He continued, placing his hand on her hip and pressing her to him in a desperate rhythm. At the same time, his lips found her neck and his tongue teased the soft skin there.
Even through the cloth barrier, Catherine was so wet that John was able to slide against her, giving her the friction that she needed. He thrust against her and she could feel pleasure mounting inside of her. With every brush against her clit, he took her higher and she could feel herself tightening, her innermost muscles both yearning for more of him and starting to yield to pleasure.
“Are you going to come for me?” his voice sounded unhinged, feral, and she would have been ashamed of her susceptibility to him, how clear it was, if she wasn’t experiencing mind-addling pleasure.
She could see his face above her in the dim moon light. He appeared transfixed, dumbstruck, so different from the closed-off, haughty aristocrat that he had been in the carriage. Only this transformation could have inspired her to respond to such a question.
“Yes,” she managed to gasp.
He thrust against her once more and she met him with equal pressure, grinding against him until she saw stars. She came convulsively, shattering against him.
Even as she came down, Catherine knew she didn’t want to stop. She had wanted him for seven years. She knew that she should hate him. And part of her did. He represented the suffering that his family had brought to her—how they had hobbled her and made her nothing. But, for whatever reason, he also undid her, remade her. And now they were on this journey. Once they found Mary Forster and solved both of their problems, she and the Wethersbys would be restored to their former position, and she and John would separate forever. No one would know what they had done to save themselves and his sister, and no one would have to know what they’d shared in this little inn. They could enjoy each other, she thought, wildly, couldn’t they—before they finished their task and never saw one another again? She saw no harm in her having this one passion before settling down to a long life as Lady Wethersby’s companion and Ariel’s dotting surrogate sister.
Wanting more, Catherine reached down to John’s breeches, and stroked him through the fabric, loving the way his breath caught when her hand made contact.
He cursed and repeated her name. She continued to stroke him. His breath went even more ragged and she could tell, even with her dearth of erotic experience, that he was close to his own release.
Then, he began to touch the soft curls between her legs, his fingers brushing her opening and then parting her. She cried out and bucked against him.
He swore again. This time, however, he pulled away.
She almost reached out to him.
But then he stood up.
Through the darkness, she saw him moving, pulling on his boots and his white linen shirt and his jacket.
And then he was gone.
He had left their little room.
He had left her on their bed, panting from want of him, her breath still uneven.
Afterwards, for what felt like hours, she lay awake in the dark.
She didn’t cry. The hurt felt too deep for tears. She had offered herself up and he had rejected her. He had walked away, as if disgusted by his desire for her, as if he had remembered his better self at the last moment. After he had shattered her, he then left her in pieces.
Catherine had felt discarded at many points in her life. Her aunt, the only mother she had ever known, had abandoned her. Her father had run headlong into a doomed enterprise that had destroyed him body and soul. Society had viewed her as an unfortunate piece of refuse.
And yet, right now, in this moment, this rejection felt more painful than all the others that had come before. Over the years, to keep going, she had told herself that her misfortunes didn’t have anything to do with her personally. They were horrible accidents, bad luck, but not a direct result of anything that she had been or done. She wasn’t alone because she was unlovable. She wasn’t the problem. And, yet, for the second time, John Breminster had proven that, in fact, she wasn’t enough. Just like everyone else, he didn’t want her, so he’d left.
As the morning light filtered in through the small inn window, she made a resolution.
The last thing she wanted was forhimto see how he had wounded her.
She might be unlovable and unwanted but she wasn’t weak. She was stronger than falling apart in the face of rejection, especially from him. She hadn’t survived what she had only to crumble now.
When she encountered him today, she would pretend nothing of meaning had transpired.
She would be light and nonchalant.
She would be indifference itself.
She would make sure that he never knew how he had hurt her.
Chapter Ten
John walked inthe cool night air to calm his senses, swearing under his breath. Even out here, he couldn’t shake the sensation of Catherine, how perfect she had felt beneath him. The sound and feel of her climax had been the most exquisite thing that he had ever experienced.
