Page 18 of Season of the Scoundrel (The Bridewell Sisters #3)
S he felt it too.
At that moment, nothing in his life, either inherited or earned, felt as significant as that single yes from her lips.
Ross dipped his head to kiss Ivy, but she’d already arched up onto her toes, leaned her body into his and pressed her lips to his.
He took it for the gift it was, pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms. And she rewarded him by opening to him, letting him taste her, stroke his tongue into her mouth, kiss her again and again until he they were both breathless.
“Ivy…” The single shred of rational thought he had left told him that he could not take this where he wanted to. Not yet.
“Will you take me upstairs?” she asked.
It was as if she could divine the thoughts in his head, as if their desires were in harmony.
“If I do?—”
She reached down, clasped his hand, and led him to the drawing room door. Ross shifted his hand to entwine their fingers, and they climbed the stairs side by side.
Once they were inside his suite, she strode away from him, taking the room in, always curious, always inspecting. With her back to him, she studied a painting he’d acquired recently. Ross approached to stand behind her, suddenly unable to bear any separation between them.
“You think I’m being reckless again.” The words emerged quietly, not a question but a statement.
“I don’t want you to have a single regret,” he told her honestly.
He couldn’t imagine anything worse than finally admitting their desire for each other, only to have it drive a wedge between them.
Spinning to face him, she reached up and gripped the edges of his loosened bow tie, working the knot free and then sliding the strip of fabric from his neck.
“What I know is that I want this one night with you.”
Ross reached up to still her hands. “One night?”
“Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s brazen. But I won’t regret it.” Her gaze locked on his lips, then his eyes. “Because what I feel for you is the one thing I know for certain in all of this. Nothing else seems as important as that knowing.”
Ross swallowed hard and reached up to stroke the backs of his fingers across her silken cheek. “Turn around.”
She did, glancing back at him over her shoulder as he slipped one pin from her hair, then another, and all the rest until her hair hung down her back in glossy sable waves. He stroked his fingers through her hair, then slid it aside to bend and kiss her nape.
He felt her fingers reach back and realized she was freeing the hooks of her gown. Then she slipped the bodice down and let the garment pool at her feet.
When she turned, her hands went immediately to the buttons of his waistcoat and then his shirt, as if she was as eager to free him of his garments. She looked into his eyes, and he saw all that boldness and fire back in her gaze, none of the doubt he’d seen earlier this evening.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
Her eye flicked down, as if she couldn’t embrace the compliment.
Ross slid a finger under her chin and tipped her head up gently. “You are beautiful, Ivy.”
She beamed at him in answer.
And you’re mine whispered through his mind.
She’d made no promises. He’d offered her no true proposal, but he knew she was what he’d been waiting for, even if he’d not acknowledged to himself that he’d been waiting.
Her boldness, her determination, her trust in him—he took none of it for granted. It all felt like a gift, as much as that moment had been when she’d stumbled into his arms.
Ivy unhooked her corset as Ross watched hungrily.
Even when he wasn’t saying the words— you’re beautiful, Ivy —the way he looked at her, the way he touched her told her that he meant it. And she felt beautiful in a way she never had before.
Here, in this room, with just the two of them in the shimmering light of a blazing fire in the hearth, she felt no fear or doubt. Oddly, it felt as if everything in her life had been leading her to this moment, this man.
She could no longer see their first encounter as happenstance because it marked a moment when so much had shifted, and now she was here, feeling as if it was precisely where she belonged.
If there was nothing else to consider, no duties and expectations of a role she could never imagine being suited for, she’d ask that they make the betrothal real, just as he said he’d hoped they would.
No. She shook those worries away and focused on Ross.
He untied the satin ribbon at the throat of her chemise, and the fabric gaped wide enough for the soft cotton to slip off her shoulders and to her feet.
“Gorgeous,” he breathed, tracing his fingers along the line of her throat, then lower, between her breasts.
He touched her with reverence, rushing none of it. The way he seemed to relish every touch made eased a bit of her impatience, but she still wanted to be closer to him, with no barriers between them.
She dropped her hands to the waist of his trousers, and he smiled. He nodded as if to urge her on.
Ivy worked the buttons of his fly, then he helped her slide the trousers over his hips. At some point he’d toed off his boots, and she’d slipped free of her shoes.
Ross pulled the bowed ribbon on her drawers, tugging at the satin until the soft fabric whispered down her body.
Only her stockings remained, and he shocked her by lowering himself to his knees, lifting one foot onto his thigh and slowly rolling her stocking down one leg, then treating the other to the tender unveiling.
He stood and she marveled at the beauty of him, the muscles and sinew, the dark hair dusted across his chest. She pressed her lips together and a little shiver rushed through her when stepped closer.
His skin was deliciously warm against hers, and she ran her hands over his broad shoulders and felt the hard length of him against her belly.
Please , she wanted to say, and yet all of this was new. She wasn’t even certain what she was pleading for, except that her body was humming with want.
He kissed her and she moaned. The sound seemed to stoke something in him.
Ross bent and scooped her up behind the knees, holding her in his arms as he carried her to his four-post bed. Then he joined her, his body over hers, all of his heat warming her.
Ivy wrapped her arms around him, lifted her head from the pillows to kiss him. He kissed her deep and slow, then lifted his head. She wanted to pull him back, but he lifted off of her, then moved his body down hers.
“Where are you going?” she whispered, even as the slide of his skin and the hair on his chest tickled her stomach. He never stopped touching her, trailing his hands over her body like he needed to feel every inch of her.
“I need to taste you, love.”
Then he was touching her, right where all the need in her body centered. One finger through her curls, then slipping along the slickness, making her shudder.
Ivy sank her fingers into his hair, bit her lip, closed her eyes. She trusted him. Wanted him. Loved the way he touched her, the way he looked at her. Her made her feel safe. Desired.
She loved him. The thought of letting herself fall had terrified her days ago, but now her chest felt warm at the admission, as if her heart radiated with the truth of it.
He bent his head and his tongue traced his finger’s path. With masterful strokes, he brought her body to a precipice, every muscle tightening, the breath tangling in her chest. Then she pitched over the edge, her body shaking and then melting as if warm syrup ran through her veins.
“Ross,” she gasped his name. “Please.”
Ivy reached down, needing him closer. Needing to feel his skin against hers.
He kissed her, and she felt the heat of his length against her core.
“Ivy,” he said, lifting his head, staring down at her, his eyes shining. “Stay with me.”
“Always.” She slid her fingers through his hair, and he rocked into her slowly, filling her a bit more with each stroke.
At her gasp, he stilled.
“Don’t stop.” She curled her hand around the taut heated skin of his neck. “Please don’t stop.”
He bent his head and kissed her. Slow, delicious kisses and then he tasted her, stroking his tongue against hers as he built a rhythm between them.
Ivy arched to meet him. To be closer to him was all she wanted.
Then her muscles began to tense again. She felt herself being drawn to that point of blissful surrender again, and Ross seemed to sense it too. He lifted his head, his gaze locked on hers.
“My love,” he whispered, then bent his head again to nip at the skin of her neck.
The nip, the single word, the claiming spoken like a vow sent her over that edge and she shuddered beneath him as he took her mouth and groaned through his own release.
Afterwards, they lay together, breathless, Ivy wrapped in Ross’s arms. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn’t feel odd or different, she felt wanted, treasured. It felt right to be in his arms, as if it was where she belonged.