Page 27 of Oz (Finding Home #1)

And just like that, the heat roars back in and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes darken and he grabs my hand. “Let’s go home,” he mutters, and I follow.

The drive back is quiet and filled with an intense heat that you can almost see shimmer between us.

Every move he makes, every time he brakes and the muscles in his thigh work, every time his hand curves around the gear stick, I feel heat run through me and under my skin like I’m connected to him with invisible wires.

He drives with a fierce concentration, but I know he’s just as aware as me from his sidelong glances and the way his breathing is deep and heavy.

When we get home, everywhere is dark and still.

I climb out and inhale the scent of roses from the bush growing nearby.

He comes around the side of the car and pushes me gently into it.

He leans over me, not touching anywhere but staring into my eyes.

“Are you sure?” he says in a low voice. “Once we do this we can’t go back. It’s your choice.”

I reach up and push his hair back from his forehead, relishing the feel of the silky locks on my fingers. “I’m sure,” I say quietly. “I want you, Silas. So much.”

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them I inhale at the lust and determination on his face. “Okay, come with me,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I want you in my bed.”

“This is just like a Catherine Cookson book,” I say happily. “Hopefully you’ll use me and toss me aside and then I’ll go away and make myself into a very rich man and have my revenge.”

He shakes his head. “Those books are not good for mental health.”

“They’re probably better than the shit you’ve got in your library,” I retort.

He snorts. “The library provides the Earl of Ashworth with all of his reading materials,” he says in a snooty guide voice and I laugh, feeling it rush through me like a bottle of pop that’s been shaken and is waiting to explode if the cap’s removed.

I follow him up the staircase and onto the long gallery. I copy his movements as he sneaks across the pine floorboards because he’s obviously avoiding the creaky ones.

“I detect a misspent childhood,” I whisper as he creeps to the side. “Alternatively, this could be like dating The Pink Panther.”

“Merci beaucoup,” he says in the most terrible French accent I’ve ever heard, and I snort, trying not to laugh.

He pulls me after him, past the family portraits that glare down at us, and to the door at the end of the gallery. I know it houses the earl’s apartments but I’ve never been in.

We walk into a lounge that’s long with a low beamed ceiling. A large fireplace sits at one end, but the only other furniture is a battered leather sofa and chairs sitting on a beautiful old oriental carpet and one of the biggest TVs I’ve ever seen. My lip quirks and he looks slightly embarrassed.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid. Apart from my bedroom, there are two others that are empty. An old kitchen that needs demolishing, dining room, and a bathroom. When I moved in I got rid of most of my father’s furniture, painted the walls white, and that was about it. I’m not here much.”

“This isn’t the room I’m bothered about,” I murmur, and he grins.

“Follow me.”

He opens the door at the far end of the lounge and I walk beside him down a flagstoned corridor and through another door, only to stop in disbelief.

“This is beautiful,” I breathe. It’s a huge room with one wall made up of floor-to-ceiling stone mullioned windows.

They’re open and letting in the roar of the sea and a salt-tinged breeze that rustles the sky-blue embroidered curtains of the huge oak four-poster bed.

It’s set back against the far wall, the bedlinens a stark white in the moonlight that floods the room, and whoever sleeps in it would have an uninterrupted view through the windows.

I step towards the windows and peer out. Below me the ground slopes steeply down towards the sea which glitters and moves languidly in the moonlight as if in a spell.

I turn back and find him watching me. He’s standing still, but every muscle of his body seems taut with expectation. I flick my eyes around and dimly notice a blue velvet settee and armchair positioned in front of a huge stone fireplace. Then my eyes come back to him.

“I’ve not been down to the beach,” I say, and I can hear a high nervousness in my voice that’s never been there before. I have slept with more men than I should count, but I haven’t felt this nervous since my first time and I wonder why.

He must hear it as well because he looks at me intently before moving slowly to stand next to me. I cast him a wry look to which he responds with a gentle smile.

“The path’s down there,” he says, and the Cornish burr in his voice sounds a little stronger. I’ve noticed it appears when he’s most at home with someone and not having to behave like an earl. “It’s hidden, but it’s there.” He pauses. “Are you having second thoughts, Oz, because–”

We both twirl round as the door to his room slams shut loudly.

“What the fuck?” I breathe. “There isn’t enough breeze in the room to do that.” I look at the floor. “Is the floor on a slant?”

He sighs and then grins helplessly. “It’s Lionel,” he says and shakes his head.

“Lionel, who?”

“Lionel, my ancestor from the Stuart time.”

“The dead Lionel?” I say, and my voice has definitely gone high.

“I would certainly hope so. Either that or he’d need shares in Oil of Olay.

” I look at him in stupefaction. “Don’t laugh,” he says, then laughs himself.

“You said yourself he looked friendly. Well, he is. Too friendly. He loves it around this area of the house and he’s always locking me in fucking rooms.”

“You’ve got a three-hundred-and thirty-year-old drunken ghost as a pimp.” I start to laugh. “Not sure where you’d put that on your Grindr profile.”

He snorts and then stares at me. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you laugh,” he says, and the fervent note in his voice makes me still and stare at him.

Moving slowly, he reaches up and cups my cheekbone, staring at my face.

“Look at you,” he says in a wondering voice.

“You’re lit up like you’re made of a moonbeam and your hair looks so black against your skin. ”

I reach up and cup my hand over his, and I know he can feel the tremors running through my body because he stills. “I need you,” I say hoarsely, feeling it run through my body like a stream of fire. “I want you now.”

“Yes,” he says and then he’s on me.

He kisses me furiously, eating into my mouth with a choked groan and I catch fire from him, want rushing through me like hot chocolate.

My back bumps into something and I realise that he’s backed me into the window.

The glass feels cold on my hot skin as his tongue rubs and twines with mine.

He releases my lips and I suck in air and groan as his mouth slides down my neck suckling on the skin, almost, but not quite leaving a mark.

And I want him to. I hate that sort of thing normally, but now I want a bruise on me that I can look at and know his mouth left it there like a signature on my skin.

I moan pleadingly, and he looks up deep into my eyes and his lip quirks in a half smile as if something has passed unsaid between us.

Then I give a high, reedy cry as he pushes my shirt collar to one side and fastens his mouth onto the skin he’s just revealed.

He sucks powerfully and I arch up, shoving my hips against his demandingly and rubbing my dick against him.

He grunts and moves onto another area, the delicacy of the way he moves my shirt a stark contrast to the heat and pressure of his mouth.

His fingers lower as he sucks, and I feel them against the waistband of my jeans. There’s a jingle as the belt loosens, and then my jeans sag open.

“Christ,” I whisper, and then moan as he comes back at my mouth as if declaring war.

He shoves his hands down the back of my jeans and grabs my arse cheeks, squeezing them and using them to pull me against him.

Encouraging me to rut against him. And all the while he kisses me, his breaths harsh on my cheek.

I feel almost like I’ve been caught up in a whirlwind.

He’s so gentle outside the bedroom, but after the blow job I’m starting to suspect that he’s very different during sex.

This is desperate and animalistic and he’s turning me on so much I can feel my balls lift and tighten, and I pull away, sucking in air and staring at him.

He looks debauched, his cheeks flushed and his eyes lowered to half-mast. His mouth is red and swollen, and his chest rises and falls with his panting breaths.

“Take your clothes off,” he says in a guttural whisper, and I shiver. Gone is the polite, cool tone of voice, and here in this room it’s lowered to a rough, demanding drawl. I kick off my shoes quickly and peel off my jeans, shirt, and underwear, watching him avidly as he tears off his own clothes.

I reach out and touch his chest when his shirt vanishes, running my fingers through the thick hair. “Yes,” I whisper. “I love this.”

His mouth twists with hunger as he shudders under my touch, kicking his jeans and underwear off until he’s as naked as I am.

Then he grabs me and pulls me into him and I feel that hairy torso against mine, abrading my sensitive nipples so that hot lightning runs through them like they’re attached to my cock.

I writhe against him and he groans, reaching down and grabbing my arse in the palms of his hands. Obeying his unspoken command, I jump and he lifts me easily, winding my legs around him and taking two strides to the chair where he sits down.

For a second, I’m taken by surprise. I expected him to go for that huge bed, but I shudder as I realise that he’s at the end of his tether. I straddle him, sinking into the cradle of his hips and then sitting back slightly on his thighs so I can feel his cock against mine.