He kept his gaze locked on hers as he worked her with steady, devastating precision, letting her feel every deliberate movement, every bit of control he refused to lose. She clung to him, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him back to her mouth when the pleasure overwhelmed her.
“That’s it,” he whispered against her lips. “Good lass.”
Her whole body tightened, thighs trembling around his hand. She bit down on a small, desperate sound that still trembled out of her, breaking free into his mouth as he kissed her through it. Her climax shuddered through her, and he held her, guided her through every wave.
Her forehead dropped to his, breaths mingling, both of them shaking.
He kept his hand on her, soothing her through the last tremor.
She sagged against him, boneless for a moment, hands still tangled at his collar.
The sight of her, flushed and dazed, undone by him alone, hit him with a strange, fierce tenderness that almost hurt.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face with the back of his finger.
She blinked up at him, eyes heavy, mouth parted.
“Maxwell,” she whispered, as if she had forgotten any other word.
He swallowed hard.
For a heartbeat, the temptation to go further, to take everything, roared. To ignore the vows he had made to himself in quiet, bitter hours. To lose himself in her entirely.
He stepped back instead.
The loss of his warmth made her fold into herself. Her hands loosened on his shoulders, falling to her lap.
Confusion flickered across her features. Then hurt, quickly masked.
He turned away, fingers curling once on the edge of the desk before he forced them to let go.
“Remember our rule,” he said, not trusting his voice for more.
She drew in a breath behind him. “Which one?”
“Nay talk of me past,” he said. “And nay carless approach unless there is an emergency.”
Silence.
He heard the rustle of her gown as she slid from the desk. The soft scrape of her shoes against the floor.
“If this is yer way of frightening me off,” she said, her tone unsteady but threaded with that same stubbornness, “ye will have to do better.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“Go, Ariella,” he managed.
She crossed the room angrily. The door opened. Hinge creaking softly. And then it closed.
He was alone.
He stared at the mess on his desk, at the scattered papers, at the place where his wife had just been braced under him.
She had a gift for finding light in dark places. He had said it to her brother, but the truth of it lived here, in this room, in the way the air still felt warmer where she had stood.
He pressed both palms to the desk, bowing his head.
Desire he could admit now, if only to himself. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise.
