Page 44 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A FEW HOURS LATER

B ran folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

Tonight would be a sleepless one.

After he’d escorted Gwyneth to her bedchamber, he’d taken himself to his own rooms, rather than rejoin the supper party.

To be alone with his thoughts.

Now, his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone.

He supposed from a certain perspective he’d made a disaster of the evening meal.

He also supposed that certain perspective would belong to the duchess.

But he couldn’t regret it.

He’d only spoken words left too long inside.

Words the duchess needed to hear.

Words Artemis needed to hear, too.

She’d sat there while her mother had compared her unfavorably to Gwyneth, and he hadn’t been able to bear it.

If Artemis had rolled her eyes or defended herself, perhaps he would have kept his mouth shut.

But she’d sat there so quietly, so resigned, with her eyes cast down.

Realization had hit Bran with the force of cannon shot at close range.

Artemis was accustomed to such treatment from her mother.

Nay, not treatment .

Abuse .

Bran hadn’t been able to stomach it.

Artemis deserved better—and she deserved more.

He hadn’t sought to defend her.

She’d done nothing wrong; she didn’t need a defense.

But she was a diamond.

And she deserved to shine.

Light her mother had denied her.

Behind his head, his hands clenched into fists and released.

Artemis was all that was good in the world.

But the duchess wasn’t the sort of person who could see that.

All she saw were the superficialities of a person and how those superficialities fit into the hierarchy of the haut ton .

The trappings that comprised one’s exterior—title, wealth, and physical appearance—were to be of use.

Therefore, the trappings one lacked must be compensated for.

So, for example, if a lady lacked wealth, then she must have beauty and a title.

But the thing was, Artemis had it all—title, wealth, and beauty. Further, she had more —kindness, generosity, intelligence, ready humor.

That the duchess couldn’t see this, or worse, saw it and chose not to value it, was a crime.

A crime committed against Artemis.

And Bran hadn’t been able to stand for it.

Every word he’d uttered, he’d meant.

And there were yet more words he meant to speak, for he had reached a decision. On the morrow, he would request a private meeting with Rakesley and offer for Artemis.

Like he should have done ten years ago.

He couldn’t turn back the clock.

But they could reset it to zero.

A sound caught his ear—a muted squeak, followed by door hinges turning.

He sat up, covered only by the sheet that came to his waist, but didn’t call out.

Soft footsteps padded lightly across dense wool, carrying across the room awash with the cool blue of night.

A figure clad in diaphanous ivory silk moved across a shaft of soft starlight.

Artemis.

No words passed between them as she reached for the sash of her robe and tugged. The garment fell open, and she shrugged it off her shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor in a soft shush , revealing she wore nothing else.

Before him, at the foot of the bed, she stood, naked as a goddess.

As if they were in a dream together, she leaned forward and planted her palms on the bed, lifting her feet off the floor and crawling onto the rumpled coverlet. Bran’s lungs went still, as if even a single breath would break the spell that ribboned through fragile night air.

Slowly, she closed the distance between them, her hair falling forward in a curtain, the heavy sway of her breasts just beyond.

His cock went hard as stone.

She hesitated inches from him, their gazes connected across the scant distance. Her scent of crisp salt and fresh lemon drifted to meet him, and he breathed her in. Before him, within reach, was everything he’d ever wanted before the world had gotten in the way.

When it was only the two of them, it was right.

So, why should it be any way other than the two of them?

With the certainty with which one moved inside a dream, he reached out, cupped the back of her head, and drew her forward.

Their lips met—soft and tender, a light brush of breath cool across damp sensitive skin.

Instinct reared its head, pulled at him to deepen the kiss, to grab hold of certainty and take it fast and sure to its natural resolution.

He resisted instinct.

He wanted Artemis—to become so wrapped inside her until there was no him and no her , only them .

He wanted to go deeper—beyond the boundaries of the body and mind and into the realm of the spirit, into the soul.

So, he kissed her— slow … long … deep —and the world around them faded into nothingness.

She shifted, easing onto him so she straddled his thighs, her hands now clasping his face as she gave her all into the kiss. “Artemis,” he spoke against her mouth.

She pulled back and met his gaze. “I want you,” she whispered.

She might’ve been speaking only of his body—only of the pleasure he could offer her.

But they’d come too far for such lies to himself.

She wanted him— all of him.

That was what she was saying.

“And because I’ve spoken my want aloud,” she continued, “aren’t you bound by your own words to give yourself to me?”

He gave his head a slow shake without releasing her gaze. “No.”

She blinked. Her brow creased. “ No? ”

He slid his hand around to caress her cheek. “I’m bound by more than words, Artemis.”

For the split of a second, her eyes searched his, as if looking for the truth there.

Then she brought her mouth to his in sudden urgency, her lips hot and demanding as she shifted forward, her breasts soft against his chest, and lowered down him, her cunny along the hard length of his cock, separated only by the thin cotton sheet.

The slow, languorous lovemaking he’d envisioned wasn’t meant to be, as a responding urgency seized him, need and ache and utter want too strong, pummeling his resistance to bits.

Someday, they could do slow and languorous.

Not tonight.

He ripped the sheet out from between them.

Now it was skin against skin. Her quim slick and hot against his manhood.

She lifted onto her knees, sliding along him, pulling a groan full of ache from him.

If he stated his preference—if anyone were to ask—he would prefer making love with Artemis in the full light of day, so he could appreciate her in every way.

But this —making love in the shadows—it had its benefits.

Without the distraction of sight, one was singularly open to the sense of touch and able to give wholly over to it.

The feel of her supple skin beneath his hands, the heady substance of her.

Somehow, without sight, the act felt more pure.

“I need you now, Bran,” she breathed into his ear, as she reached between them and took his shaft in hand.

His eyes drifted shut, his entire being became centered on the hot, firm feel of her fingers wrapped around him.

He could spill now.

That was the truth.

All it took was the mere promise of her warm, slick cunny, teasing against the crown of his cock.

He resolved not to spill—and held that resolve as, slowly , she lowered onto him, her breath caught in her throat. Lower she slid, now a long groan pouring from her. Soft and tight, her sex took him in, inch by inch.

Sensation cascaded through him in ripples of light.

This was pleasure.

The pleasure of abandoning one’s mind and giving over to the demands of the body.

As she moved on him, he held her hips, steadying her. His mouth couldn’t decide where it wanted to be as he kissed her lips … her neck … the valley between her breasts … took one nipple into his mouth, then the other … her mouth again … It was all almost too much—and all not enough.

Possessed by this feeling, his hands tightened around her hips and he pushed deeper inside her, rooting them into each other.

His tongue caught the taste of salt on her neck and followed the bead of perspiration along her clavicle.

Her hips moving of their own accord, he wrapped his arms around her back, fully encircling her, their bodies so tight against each other, it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.

And really, there was no need. Physical boundaries no longer existed for them.

Tighter, she clung to him, and he knew she was close … climax teasing her just out of reach. “Slow down, my love,” he rumbled into her ear. “Give in to the feel of slow .”

Slower, deeper, she moved on him, and all that sensation began to bear weight on him and tighten within his sex. Release was nearly upon him.

He returned his hands to her hips. Now it was him guiding the movement—guiding them toward climax.

The ripples that had been cascading through his veins suddenly coalesced into a single bodily intention, the feel of her so …

damn … good around him as it built and drove him …

nay, them … toward the edge, and as one, they crested the rim and tipped over into release, their bodies …

their souls … into freefall, as he shouted into her neck and she cried out toward the ceiling, his cock spilling into her, her quim pulsing around him.

Hearts racing as one, lungs gasping for air, they hung onto one another, only a slick of sweat between them.

As they drifted through the ether of release, belief solidified inside him.

This was the beginning.

Their beginning.

He trailed kisses up her throat, feeling her rapid, precious pulse beneath his lips. He reached her mouth and took it in a long, slow kiss. His cock, still inside her, pulsed, suggesting a willingness to return to life. An idea he supported, but he must say something first.

He drew back slightly, his mouth breaking from hers. Through the darkness, her eyes met his in question. He answered it with a question of his own. “Do you know what truly binds me to you, Artemis?”