Page 60 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

She nodded, and when he nibbled down the length of her neck her head dropped to the side giving him greater access.

And her mantle fell away, pushed down her arms by strong, smooth hands.

Magic indeed. He attacked her buttons without her knowing, slipping them from the braided eyelets with ease, melting the little silver coins into nothing.

“How did you…”

“Alchemist.”

“But—”

“No setting bath. Whoever made the buttons on this dress clearly hoped to give a fellow alchemist ease with undoing them.”

She gasped, indignation temporarily dulling the thrill of the gown slipping away, leaving her open to him. He chuckled as he caressed with his knuckles the low bodice of her gown, which drooped off her shoulders, leaving so much skin open to his insistent perusal.

When he put inches between their bodies she strained against the loss, but he had control.

She could not move him from his purpose, which seemed to be to brand her with his gaze.

She’d often found him watching her over the last year, his blue eyes darkening over some injustice or glowing with some joke shared between them.

It had felt like having a partner, someone to fight with.

And while she had often allowed herself to trace the outline of his form, she’d never caught him doing the same for her.

Until now. His hands bracketed her waist, keeping her in place, and he bit his bottom lip as he studied the swell of her bosom pressing against her gown’s low bodice.

His perusal made her squirm, her nipples harden, her breath tumble ragged from between her lips.

And when he smoothed a hand up her ribs to cup her breast, the space between her legs came alive.

He made a low sound of appreciation, and a frisson of fear sped up her spine.

Who was this man? She knew him, but she did not.

Could she really use her body to get what she needed?

Her little scheme required the Sir Nicholas she knew well to wake up from his metal frenzy and do the right thing by her, to do the gentlemanly thing.

“Don’t flinch away, brave beauty,” he said, his voice rough and unfamiliar.

“I need this. I need you. It is only there is too much between us. Corset and gown and chemise. And velvet is a such a damn thick material. Then all these petticoats and skirts.” He smoothed his hand up her leg, pushing those skirts up and over her knee.

Then grasping her calf, he hooked her leg around his waist, rocked against her.

Her lips were sensitive, aching. He hadn’t touched them yet.

Silently, they screamed for him. “What you don’t know, beauty, is that I am dangerous like this.

I have a need. To move. To do. To work the magic out of my body. ”

“A-alchemists don’t have magic.”

“That’s what they say.” A dark chuckle. “That we’re mere laborers cutting stone and shaping metal.

That transcendent glamours are superior.

They are wrong. What does transcendent magic do, Jane?

It hides the truth. Nothing more. It’s a trick.

” He placed her hand against his heart. “If you want true magic, look here. It brews when I do my work, and any man who dedicates the sweat of his body to honing it can have it. No pure bloodline necessary. There’s a deeper sort of magic brewing here now, and unless you push me away with real authority, Jane—a solid kick and demanding, confident voice—I’m going to wrap you up in it.

” His lips against her ear again. “And you’ll like it. ”

She would. Oh, she would. No use denying. No use doubting. She could not stop him now if she wanted to. And she didn’t. “You’ll like it, too. And you won’t want to give me up. Sink into me”—she sank her fingernails into the muscle of his shoulders—“and you will be begging me to marry you.”

“This is just pleasure.”

“No. It’s forever.”

Another curse, then he kissed her, hard.

Punishing. But it tasted like victory. He squeezed her breast, teased the low bodice of her gown, drawing red marks with his touch against her exposed bosom.

And his other hand, beneath the secret, dark weight of her skirts, slipped toward the center of her body, scraping against the crease of her hip and dipping low between her legs.

He kissed her thoroughly, trailing the tip of his tongue across the seam of her lips, opening them, delving deeper, teaching her tongue how to taste him back.

She held his neck. His hair so soft. Digging her fingernails into his skin there.

He hissed, and she relished it. And when he began to stroke his fingers through the curls between her legs her body tightened everywhere all at once.

Melted, somehow, too, her brain capable of thinking only about how his fingers moved, sought, found.

She gasped as he rubbed small circles into the pearl hidden there.

She’d have known nothing about it if not for Mrs. Tottle.

This would have shocked her if not for the frank-speaking woman who shared much—very much—about her husband’s many talents.

Sir Nicholas, it seemed, was talented, too. He seared her everywhere he touched. Pulsing pleasure throbbed higher. Something. Something about to happen. Couldn’t tell. It rolled through her, out of reach, making her burn for more. More growling. Her this time, not him.

“Welcome it, Jane,” he said, pressing the heel of his hand against her pulsing pearl, grinding circles against it. “Let it happen.”

She wanted to. She cried out in frustration that it was just out of reach.

“Let go, beauty.”

How? How? Another growl, hers again, thwarted, frustrated.

She ripped at him, tearing his shirt out of his waistband.

Seeking skin—ah, there. So perfectly hot, smooth skin stretched over rigid muscle.

She traced the outlines of him, breaking the kiss as she scratched her fingernails up to his chest. Breathe.

She needed to breathe. And he must, too.

Beneath her touch, his chest heaved. His eyes were dark magic, flames leaping in them.

Her chest heaving, too, she flattened her palm, dragging her hand down.

She made him tremble, made him quake and buck. How lovely. How delicious.

Touching him put power in her fingertips. She’d thought she possessed no magic, but here, with him, she did—the magic of two bodies formed to drive sensation higher, higher…

But still, the pleasure gathering between her legs would not break like an ocean wave. It only grew and grew. And she needed relief.

His eyes closed, his face was a study in chiaroscuro. Shadow and flickering firelight. His hair on fire. He slipped a finger between his lips, sucked it in, popped it out, and then he searched between her legs. With one confident stroke, holding her gaze, he entered her.

The unfamiliar sensation discomfited her for a moment, but then his face softened and so did his kissing, and when he began to curve and stroke his finger inside her, his thumb still playing over her pearl, her body sped out of her control.

There the wave rising higher, higher. She’d never survive it.

And when it crashed, it sent her reeling, arching, crying out his name.

She would never stop shivering, and pleasure would never stop rolling through her.

It did, though, slowly, the wave receding and leaving her limp and lifeless in his arms.

Who had won? Him or her?

She opened her eyes (when had she closed them?) and saw the victor. Sir Nicholas with a mouth sewn shut though it was swollen from kissing.

He would make no offer, and if she asked him, he would give the same answer as before.

All that power she thought she possessed—as much an illusion as one of her brother’s glamours. She lowered herself from the worktable. He was too undone to follow her, and he curled over the table, palms flattened against it, shirt hanging loose.

“Get back here.” Still, he breathed heavy, each word sounding forced.

“No.”

He groaned, collapsed against the table with a thunk. Every object on it vibrated.

She ventured closer. “Are you well?”

“No,” he groaned. With a surge, he stood, pushing both hands through his hair and facing her. “Here is what we are doing. We talk.”

How sensible of him. But there was nothing to say.

“Then,” he continued, “I throw you over my shoulder and cart you up to my bed.”

“No.” So much for sensible.

“And why not?”

“Perhaps I should say… maybe.”

“Better. How do I turn maybe into a yes? Or better yet, a please.”

The game between them, perhaps, was not yet concluded. The bulge in his trousers was as large as before and the books she’d read had said that it would shrink after he’d found satisfaction. He must not have followed her into that particular ocean.

“You want something from me, do you?” She let her gaze remain on that interesting spot between his legs. “Well, I want something, too.”

“You know I cannot marry you.”

“Then I want information.” She took a moment, a long inhale and exhale as she counted to ten, to gather her thoughts. “Last week, after we kissed, I guessed who you are. The Christmas Eve intruder.”

He bowed. “At your service.”

“If that is true, then you will tell me now your plans for this Christmas Eve.”

“I think you already know them.” He glanced over his shoulder at the small silver figures lined up on the worktable.

“Those are for the children?”

He nodded.

“Find another way. You cannot enter the hospital on Christmas Eve.”

He wandered toward the fireplace, stoked the glowing kindling back into flame, then held the tool up between them. “Can’t look at one of these without thinking of you.” He chuckled and leaned the poker against the tile at the hearth. “How brave you are. I’m just as brave, Jane.”

“I’ve no doubt on that matter. But are you sensible?”

He waved his hand, dismissing her question.