a storm of ice and wind, but inside, they were safe and warm.

They stood by the fire, side by side. Silas poured the wine, his hands steady now, and handed one glass to Grace.

She took it, her fingers brushing his, and the touch sent a jolt through them both.

He found himself watching her mouth as she sipped; he remembered the first time he had kissed her, years and lifetimes ago, and how every thought had stilled in the wonder of it.

Grace set her glass aside after only a taste. She pressed her hands flat against her skirts, as if searching for pockets, and then laughed, the sound soft and self-mocking. “I am more nervous than I thought I would be,” she admitted.

“I’m terrified,” Silas confessed. He tried for levity, but the words were too true to be a joke. “I’m so afraid that I’ll ruin it again.”

Grace shook her head, a single smooth motion that made the winter flowers in her hair tremble. “You won’t.”

She moved closer and placed one hand on his chest, not as an invitation but as a reassurance. Silas covered her hand with his own, and for a moment they simply stood like that, breathing the same air, letting the world slow.

He wanted to memorize her—every line of her face, the way her hair curled behind her ear, the tiny constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He wanted to learn her again, as if he had never known her at all.

“May I?” he asked, lifting his other hand to her cheek, stroking her smooth skin with the gentlest of caresses.

Grace nodded, her breath catching. She closed her eyes, and Silas bent his head to kiss her, slow and searching, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world, because now they did.

Grace’s lips parted, her body pressing closer, and her arms wound up around his neck with the easy certainty of someone returning home.

All those years, he’d hungered for her—for her presence, her touch, her laugh, the way she could pull him out of his own head with just a glance—and now, she was finally his.

He kissed her again and again, his hands roaming from her face to her shoulders, from the delicate arch of her back to the curve of her waist. He felt her shiver and, mistaking it for cold, tried to draw her closer to the fire.

Grace laughed into his mouth. “I’m not cold,” she whispered. “I just—” But whatever she meant to say was lost as Silas kissed the words away.

He fumbled for the fastenings of her dress, but she caught his hands, holding them still. “Slowly,” she whispered, and he obeyed.

He loosened the ribbons and buttons with reverence, baring her shoulders, then her arms, the line of her collarbone.

She shrugged out of the gown, leaving it to pool around her ankles, and stood in a simple white chemise, the fabric almost luminous in the firelight.

She watched him, her gaze steady and soft, and Silas felt every inch of himself exposed and laid bare—not in the physical sense, but in the way that mattered.

Grace reached for him, working at his cravat, her fingers deft and sure.

She undid the knot, then slipped the jacket from his shoulders, unbuttoning his shirt with the same slow patience he had used on her.

He was grateful for her control; if it were up to him, he might have torn every barrier away in an instant.

When they were both in only the thinnest of layers, Grace drew him toward the bed. She lay down and opened her arms, and Silas followed, pressing her into the mattress, gasping at the feel of her beneath him at last.

The linens were cold at first, but the heat of their bodies quickly warmed them.

He slid beside her, running his fingers along her jaw, her neck, the hollow at the base of her throat.

He kissed her there, listening to the hitch in her breath, then followed the line down to her shoulder, her arm, her wrist. He pressed his lips to her palm, to each fingertip, and looked up to find her watching him with an expression of such open trust that it nearly undid him.

“Is this real?” he whispered.

Grace smiled. “My love for you is the realest thing I’ve ever known.”

He rolled onto his back and pulled her with him, so that she straddled his waist. Her hair tumbled forward, spilling a few of the flowers onto his chest. She leaned down and kissed him, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips, her hands braced on either side of his head.

He buried his fingers in her hair, discarding the pins, savoring the texture and the scent of roses as they cascaded around them.

They undressed each other completely, trading kisses for every inch of skin revealed until at last they were completely bare to each other.

Silas marveled at the softness of her thighs, the lovely swell of her breasts, the way her body fit against his as if shaped for him alone.

When they were young, they’d never had the time to savor each other this way.

But in the intervening years, he’d had plenty of time to imagine what he’d do if he ever had the chance to make love with her again.

He’d imagined it a thousand times in his solitude.

So he slowly learned her body, what made her gasp and whisper his name.

He teased her breasts for an eternity, and when he finally slid his fingers between her thighs, she was damp with heat and need.

“Silas,” she moaned, digging her fingernails into his shoulders. “Oh, Silas.”

He teased the little bud at the juncture of her thighs until she cried out and clenched around his fingers, coming completely undone.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, sliding back up her body and holding her tightly as she slowly recovered from her release, pressing more kisses upon her flushed face. “I love you so much, Grace.”

His cock throbbed against her thigh, his need so great he was surprised he didn’t spend against the sheets. He’d never wanted anything the way he wanted to bury himself within her.

“I love you, too,” she managed, and then, she parted her thighs and wrapped her hand around him, finally guiding him home.

He pressed inside her with a sob of pleasure, her soft heat enveloping him, and the whole world fell away. Nothing existed but this moment, the overwhelming feeling of completeness he felt with his body joined to hers.

They moved together in the firelight, their shadows merging on the walls. He buried his face against her throat, breathing in her scent of roses and vanilla, focused on the glorious feeling of making love to his wife.

Pleasure washed over him far sooner than he would have liked, but he gave into it, his vision going dark for a moment from the sheer power of it. They had all night, after all. An eternity, actually.

Afterward, Silas pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in. “I wasted so much time,” he murmured.

“No,” Grace replied, her voice thick. “We were always meant to find our way back to one another exactly when we did.”

The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a single glowing ember, but the room was still warm, wrapped in the hush of night.

Grace lay beside Silas, her head pillowed against his shoulder, golden hair fanned out in a halo that caught the stray gleams of moonlight pouring through the frost-laced panes.

In repose, her features softened further—no trace of hardship or sorrow.

Silas traced the line of her cheekbone with a careful finger, not wanting to wake her.

He examined the sweep of her lashes against her skin, the pink curve of her lips, the faintest echo of a smile even in sleep.

For a long time, he did nothing but watch, content to exist in this stillness, this rare and perfect peace.

His thoughts, unhurried for once, turned back over the path that had brought him here: the cold corridors of the old manor, his bitterness held close as a shield, the books he had once believed were his only companions.

He thought of his father, whose portrait still glared from its place above the fireplace in the great hall, and felt not the old resentment, but something akin to pity.

How lonely he must have been, too, and how little he had known of this kind of joy.

Thank you, Father, for opening my eyes to what’s truly important.

From the next room came the faintest sound—the soft creak of a bed.

Silas smiled to himself, picturing Emmaline curled beneath her quilts, close enough to call for him if she grew frightened during the night.

He imagined her waking in the morning, her excitement for the presents and the Christmas Day feast.

Outside, the wind had calmed, and the world was blanketed in a hush as deep as any cathedral’s. The bells from the village church began to toll midnight. Christmas was finally here. The sound drifted up to their window, distant but clear, and Silas let it settle over him like a benediction.

He could feel his heartbeat slowing as he pressed a gentle kiss to Grace’s forehead, the exhaustion of so much happiness finally catching up to him.

“I will never let you go again,” he whispered, the words barely a breath in the night. “I promise.”

Grace, still half-asleep, shifted closer.

Her hand found his under the covers and curled around it, fingers threading together, her body seeking his even in slumber.

Silas closed his eyes, letting the simple miracle of the moment fill every empty space within him.

He pictured their future—the laughter, the quarrels, the shared work, and the private moments that would make up the rest of their lives.

He pictured Emmaline growing stronger and even more clever, never doubting for a moment that she was loved.

All the old ghosts—the rage, the regrets, the years wasted in solitude—were finally quiet.

Silas drew Grace tighter against his side and, as the bells faded into the silence, he finally closed his eyes.

In the morning, there would be breakfast and snow angels, and the start of a new story. But for now, in this room full of moonlight and soft breathing, there was nothing to fear, and nothing at all to want.

He finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams no longer haunted.

The End