Page 17 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 17

A week had passed since he'd last seen Penny at Aphrodite. Alexander rolled his shoulder, noting with detached satisfaction how well his body was mending. His ribs still ached if he turned too sharply, but the bruising had faded, and his strength had returned. Months of underground fighting had toughened him, hardened his muscles, honed his endurance. His body now recovered faster—resilience forged by sheer will and desperation.

Still, when Milton returned with his offer—double the purse this time—Alexander had turned him down without hesitation. He hadn't done so out of principle. He'd done it because he remembered how Penny looked at him that night. Eyes shimmering with fear. Her hands were trembling as she touched him as if checking he was still whole. That had undone something deep inside him.

Alexander had spent the days since then poring over ledgers and investments, tracking the slow and steady crawl of progress. And for the first time in years, he'd allowed a single, foolish tendril of hope to bloom in his chest. If projections held...if tenants paid on time...if harvests remained strong, and if interest in his shipping investment continued...

He could be solvent in less than a year. The realization had slammed into his gut and left him shaken. But it still wasn't enough. Not enough to satisfy her father. Not enough to offer her a life of opulence and security. He could not rescue her family from ruin, not when he was only beginning to rescue his own.

Alexander gritted his teeth and straightened from the marble column he'd been leaning against at Lady Glenvale's midnight ball. Penny . She entered the ballroom with all the elegance of a reigning queen, and his chest went tight. This was why he'd come tonight, though he'd told himself otherwise. Though he had cursed himself for being a damn fool. Though he knew he would only suffer. Alexander ran a hand down his face and muttered a vicious oath under his breath. Penny had not come to him after Aphrodite. Not the following night or the next. Not even a letter. And that was what had pushed him to seek her out. Standing in this gilded ballroom, awaiting the moment she would arrive. Like a man chasing the scent of smoke, even knowing the fire would burn him.

He had seen her three days past in Hyde Park, riding with her duke.

They had exchanged only a bow and a curtsy as he'd outlined. It had felt fucking awful. As if they were nothing. As if he had never buried his face between her thighs, never taken her mouth with his cock, never made her tremble with need.

A few young bucks approached her, and his mouth curled. It was expected. His Penny was damn exquisite. Her gown tonight was a masterpiece of seduction—deep emerald silk with Chantilly lace that kissed her décolletage and hinted at sin. The gold filigree embroidery shimmered under the chandelier light, cinching her waist like a lover's possessive hand. Her skirts floated as she moved, brushing softly around her slippers. Her dark hair was swept up, with curls pinned artfully to expose the nape of her neck—the same neck he had kissed, nipped, and marked.

She was radiant. Devastating. And her mouth wasn't smiling. Penny was unhappy. Alexander wanted to cross the room. He wanted to seize her hand and pull her close, to whisper that she belonged with him, not with a man who'd court her with Egyptian art and polite conversation.

But instead, Alexander remained exactly where he was, content to watch her discreetly, unable to escape the knowledge that despite his efforts he was still hopelessly, damnably, achingly in love. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose, shoving down the desperate urge in his chest.

Penny danced with empty grace, her smile a pale imitation of its usual brilliance. Her mouth remained too flat, her eyes too dim. She was in her third dance, and he could tell every step she took was a masquerade. She wasn't well. And he needed to know. Alexander cut through the crowd, ignoring greetings, brushing past embroidered coats and trailing silks.

Penny stood near the refreshment table, nodding politely to something the Viscount of Darrington was saying, her gloved fingers curled too tightly around her fan.

She shifted slightly and saw him. For the briefest moment, Alexander faltered. Because she came alive. Penny's lips parted, and her eyes widened. A bloom of color flushed across her cheeks, and something unnameable flickered in the air between them. It was as if the very breath in her lungs had changed, shifted. Her entire being lit from within.

The sight of her silent joy and warmth filled him. His chest tightened. He felt struck, awed, and humbled. No woman had ever looked at him this way—not with this depth of desire, recognition, or the aching honesty of a heart already given.

It made him feel as though he could destroy anything that hurt her smile and lay the world at her feet. Alexander reached her. Bowed low over her hand, brushing his lips lightly to her glove.

"Lady Penelope, may I have the honor of your next dance?" he asked, his voice low and even.

Her lips parted. He saw the yes on her tongue—

And then her mother was there. A hawk in violet satin, her eyes sharp as razors. "The next dance is already promised," she clipped.

Penny blinked, her lashes falling like the descent of a curtain. When she looked up again, her expression was composed and cool.

"I'm afraid I'm not available to dance, my lord," she said, her voice a monotone.

He bowed again, polite, distant. "Of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Penelope."

And he turned and walked away. But not to the ballroom. Not to the card tables or the garden or the supper room. Alexander walked down the shadowed hallway, past murmured voices and flickering candles, until he found the door to the host's library.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and sank into an armchair by the low-lit hearth. Darkness pooled in the corners, thick and quiet. The heavy scent of leather-bound books and aged whisky filled the air.

And he waited. His gut twisted with every passing second. Every footfall in the hall. Every creak of the wooden floorboards. And then, at last, the door opened. It was barely more than a whisper, a hush of hinges and fabric.

Penny stepped inside. She looked around the dim space, a delicate frown touching her brows. When she sighed soft, disappointed, it pierced straight through him. She turned to leave.

"I'm here," he said quietly.

Penny gasped, one hand flying to her throat. Her back met the door, and she leaned against it, her breath catching.

"I wanted to dance with you," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I..."

"Close the door."

The soft click echoed in the room. Alexander didn't speak again. He rose slowly from the chair and crossed the space between them. She came toward him as if to meet him, and Alexander reached for her, cupping her jaw in his hands, and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was not ravenous, not yet. It was reverent. Aching. It was a question and an answer, a plea and a surrender.

And when she kissed him back softly and urgently, it was everything he didn't know he was starving for. He moved her backward. Alexander had no plan. Only need. The moment her back hit the door and her lips parted beneath his, he lost all pretense of control. She was warm and trembling, her fingers curling into his lapels as if she couldn't breathe without him.

Alexander knew the feeling. He was drowning in it. Her scent—sun-ripe peaches and lavender—wrapped around him like silk, tightening with every heartbeat. He kissed her as if he'd been starved. Tongue stroking deep, claiming. She moaned softly into his mouth, and his control frayed like an unraveling thread.

"I should stop," he whispered roughly, his forehead resting against hers. "I should stop right now."

"Don't," she breathed. "Please, don't. We can go back to being friends tomorrow...tonight...now...I want you, Alexander."

His hands skated down her back, catching the curve of her hips. He gripped her as if anchoring himself. She fit him too perfectly. Her mouth, her body, the soft, desperate noises she made. With a curse torn from his chest, he lifted her. She gasped, arms winding around his neck as he carried her across the room. Her gown rustled, her slippers tapping against his legs. He lowered her onto the chaise longue by the fire and just looked at her.

Firelight gilded her skin. Her lips were kiss-bitten. Her eyes were wide and dark with longing. She was exquisite. "You destroy me and all my resolves, even knowing better I am lost whenever it comes to you," he said hoarsely.

A tremor ran through her. But Penny didn't stop him when he reached for the back of her gown and slid the buttons open. One by one. Slowly. Reverently. Until the emerald silk fell away and revealed skin, he'd dreamed about for far too many nights. "Lift your hips."

She obeyed, breath coming fast. He stripped her down to her stockings, garters, and slippers—nothing else. Just the woman who owned his soul spread like a gift before him.

"Turn around," he said thickly. "On your belly."

She blinked and flushed but obeyed again, rising to her knees and turning toward the back of the chaise, her body unfolding like a forbidden offering. From behind, the sight of her was devastating—her thighs parted just enough to reveal the glistening heat between them. Her pussy was lush, swollen with arousal, the delicate folds flushed pink. The soft thatch of curls above only accentuated the slick sheen of her arousal, the intimate scent of her musk thick in the air. Every shift of her hips, every nervous tremble, made her glisten anew, the wetness clinging to her pussy in a way that made his mouth water.

She was open like this, vulnerable, the prettiest little temptation he'd ever seen—and all for him. He let out a ragged sound and loosened his cravat.

"I want your hands," he murmured, threading the length of silk between his palms. "Let me have them."

She looked over her shoulder, eyes full of emotion—uncertainty, desire, something more, and slowly offered him her wrists. He wrapped the silk around them, knotting it with firm care behind her back.

"Tell me if this is too much," he said, brushing her hair aside and kissing the nape of her neck.

"I'll tell you," she whispered.

He spread her with deliberate slowness, fingers tracing the delicate crease where thigh met hip before pushing her thighs wider. His lips brushed the plush curve of her ass—a teasing, open-mouthed kiss. Then another, lower this time, his breath hot against her damp flesh. When his tongue finally dragged through the slick folds of her pussy, Penny jolted, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. The sound was raw and desperate.

He groaned against her, the vibration wringing another whimper from her lips as he licked her again, deeper this time, savoring the salt-sweet taste of her. His grip on her hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he held her open relentlessly. Every flick of his tongue was a promise; every suck at her clitoris was a slow-burning torture. She writhed, her bound hands twisting against the chaise, but he didn't relent.

"Please—"

Her voice broke as he circled her clitoris with the flat of his tongue, then sucked it hard between his lips. She climaxed with a sob, her body clamping down around nothing, thighs trembling as pleasure ripped through her. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not when she was this responsive, this his . He licked into her until she was gasping, oversensitive, her moans pitching higher as he worked her toward another climax.

"Again," he said against her pussy, and she whimpered his name like a plea—like worship.

Only then did he rise, kiss the small of her back, and unfasten his trousers.

He fisted his cock once, struggling against the urgent need to sink into her heat. She was slick, ready, but not yet stretched enough for how thoroughly he intended to take her. He would not rush—she deserved more than that.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered against her shoulder.

He teased her pussy with a single finger, gliding through her slick heat before sinking deep. A second joined, stretching her, working her open with slow, deliberate thrusts. Her sex clenched around his fingers. The way she was bound—wrists secured behind her back, shoulders pressed down—left her helpless, her hips arched high, her cunt exposed and glistening. Every shift of his fingers drew a whimper from her lips, every curl of them inside her made her thighs tremble.

Then he stroked a third finger inside her sex. Penny gasped as he filled her, her inner muscles fluttering in protest before yielding, softening under his relentless strokes. His free hand gripped her hip, holding her steady as he fucked her with his fingers, each movement deeper, harder, until her breath came in ragged pants.

"Look at you," he murmured, dragging his thumb over her swollen clitoris, "so wet. So fucking tight. And all for me."

Her moan was a broken thing, her body bowing as pleasure crested, sudden and sharp. He didn't stop, didn't let her catch her breath—just kept working her through it, his fingers soaked with her release. When he finally withdrew, he trailed his damp touch down the curve of her ass, savoring the way she shivered.

"One day," he promised, his voice rough with hunger, "I'm going to spank this perfect arse until it's blushing red. Until every slap makes you drip for me."

She whimpered, her hips rocking back instinctively, seeking more.

"And then," he continued, leaning close, his breath hot against her ear, "I'll spread you wide and feast on this sweet cunt. Even when you sob, even when you beg, I won't stop."

"Yes—" Her voice cracked, her body taut with need. "God, yes—"

His cock throbbed, his balls drawn tight with the ache to claim her. But it was the way she arched into his touch, the way her breath hitched at his words, that sent a dark thrill through him. She was his . Every gasp, every tremble, every desperate plea was proof of it.

Alexander didn't take her all at once. Instead, he teased her, pressing just the head of his cock against her entrance before easing forward, stretching her slowly. She whimpered as he worked himself deeper, inch by torturous inch. Her breath hitched with every small advance, her body trembling as she struggled to adjust.

By the time he was fully sheathed inside her, her whimpers had turned into soft, broken gasps, her hips shifting to take him even deeper. Penny was tight, so fucking tight. Heat clamped around him, slick and pulsing, and it took every ounce of discipline not to come the moment he sank deep. His thrusts came deep and hard, each stroke a surrender to raw need.

"Alexander, more ," she wailed.

And then —only then—did everything inside him shatter. Control gone, he lost himself in the rhythm, the slick heat of her, the way her body arched to take him, so perfect it bordered on agony. She gasped, every ragged breath and shuddering moan urging him deeper and harder. The world narrowed to this: the primal cadence of their bodies, the exquisite friction, the desperate, beautiful collision of pleasure and hunger. Penny cried out, half sob, half moan. He wrapped his arms around her and thrust deep and hard, again and again. Bound and bent over, she took every inch he gave, sobbing his name, and he knew this moment would ruin him.

She was silken heat, and he was buried to the hilt, moving in her with rough desperation. When she came again, clenching around him, he cursed, shoved deep, and followed her over the edge, his release torn from his soul. Alexander held her through the aftershocks, their bodies shaking together, and pressed his lips to the base of her neck.

And even then, even spent, even knowing he'd crossed a line they couldn't uncross, he whispered, "I love you."

Penny jolted and froze, a soft moan of denial slipping from her. Alexander knew she did not want to hear such words of devotion, for they made things harder. He untied her wrists and cradled her in his arms. In the quiet that followed, Alexander knew he would never love another woman in this life.