Page 147

B eatrice’s heart pounded furiously as Matthew settled beside her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

His scent—sandalwood, salt, and something unmistakably him—wrapped around her, making her pulse stutter.

The flickering lamplight cast golden shadows across his face, illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw, the firm set of his lips, and the intensity burning in his eyes.

He was watching her, his gaze tracing over her face as though committing every detail to memory.

The awareness between them thickened, a charged stillness filling the air, making the small cabin seem even smaller.

Beatrice swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes away, the anticipation thrumming between them, igniting her blood.

“Bea,” he murmured, his voice hushed yet filled with meaning, his fingers lifting to trace the delicate curve of her cheek. “Tell me to stop, and I shall.”

She swallowed, her throat tightening around the words she could never bring herself to say. Instead, she exhaled slowly, her lips parting as she whispered, “Do not even think of it.”

A slow smile curved his lips, but his eyes dark, searching. His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, lingering at her jaw, before tilting her chin up. He hesitated, breath mingling with hers, allowing her the chance to stop him.

She did not.

The moment shattered as his lips met hers—gentle at first, then deeper, desperate, as though he had been waiting for this moment far longer than either of them dared admit.

Beatrice met his demand with her own, taking greedily and giving generously.

For years, she had imagined moments like this, had dreamed of a touch that would undo her, but none of those idle fancies had prepared her for the reality of Matthew. He was fire and restraint, tenderness and hunger, all at once.

A shudder wracked her as she realized how irrevocably she had fallen, how much she wanted this—wanted him.

The first brush of his lips was tentative, testing, as if he expected her to draw away.

But Beatrice did not. Instead, she pressed closer, her fingers twisting into the fine linen of his shirt.

His kiss deepened, the heat of it seeping into her very bones, scattering every rational thought she might have possessed.

Matthew’s hands, large and warm, skimmed down her sides, making her shiver. He hesitated at the fastenings of her gown, his breath uneven against her lips. “You are certain?” he asked, his voice raw.

Beatrice met his gaze. There was no hesitation within her, no fear. Only this wild, impossible need. “Yes.”

With a groan, he gathered her into his arms, rolling onto his back so she sprawled atop him.

His fingers worked the fastenings of her gown with uncharacteristic clumsiness, a frustrated growl escaping him when they refused to loosen swiftly enough.

Beatrice laughed breathlessly and reached back to assist him, her own hands shaking.

When the fabric finally gave way, Matthew eased it down her shoulders, his gaze turning reverent as the silk pooled at her waist.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his lips pressing a trail of kisses along her collarbone, down the delicate column of her throat. Each touch sent a riot of sensation through her, setting her skin alight. Beatrice arched against him, her hands threading through his hair as she gasped for breath.

Her stays and chemise followed in a flurry of movement, discarded in a forgotten heap as Matthew’s own shirt and trousers were stripped away.

She had never seen a man unclothed before, and her breath caught at the sight of him,her pulse racing.

The hard planes of his chest, the taut muscles of his abdomen, the strength evident in every inch of him—it was mesmerizing.

He watched her as she drank him in, his smile faltering for the briefest moment, as if caught between confidence and something far more fragile.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. His breath shallowed, hesitation flickering in his gaze, as though he feared what she might see in him—what she might find lacking.

He had never cared for a woman’s opinion before, had never let one truly see him.

But with Beatrice, the thought of falling short unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Then, with an uneven breath, he let his roguish smile return, though there was a new softness in it, a vulnerability he had never dared show before.

"Am I to your liking, wildflower?” he teased, though his voice was thick with something deeper, something uncertain.

Beatrice, emboldened by the intimacy of the moment, reached out, her fingers tracing over his bare skin. “You are beautiful,” she whispered.

A groan rumbled low in his throat as he captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.

He rolled her beneath him, his body a warm, solid weight above hers.

Beatrice had no time to feel shy, no space for second thoughts.

Matthew’s lips found hers again, kissing her with a hunger that matched her own.

His hands roamed her body, mapping every curve, every hollow, as if he sought to memorize her by touch alone.

When his lips trailed lower, pressing worshipful kisses to her breasts, her stomach, the delicate skin of her hips, Beatrice gasped, her fingers clenching in his hair. Sensation overwhelmed her, unlike anything she had ever imagined.

She threaded her fingers through his dark locks, marveling at their silky texture. As Matthew returned his attentions to her breasts, she found herself overcome by the tenderness in his touch.

This was not the carefree rake she had known, but a man consumed by desire—for her. The realization both thrilled and terrified her.

He moved over her, his powerful frame covering hers as he meet her gaze.

“Matthew,” she breathed, her voice shaking, “I?—”

He lifted his head, his gaze locking with hers. “Trust me.”

“I do,” she said.

Matthew’s lips trailed along the column of her throat, his breath hot, teasing. His hands skimmed over her ribs, down to her waist, reverent and slow, as if memorizing the shape of her.

Her breath hitched. She had not known such yearning could feel like this—like drowning in fire, like losing herself and finding something far greater in return. She rocked her hips against him in wanton invitation.

He moved within her, slow and deliberate, every inch unraveling her. Beatrice’s nails pressed into his back as she gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him, to accept him. He stilled, his breath ragged against her temple.

“Are you alright?” he rasped, concern flickering through his gaze.

She exhaled, shivering beneath him, the sharp edge of discomfort fading into something richer, deeper. “Yes,” she whispered. “Do not stop.”

A shudder wracked Matthew’s body as he pressed a kiss to her temple, his movements resuming with tender patience. Soon, the discomfort ebbed, replaced by something deeper, something more profound.

She had never known anything like this. Never known a man’s touch could unravel her so completely, could strip her of every last defense until she lay bare before him—not only in body, but in soul.

She rocked against him, asserting her needs in this unfamiliar territory. Matthew's lips curved into a smile of admiration before claiming her mouth in a searing kiss.

He set a languid pace that had Beatrice arching beneath him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back. She clung to him as sensation built, an exquisite pressure coiling within her. "Matthew," she gasped.

"I know," he responded, his voice rough with passion. “Fall over the edge, Bea,” he murmured, his voice frayed with need. “I swear, I will catch you.”

As their movements quickened, her core tightened, tingles spreading through her body. She shattered in his arms, her cry muffled against his shoulder. Matthew followed soon after, his own release wracking his body as he held her tight, as though he might never let her go.

For a long time, neither of them spoke, their breathing mingling in the quiet of the cabin. She lay against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek, her mind reeling from the intimacy they had just shared.

She had known desire existed—an idle, abstract concept whispered about behind fluttering fans and exchanged in knowing glances—but this had been something else entirely. Something that left her feeling raw and new, as if she had been remade in the fire of his touch.

Could she truly pretend that this had not changed her? That she could simply walk away from him when the time came? The thought sent a quiet ache through her, a longing that had nothing to do with the warmth of his embrace.

Matthew shifted, his fingers trailing lightly along her back. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice hushed, hesitant.

Beatrice lifted her head slightly, meeting his gaze in the dim light. "I do not know," she admitted softly. "It seems I am no longer the woman I was before."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips as he brushed a kiss against her temple.

"Then perhaps we have both been undone, my darling.

" He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side and gathering her against him, tucking her close.

His fingers traced idle patterns along her back, soothing and tender.

“I fear you have ruined me, my lord,” she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion and something softer, something infinitely dangerous.

His arms tightened around her, his lips brushing the crown of her head. “Good,” he murmured, voice rough with possession. “Because you are mine now, wildflower. And I do not intend to ever let you go.”

She sighed, nestling against his warmth. Perhaps, just this once, she would allow herself to believe in impossible things.

As sleep claimed her, she wondered if this was how it felt to belong to someone. If, perhaps, she had belonged to him all along. And if that were true… how could she ever bear to let him go?