Chapter Twenty
While Lewis and Reilly remained at Theydon Hall, tending to Lord Essex, Charlotte and Will rode together for Darton Hall. They stole into the house and crept upstairs together to her room. Will was desperate not to leave her; he held her hand, his fingers hooked against hers as though he could not bear to turn loose of her.
His eyes were sorrowful, his face filled with anguish.
“Charlotte…” he whispered, distraught. She did not let him say any more than this. She stepped against him, taking his face between her hands and kissing him deeply, catching whatever other words he might have offered against her tongue. He tangled his hands in her hair and drew her so near, she could scarcely breathe.
She moved her hands from his face toward his shoulders, slipping beneath the collar of his coat and pushing it back from his shoulders.
“Stay with me,” she whispered, her lips dancing against his. “Just for awhile… just once more. Be with me.”
She led him toward the bed, her fingers moving down the length of his shirt, unfastening the buttons each in turn. She kept her lips against his all the while, wanting to sear this sensation—his kiss—into her mind, hold it dear and fast. His hands slipped against her shoulders, his fingers hooking against either side of her shirt collar. He uttered a soundless grunt against her mouth, a fleeting huff of air, as he jerked the shirt open, snapping buttons free of their moorings and sending them tumbling with a soft clatter against the floor. He drew the shirt open, and pulled her against him, the warmth of his torso enfolding her. As the soft, full swells of her breasts pressed against the lean, firm muscles outlining his chest, and as the graceful plain of her belly touched the tightly stacked muscles of his abdomen—a proximity so intimate, it was as though all at once, they had melded into one form—she moaned softly, seized with longing and sorrow. Charlotte shrugged her arms loose of her sleeves, abandoning her shirt to the floor as he did the same with his own. Their feet stumbled, their boot heels slipping for purchase against the fallen fabric.
The back of her legs met the bed, and as she sat, he knelt between her legs, letting his hands follow the contours of her hips, outer thighs, and calves toward the floor. He removed her boots each in turn, sliding the sheaths of leather from her legs. He let his mouth travel upward, along the inseam of her breeches, his lips lingering against her inner thighs. He canted his head, lifting his chin slightly, and his breath was against her most tender of places, deliberate heat infusing through the fabric of her pants.
He turned his cheek after a long moment, tucking his face against her lap as might a distraught child seeking comfort. He cradled her hips between his palms, and trembled against her. “I cannot lose you,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Please, Charlotte. Please do not ask this of me. You will break me.”
She folded herself over him, kissing his hair. “You will never lose me,” she said. “You have my heart, Will. Always.”
He raised his head as she drew away from him. He kissed her, his tongue delving into her mouth with a desperate need, a despair that was tangible. He leaned toward her, and she could feel the measure of his heart, a rhythm marked deep within his chest and radiating through hers. She drew her thighs against his flanks, pulling her knees toward her bosom, letting his hips settle fully against hers. She felt the hardened length of him press against her, hot and straining against the fabric separating them. She touched his hips, letting her own rise to meet him as she drew him toward her.
His mouth abandoned hers for the arch of her cheekbone, the outermost edge where her jaw line and throat came together. He trailed the length of her throat, his lips and tongue fluttering against her flesh, stoking heat within her. When he touched her breast, his hand falling gently against her and moving in slow, heavy circles, her breath quickened. He maintained this rhythm with his palm; he brought his mouth against her other breast, the edge of his teeth drawing against her flesh with shuddering, delicate friction.
His hand moved again, his fingertips brushing lightly down the contours of her stomach. He slid his hand beneath the waistband of her breeches, slipping through the downy thatch of golden curls now within his reach. Charlotte raised her hips as he pulled her breeches off. He was fully aroused now, his own breeches managing only just barely to contain the significant swell of him. He unfettered the waist cord, and she watched him lean over, removing his boots and pants each in turn.
He came to her, and she moved her thighs, opening her legs to welcome him. There was no hesitation between them, and when she gasped as he entered her, swiftly, deeply, he caught the intake of her breath against his mouth. He moved within her, setting a powerful, poignant rhythm, as though each motion was to be his last, and he meant to cherish each. One of his hands settled against her breast, his palm and fingers matching the pace of his hips, and she moaned, arching her back.
“Open your eyes,” he said softly, drawing so abruptly still that it startled her.
She had not even realized they were closed, her head canted back as she had reveled in his touch. She opened her eyes and blinked, her face flushed with eager heat, her breath fluttering.
“Look at me,” Will whispered. He held her gaze as he moved again; when her eyes closed reflexively, he whispered again, leaning toward her. “Look at me, Charlotte.”
His moved within her, and the friction of his motion, the palpation of something deep and sensitive within left Charlotte gasping in helpless delight. More than this, there was something powerful as she locked gazes with him, something profoundly intimate; by looking into his eyes, she offered him her heart and mind as well as her body. He held her gaze, moving more swiftly, driving himself more deeply, but more than any touch or caress, she met his eyes and felt bound to him, a part of him.
He moved faster and deeper, stroking her, coaxing her, leaving her gasping, whimpering, writhing. “Look at me,” he whispered, kissing her, catching her fluttering, helpless voice against his tongue as she clutched at his shoulders, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Look at me now, Charlotte,” he whispered against her mouth. “Now,” he breathed again and she cried out, her hands closing into reflexive fists as he drove her to climax.
She arched her back as the crescendo of sensations crashed upon her, stripping her of her wits, leaving her straining for breath. The tightening of her body, inside and out, brought him simultaneously to his own release, and he cried out hoarsely.
He slumped against her, exhausted and spent, enfolding her in his warmth and strength. He kissed her ear, her cheek as they both tried to find their breath.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes, blinking at her, the sharp contours of his features glistening with sweat. “Say that again,” he said softly.
Charlotte smiled. “I love you, Will.”
He smiled, but his eyes were caught between this joy and sudden sorrow. “I could never tire of hearing you say those words,” he breathed. He closed his eyes, lowering his face toward hers, letting his breath dance against her mouth. “I do not want this night to ever end, Charlotte.”
“It does not have to,” she whispered, and he opened his eyes, puzzled. “Not yet, anyway. There is still some time before the dawn.”
He raised his brow slightly. “Is there now?” he asked, and when she nodded, he laughed softly, kissing her. “Give me a moment,” he said. “Let me recover and we will make the most of it.”