Page 65 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“Working on it. I’m making friends with the guards. A mutiny is in the works, you see. They’ll let me in on Christmas Eve. If they do not, I’ll go back to Bowen Hall, choose another night to make magical after the guards leave.”

What a concession. He had such strong memories associated with Christmas, and she knew they drove him. He’d give them up if she asked. A bit of winter-sharp fear in her heart melted. It was easier to breathe.

Difficult to say what she said next, though.

“And… I need a husband.” That only half of it.

She closed her eyes and said the rest. “I want it to be you.” The words sounded so small and quiet.

When she’d cornered him in her garden, she’d been brazen enough.

And when she’d hunted him down in his workshop, she’d spoken her mind quite easily.

Courage then had been easy, somehow. Easier, at least than now.

Now she felt like an open wound because…

Because she loved him.

In the garden she’d risked rejection but not heartbreak.

In the workshop she’d risked failure but not pain.

Now she risked it all. But she put the words into the world again.

“I want to marry you.”

He stepped closer, that small movement rolling through his muscles, a beautiful show of masculine grace and power. “We come to the rings, then.”

They still lay on her palm next to the silver token. He took the smaller one and dropped to one knee. “Will you marry me, Jane Dean?”

The damned tears were back, but she swallowed them down. “Your living—”

“I’ve fixed it. I’m opening a toy shop in London. Sure to be a riotous success.”

She laughed, and it came out sort of as a snort, which made her laugh more. Something was bubbling inside her, leaving her giddy and light. Her winter fear burned entirely away. “I think that’s a marvelous idea.”

“I’ll be able to take on a few apprentices from the hospital foundlings. And we’ll find homes for the others.”

She nodded, incapable of speech.

He slipped the smaller ring on her finger up to her first knuckle. “Well, Jane? What’s it to be?”

“Do you truly need an answer?”

“Yes. This is an alchemist’s ring. Two of them made of the same silver on the same night. It binds the wearers. Once I slip this on you, you’re mine. And once you slip the other on me—”

“You’re mine?”

“I already am.”

“Damn these tears. I’m a bit of a watering pot tonight.”

“I don’t mind. Soak my shoulder anytime.”

He meant it. His deep voice offered no alternative.

And she meant it, too.

She took the other ring, the larger one, and slipped it on his finger to the first knuckle.

She held his gaze as she slipped it the rest of the way on.

She had claimed him first, and he didn’t seem to mind.

He closed his eyes as a soft smile took his lips, and he slipped her ring home.

It fit perfectly and before she knew what she was doing, they’d twined their fingers together.

Their rings were nestled side by side on their threaded hands, warm and humming.

He backed her toward the bed until the backs of her legs hit it. He was going to make this their wedding night. And she was powerless to stop it.

Because she wanted it. She would allow it. Not powerless.

Powerful.

She fell to the bed, and when his knees hit the mattress on either side of her, she felt the heat rolling off his body.

He dipped his head to kiss her, but before his lips touched hers, she stopped him, her fingers pressed against his mouth.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

He pushed her hand away. “Do not thank me, woman. I’m getting what I want.

” His grin was a Christmas Eve one—cheeky, confident, entirely too naughty.

He pushed the side of her wrapper open. His dancing silver eyes devoured what he could see of her.

The wide neckline of her shift untied and pouring down one shoulder, the slope of a single breast revealed, the rest of her shift molded against her every curve. “Everything I want.”

A dark thrill ran down her spine as a blush of self-consciousness bloomed across her body. She was a virgin. Not for long, it seemed. But…

“How do we do this?” she asked. “How do I do this? What are the rules?”

“Only one: Do as you like.”

Terrifying. Exhilarating. Because in the absence of rules crackled… absolute power to do as she pleased. “What if… What if I make the rules?”

“Then make them, brave heart.”

“Where do we start?” She wanted to make the rules for once, but desire could not entirely banish decades of learned hesitation.

His gaze drifting over her body, he said, “Where can I touch you?”

“I… I suppose where you already have.”

“Cheek, then.” His hand landed there, then his thumb rubbed over her bottom lip.

“The mouth. Hand.” His hands met hers, palm to palm, fingers threading as he pressed then into the mattress.

He nuzzled down her neck and across her chest where the bodice of her shift gaped. “I’ve even touched here, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” she breathed, trying to give him more skin to explore because everywhere he touched, desire leaped up to meet him.

“And I musn’t forget here.” His hand was on her ankle. It froze. He lifted just enough to pin her with a stare. “Stockings. Do I dare look?”

She bit her lip.

He looked, groaned. “Red. My stockings. My leg. My Jane.” He sounded so very pleased with himself.

“How? Did… did you simply have red lady’s stockings lying about? Are they… did they belong to your mistress?” Desire, turned out, could die a swift death with the right thought.

“No.” He barked a laugh. “Is that what you’ve thought this entire time?

No, no, no.” He returned to kissing her lightly, allowing himself to speak between kisses.

“The first day I met you, I saw them in a window in a shop. Had an unaccountable and sudden flash of you in them. Bought them without thinking I’d ever give them to you.

It was an… impulse. Another impulse when I grabbed them from a drawer and stuffed them in my sack on Christmas Eve.

Why buy them if their owner could not wear them.

After all, you’d never know who really gave them to you. ”

“I do know. Now.” It had taken her months to drum up enough courage to put them on. And usually she wore them only in her bedchamber. Usually. She’d been braver of late.

He squeezed her calf—my, his fingers were strong—and drew his blunt fingernails higher, dipped them beneath the top edge of her stocking.

My stocking. My leg. My Jane.

Inexplicably arousing to be claimed by him. But tonight was hers, so she wrapped her hands around his neck and said hot against his ear, “My Nico.”

“Yes. God, yes. What other rules?” He was breathing faster now, his chest heaving. “What can I do? Where can I touch?” His mouth settled near her ear. “Can I undo you, as you undo me?”

She nodded, her throat too thick with desire to attempt speech.

He rested his fingertips gently on her shoulder. “Can I touch you here?”

Another nod.

He trailed his fingertips across her collarbone. “And here?”

Nod.

Neck and ear and tip of the chin.

Nod, nod, nod.

When his hand flattened on her belly, she almost flew off the bed.

“Here?” The word placed with a kiss at her navel.

“Y-yes.” She clenched the blankets below her, bit her lip. “Yes.”

He trailed his hand southward until he cupped her cunny, thrummed a thumb through her curls where she’d begun to pulse and ache. His head dipped between her legs, and then his breath was soft and cool against her inner thigh, against her sex.

“Here?” he asked.

“Oh yes.” Her voice was unfamiliar, deep with longing. And certainty. And her hands suddenly did not wish to tangle with the blankets anymore. They wanted to tangle with him—skin, hair, and mighty limbs. He was a feast for her to discover. “And where… can I touch you?”

“Everywhere.” The single word was enough to make her heart flip, her palms itch to begin, but he moved so quickly, grasping her, turning her until he lay on the bed, and she straddled him.

He squeezed her hips with his big hands, and the white linen of her shift felt rough against her skin.

His gaze coasted all over her, and everywhere it touched, felt like fireworks exploding.

She was in control here. So she lifted the hem of her shift over her head, taking the dressing gown with it, and threw both garments on the floor behind her. What had she expected to feel in a moment like this?

Shy? Embarrassed?

She felt powerful.

And she wanted more.

When she slunk backward toward the edge of the bed, he propped himself on one elbow and reached for her, brows drawing together, his abdomen rippling with muscles.

But she swatted his hands away and found the floor with first one foot then the other.

In his workshop, desperation had driven her to explore the waistband of his trousers.

Now, only desire traced her fingers along that woolen edge.

Only curiosity flicked the buttons of his fall open.

Only need tugged the garment down his thick thighs and over his knees until they dropped to the floor.

Discarded. Her attention only for that member between his legs now, springing from a nest of curls and just as powerful as his other limbs.

Seeing a man’s member in the flesh for the first time only happened once. Should she be scared? Timid? Appalled or frightened?

To hell with shoulds. She felt only excitement.

“Jane, darling, don’t stare at it like that any longer. I’m going to explode.”

Her gaze whipped to his face. “That is alarming. I’ve not read anything about—”

“Not literally.” He groaned and closed his eyes. “Wrap your hand around it, or your lips. Or I’m going to perish.”

She had the power to please him… or tease him, and as she crawled back onto the mattress, she leaned toward the latter. But she would have all their lives for that. So she stretched out beside him and caressed the blade of his jaw.