Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
In his arms.
Chapter
Forty-Two
HUGH
Lauren is fast asleep in my arms, and I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t come to me.
It’s almost as though a part of me is afraid to miss out on even the smallest moments, every bit as special as fucking her till we both lost control. I listen to her breath, slow and even, a gentle rhythm that fills me with peace. The bedside lamp casts a gentle amber glow across her sleeping face nestled against my chest, her blonde hair spilling over my arm, and I can’t stop looking at her, can’t tear my eyes away from the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes, the way her lips part slightly, soft and pink, still swollen from my kisses.
The sex was better than I’ve ever had, fiercer, deeper, a fire that burned through every restraint, and now, in the quiet, I’m mesmerized by the sight of her, my heart thudding like a drum. I don’t even breathe too deeply, because I don’t want to wake her, don’t want her to stir and realize I’m still here. And most especially, I don’t want her to ask me to leave.
This manor has always been enough—grand, imposing, a legacy I carry alone—but tonight, with her in my arms, it feels as if it was always too big, too empty, too lonely for one man. I’ve never felt this before, never let myself imagine a life where another being, other than my mother and I, fill these rooms. Never imagined a woman’s laughter echo off the walls, or her warmth chasing the chill from these ancient rooms.
The thoughts stir something I’ve locked away—hope, maybe, or longing—and it shocks me to realize how much I want her here, always, her body curled against mine, her breath a constant in the dark. She shifts, her leg sliding over mine, her fingers twitching against my chest, and I freeze, my breath catching, my muscles tensing, because if she wakes, if she sees me staring, she might remember that I’m not to be trusted, and might send me back to my own cold bed.
She moves again, a soft murmur escapes her lips, and her eyes flutter open, blue and angelic in the yellow lamplight.
“Oh,” she says, her voice husky, sleep-thick, “I’m sorry, you weren’t able to leave because of me, right?” There’s a flicker of guilt in her tone, a shy uncertainty, and it twists inside my chest, because I don’t want her to think I’m trapped here, not when every second with her feels like a gift.
I shift, propping myself on one elbow, my hand brushing her hair from her face.
“I didn’t want to leave,” I admit huskily. My eyes hold hers, searching, waiting for a reaction, for a sign she feels this pull too.
Her lips part. “Ah.”
The silence stretches, heavy with possibilities.
“Do you want to take a bath together?” I ask.
A small smile tugs at her lips, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Why not?” she says, her voice light, almost teasing.
Relief floods me, warm and bright, because she’s saying yes, she’s choosing to be with me, for now. I grin and slide out of bed, the cool air biting my skin as I offer her my hand. She takes it, her fingers warm, and we pad across the room to the bathroom.
I turn the faucet, the water rushing out, steaming, and add a couple of scoops of bath salts, the scent rising, soothing and rich. The tub starts filling quickly, forming a thick layer of bubbles. I glance at her, standing in the doorway, her naked body silhouetted by the bedside lamp, her curves soft, and my chest tightens, because she’s here, with me, and it’s more than I dared hope.
We slip into the tub, the silky water enveloping us. She settles against my chest with her back to me, her head resting on my shoulder, and her body fitting perfectly, like she was made for this. With the warmth seeping into my bones, I wrap my arms around her and rest my hands on her stomach. Her skin is slick under my fingers.
We’re quiet for a while, watching the stars through the window, their light faint but steady, and it’s romantic, even beautiful, a moment so perfect it feels fragile, like it could slip away like sand through my fingers.
My fingers move, slowly tracing her thigh under the water, and she sighs, a soft, contented sound. I slide my hand higher, brushing her inner thigh, and she shifts suggestively, invitingly, her body arching, and I feel her desire mirroring mine.
“Tell me about life here,” she asks, her voice soft, curious, breaking the silence. “England, I mean. I’m so curious about how different it is from life in Chicago.”
I chuckle, my lips grazing her ear, and let my hands rest on her hips. “I don’t think it’s very different except that this part of England is… slower, much slower. I’ve been to Chicago twice in the past, and it’s just like London. Everything is fast and urgent, but here, here in the countryside, people are solid and know what’s truly important and what makes for a good life. They don’t chase after ephemeral things.