Felicity kissed him. He jerked in surprise but then his arms came around her and he pulled her to his chest. The rattle of rain infiltrated the dark peace of the room, and he slowed the kiss, pulling away.
“I have to start a fire or the damp and cold become unbearable.”
Felicity nodded, watching as he removed the ash and put kindling and logs into the grate. He lit a match from his tinderbox and held it to the kindling.
Felicity didn’t know what his home looked like, but she tried to imagine him there, lighting a fire in a stone hearth. She’d be making them tea and the room would be cozy. Fresh herbs would hang in the window, like her mother taught her. And the smell of baking bread would linger in the air from their morning breakfast.
She liked the image. The simpleness, the love she would feel. A quiet life for the two of them. No bustling city, no gamblers and scantily clad ladies sauntering down the halls all night long. Just quiet, the sound of rain, the pop of embers. And him. Not the spy, the despised lackey of the widow, the shadow that lurked the halls of the Den. Just Tristan.
Would she look out the window and see pasture? Hills? A thick forest? Would her sisters be with her? Would his siblings like her? She didn’t know what his home looked like, but she wanted to see it. She wanted him to have the peace he deserved, his home back, his siblings, and she wanted his love. She wanted all of it. Tristan deserved to have what he wanted just as much as she did. But the burden of a wife while trying to accomplish those things would only make it more difficult. She couldn’t do that to him.
He picked up a pail and left it near the window. He smiled sheepishly. “There is a leak in the roof.”
Felicity stood and held out her hand. He took it, meeting her before the shabby, lumpy sofa. She gave him a soft tug and led him to the narrow bed that had one thin blanket and sagged in the middle.
He frowned. “What are you doing now, Flick?”
Felicity let go of his hand and began to undo the lacing on the front of her dress.
He touched her hand to stop her. “This isn’t what you need. I brought you here to give you privacy and time to calm down.”
“You said you loved me,” Felicity countered. She knew what she was doing. She knew exactly what she wanted. This might be the only thing she could do for herself, an utterly selfish decision. But she wanted to make love with the man who loved her, the man who wanted to give her everything even though he couldn’t, even though it meant giving her away to another. She understood why. She didn’t like it, but she understood.
“I do,” he said.
“Then make love to me. I want to give myself to the man I love. I might never have this chance again.”
He swallowed. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Only you can give me this. Whatever tomorrow brings can wait. Right now, I’m yours and you’re mine. That is all that matters.”
He cupped her cheek and Felicity resumed untying her bodice. She loosened the neckline, shimmying her shoulders to wiggle the dress down. Tristan watched her movements while he unpinned her hair.
Felicity shoved her gown over her hips and now stood in her chemise. They began to unbutton his jacket next, unhurried, like time had stopped outside this room and they could linger as long as they wanted. The only sounds were the soft shuffle of clothing and the rain. His gaze scoured her body with heat as he shrugged out of his jacket. Felicity reached for the placket of his trousers and held his stare while she unbuttoned him. He pulled off his shirt. She paused her progress, her breathing hitching, as she took in his beautiful chest. He took off his boots, and she resumed her progress while she watched with bated breath. He did not take off his trousers though. He reached for her, bringing her to him and nuzzling under her neck. Felicity arched into his warmth, her arms looping around his neck as she lifted her chin to give him better access. Last night he’d shown her just how gloriously sensitive her body could be and all the different ways he could tease out her pleasure, making every moment last until the sweetest end.
He made her forget the pain of being touched by Chadwick, the fear that clamped around her heart from a man’s touch. He erased it all beneath the gentle caress of his palms over her back, the silky feel of his lips on her skin.
He pushed her chemise down her shoulders, and it slithered to the floor. He cupped her bottom, lifting her against the hard planes of his body. His cock pressed against her lower belly and Felicity moved her hips against him. He lowered her to the floor again, before swooping her into his arms and setting her down on the bed.
“You deserve to be lying on silks, not this.”
“I’ve never slept on silk. I’ve cooked and cleaned my entire life. I shared a bed with my sister. I mend my own clothing, and I’ve butchered my own dinner. My status as a vicar’s daughter might place me higher than a commoner or tradesman, but I have not lived a privileged life. As long as I’m with you, that is all that matters.
He bent over the bed and pulled off her stockings. He removed his trousers, and Felicity felt no shame in looking at his body. He said last night that she was made for him, and she’d been too stunned to reply, but now she understood. He was made for her, too. His body was designed to fit hers; his pleasure was her pleasure. Everything he said made sense because this was right.
He climbed on the bed, pulling the blanket over them. They faced each other like last night. They were close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips and the nudge of his cock on her belly, his skin hot and soft. She reached for him, and he winced and exhaled as she did what he showed her last night, gripping him tightly and stroking him from base to crown. He whispered her name, his eyes closed, like he was praying to her. Felicity pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, delighting in the way his breath caught. She was not a virgin, though she was a novice, unlike him. But he still responded to her touch like she was the first to touch him. Like everything she did was exactly what he needed.
His hands roved over her back, cupping her bottom and his fingers splaying to tease the depth between her legs where she felt like she burned. She could feel the slick need he’d shown her before, the craving of her body as her thighs did little to quell the urge to feel him against her, inside her. She rubbed her body along his, little whimpers and sighs agitating the need inside her. She was overwhelmed with passion and sensation, enslaved by the urges of her body, and only he could free her.
“Tristan,” she begged. She didn’t know what to do.
“I have you, Flick. I have you. I’m going to keep you. You’re mine—your heart, your soul, every part of you is mine.”
Her eyes stung at his words, and she slammed them closed. She didn’t want tears getting in the way of this moment—he might think she was scared or didn’t want this. But she’d never wanted anything more in her life.
All her life she’d been told the marriage bed was sacred, that her body belonged to her husband, her purpose to bear his children, and yet marriage had become the bane of her existence. A contractual agreement. A bond on paper and nothing else. Only with Tristan could she have a true marriage. And yet they were both being denied what they were made to be: together.
Everything she’d been taught conflicted with everything she felt, and she didn’t know what to believe. Except... she did. If she ignored what she was told and listened to her heart, then it was all very simple. Give everything of herself to Tristan. He was asking for her, all of her, to belong to him, and she wanted that more than anything.
