Page 59

B irdsong lingered in the air, damp seeped from the ground up into the fabric pleated under her knees, and Silas muttered beautiful, filthy praise behind her, half curse, half song.

She gave herself over entirely to sensation, let his voice, stone-rough, lick over her skin like she hoped his tongue would soon enough.

His fingers were thick and blunt inside her, stroking, coaxing her toward a familiar peak, and she found herself grinding back into him, seeking purchase, the apex of her thighs already slippery with desire.

His hand on her hip was almost painful, fingers flexing with each caress.

Looking over her shoulder, she watched Silas.

His neck was taut, the corded muscles standing out along the tanned column, and his hair, thrown into disarray when they kissed, hung in loose golden tendrils over his brow.

But it was his eyes that she could not look away from.

Pupils dark as pitch, they were wild and hungry, focused entirely on her reactions as he explored her.

She whimpered at the intensity of his attention and his eyes snapped to hers.

If she hadn’t trusted him implicitly, the ferocity of his stare might have frightened her.

As it was, she felt a flood of desire between her legs and an answering groan from Silas.

“My God, woman, you’ll kill me with your beauty ... sweet, Fee.” His smile was crooked and lupine, his voice low, eyes softening. “And I’ll not utter a word of complaint.”

Ophelia suddenly couldn’t stand the distance between them a moment longer.

She wanted Silas’s warm skin under her hands, wanted him inside her, filling the aching void that grew with every stroke of his fingers.

She had spent so long feeling wrong, that there was no place for her.

Too much, too awkward, all wrong for her world, but in this moment, with Silas, she felt just right, fit perfectly.

She knew, for perhaps the first time, that she could call this pleasure to herself, revel in a man whose own fulfilment was predicated on hers.

And she found she didn’t want to wait any longer, had put off claiming herself for too long.

So she said out loud what she had only imagined in her head.

“I want ...” she said, and straightening and pressing her back to Silas’s chest, she reached for his hand, stilled by her movement.

“Anything . . . tell me, love.”

“Give me your hand for a minute,” she said. He slid his fingers from inside her and she felt her own wetness on them when she coasted his hand across her hip, over the softness of her belly, to the apex of her thighs. “Here.”

“Show me again,” Silas said, nuzzling the nape of her neck.

Ophelia fitted her smaller hand over his, her fingers guiding him in long, slow circles over herself. Ever the quick learner, he paid attention to each small change in pressure, every place that made her shudder.

“Brilliant woman,” he murmured. “Sweetest”—a nip at her neck—“most radiant”—he pressed a kiss to her shoulder—“Ophelia.” He slid his free hand from her hip to cup her breast, lifting and kneading.

Ophelia pressed her fingers against his, against her, harder, faster until their hands moved as one, frenzied and uncoordinated.

Silas was breathing heavy against her ear, his erection hard at her backside, thrusting against her in time to their hands under her skirts.

Desire wound tight as a noose around her, blacking out the edges of her vision.

She felt held, cradled by Silas’s attention, seen in a way she hadn’t known was possible.

Of all the things she had wanted for herself, taken steps toward, she hadn’t really understood how finding pleasure in her own body would illuminate everything else.

Now, hovering on the edge of her orgasm, she felt completely free.

Flying into something entirely new, Silas at her side, urging her on.

“Let me feel you come, Fee ... please,” he ground out, pressing open-mouthed kisses behind her ear, breath hot and sharp.

“Mhmm, just like that,” she whispered, turning her face back to him, feeling her breath catch as every muscle in her body tightened, her thighs shuddering with the effort it took to stay upright.

Silas tightened his arm around her waist, holding her steady as he worked her toward the inevitable release.

It came hard and slow, pulsing through every nerve ending, pleasure so bright and sharp it verged on pain, and she cried out, a low keening wail that he swallowed with a clumsy kiss.

His lips were gentle, coaxing yet more pleasure from her, his fingers slowing, but not stopping as the orgasm rippled through her.

Her hand on his was limp, but he didn’t need her instruction anymore, had learned what drew pleasure from her like song from an instrument.

His fingers were wet with her, slippery on her clit, and he whispered words of praise when she bucked against his fingers.

Words like “more” and “wet” and “beautiful” and “please.” She spun out into the pleasure of her orgasm and he caught her, held her while she returned to her body, kissing her softly at the temple, brushing her hair back from her sweaty brow.

Ophelia slumped back against Silas, fully sitting in his lap, her body boneless and sated, quivers still running like electric current under her skin.

Of all the ways Ophelia had allowed herself to think of making love to Silas, it had never once occurred to her that it might find her bent over a bench in a dilapidated garden.

Now that she was here though, his fingers working their steady magic between her legs, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, breaths dragging out of her too-tight chest, she couldn’t imagine anything else.

“Silas,” was all she said, turning in his arms, while they scrambled up to the bench, laughing at their stiff knees, her skirts in disarray, Silas’s movements hobbled by a distractingly large erection.

He adjusted his trousers to sit and pulled her to sit astride his legs, bare legs dangling on either side of his.

Ophelia reached out to stroke his length through the fabric.

“May I?” she asked, hand at the buttons of his fly.

The column of his throat worked and he nodded, eyes on hers. She licked over the dry pad of her bottom lip and Silas’s eyes followed the movement, a starving man at a banquet.

“That’s mine to lick,” he said, hoarsely, tracing her bottom lip with a rough thumb.

Then leaning forward, he caught it between his teeth, nipping gently.

Ophelia’s hands were clumsy at his groin, fingers catching and losing the buttons as his teeth worried her lip and he licked into her panting mouth.

“Shall I help you with that?” he asked, winking at her.

She laughed and nodded, leaning back to make room for him.

Trousers undone, Ophelia parted the fabric, humming a satisfied noise at the sight of his cock, the solid length rising from the shadows of smalls and trousers, the smooth, flushed head, only just contained by his foreskin, already beaded with moisture.

She stroked gently along one side and down the other, still surprised at the satiny give of his skin there.

She liked how it moved over his rigid length, almost as slippery in her hand as she was between her legs.

Silas groaned her name, running a hand along the outside of her leg and up to her hip.

“You like that, hmm?” she said, curious and proud of drawing out his pleasure.

“So much ... so fucking much, Fee,” he said, jaw clenched.

She stroked him again. Down. And up. Watching his face, beautiful and tense, his hands gripping the edge of the bench.

And then her hand on him, the way he had begun tiny thrusts up into her fist, his leg muscles moving under her.

She rocked into him, echoing his movements and his eyes snapped to hers, their mossy depths taking her breath away.

She couldn’t imagine loving anything more than the sight of Silas abandoned to pleasure, all the lines of worry and care gone slack, a sheen of perspiration across his sharp cheekbones, his lips swollen from kissing, her name falling like a mantra from his mouth.

“Silas,” she said, not slowing her hand. When he met her eyes she lost her train of thought for a moment. “Inside me ... I want you inside me again.”

“Ah, Christ, Fee,” he growled. “Yes ... yes ... I’m half wild with wanting you.”

He moved so quickly she squealed, hands on her hips raising her over him, taking himself in hand once she was steady, one hand on his shoulder.

“Take your time, love. Go as slowly as you like, I’ll hold as still as I’m able.” He looked up into her face, smiling softly, pupils blown wide, and she found herself teary, overwhelmed with the gift of him. “Fee, what’s wrong? Have I hurt you?” he asked, brows drawing together.

“No, not at all.” She sniffed. “Just the opposite, you are exquisite, wonderful in ways I never imagined. I can’t quite believe you are to be mine.

” She blinked down at him, feeling the warm mass of his shoulder under her hand, the lean length of his thighs against the insides of her knees, and knew she was home.

“I am quite wonderful,” Silas said with a wolfish grin. “Not as patient as I ought to be, though,” he said, mouthing her nipple through the thin lawn of her chemise, the head of his cock notching at her entrance.

“Oh,” said Ophelia. “Oh ... oh.”

She exhaled and let herself sink down onto him.

Silas groaned low in his throat, stroking her cheek and bending his head to kiss along the neckline of her chemise.

She rose up a little, drawing another groan from him, then sank down, taking his full length inside her.

Silas began thrusting and Ophelia experimented with canting her hips against him, felt her muscles already beginning to clench around his cock.

Tilting her hips again she found her rhythm, nudging her clit against him with every thrust, and then she was coming again, head thrown back, hands clutching him to her.

The climax shuddered through her, spooled out along each limb in fiery, golden tendrils.

Silas crooned her name, still thrusting, holding her hips hard now as he chased his own pleasure.

Her body milked him, every thrust sending echoes of pleasure through her until he stilled and pulled free from her, stroking himself twice, and spending across her bare legs.

Their breath mingled between them, ragged and sharp.

Silas lifted his face to hers, pressing kisses along her jaw.

She pressed her mouth to his, nibbling at his full top lip, licking her tongue into the wet warmth of him.

“Thank you,” they said over each other, colour high on their cheeks.

Silas’s arms came swiftly around Ophelia and he lifted her onto her feet, tenderly straightening her skirts and putting her chemise to rights.

“I love you, Ophelia Blackwood,” he said solemnly, brushing her hair back from her face before tidying his shirt and waistcoat.

She could only bury her face in his chest, the wobbly happiness she felt inside too big to put into words.