He grasped her hips, matching her rhythm but letting her set the pace.
They moved together, both primal and graceful, the only sounds those of flesh on flesh and the occasional hiss of breath. She came again, shuddering, and felt him follow, his whole body tensing beneath her before he collapsed to the floor.
They lay together, sweaty and tangled, the only light coming from the dying fire and the lamp overhead. After a while, he traced circles on her back, the gentleness contrasting sharply with everything that had come before.
“Was that your intention,” he murmured, “to ruin me utterly?”
She rolled to face him, propped on one elbow. “Not to ruin you, but to liberate myself.”
He considered this and then laughed, genuine and unguarded. “You’re dangerous.”
“I am but a woman,” she replied, her gaze locking on his. “One who has been sorely neglected.”
They dressed in silence, each lost in thought. She pulled on her gloves last, savoring the reversal. He watched, eyes fixed on her.
At the door, she paused, looking back over her shoulder. “You will come the next time I bacon you?”
He bowed, not mockingly but with genuine deference. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She left him there, in the aftermath of their encounter, stepping into the late afternoon air, alive with the thrill of mastery and the realization that, for once, she had authored her own pleasure.
* * *
Three days later, William sat in his study, control wearing thin. The room was immaculate, each book, ledger, and ornament aligned with precision. The air was dry and dustless, carrying a faint aroma of cedar. He thrived on this order. Needed it, even. But today, it mocked him. Each time he tried to focus on the figures in his ledger or the details of his correspondence, his thoughts drifted back to the library, to Helena’s hands, to the spot on his neck where she had bitten him. He longed to be with her again.
His fingers trembled as he reached for his pen. The quill squeaked against the paper, leaving a blot. He stared at it, realizing that this flaw would have once necessitated a fresh sheet and a ritualistic burning of the ruined page. Instead, he left it as a reminder of his current disorder.
A clock struck ten somewhere in the house. Moving to the window, he looked out at the garden, but saw only a replay of the reading room. The curve of her spine, the taste of her skin. His mouth went dry at the memory.
He paced the length of the room, then sat at his desk, fingers interlaced in an effort to channel his unrest into stillness.
He reached for the paper, smoothed it, and set pen to page.
My Lady,
* * *
He hesitated, scratched out the words. Too formal. He began again.
* * *
Helena,
This time, the name lingered, the ink feathering at the curve of the ‘H.’ He exhaled and wrote, with the brevity of one afraid to admit the depth of his need.
Tell me what pleases you.
He stared at the sentence, feeling its weight, too much and yet not enough. The thought of adding another line churned his stomach. Helena would see through any pretense and might even despise him for the attempt. With a swift motion, he signed only his initial, then leaned back, allowing the ink to dry.
He read the line a dozen times. Only three words. It lacked romance, not even a proper question. It felt like surrender. Curiosity gnawed at him. What would she think of that?
He folded the letter with meticulous care, sealing it with the smallest signet he possessed. When he summoned the footman, his voice was steady. “This is for Lady Fairfax,” he instructed. “See that it is delivered directly.”
The footman nodded, took the letter, and disappeared.
Alone, William poured himself a measure of brandy, instantly regretting the choice. The spirit scorched his throat, leaving a hollow heat that mocked him. He sat in silence, watching the light dance on the decanter, trying to recall a time when she hadn’t consumed his thoughts.
He failed.
