His fingers flexed over hers. “Thalia,” he growled, the sound of her name sending new heat prickling through her. “I love you.”
The declaration brought her to the edge with dizzying rapidity. He must have felt her body’s readiness, or perhaps he could just read the sound of her moans, because he slowed, his body trembling atop hers, holding her at the precipice.
“I said”—he punctuated each word with another stroke— “that I love you. What does that do to you, Thalia?”
She whimpered, her knees locked and trembling, holding herself in place by sheer force of will. “I’m going to…”
“Does it make you want to come?” His teeth scraped across her neck. “Then I’ll say it again. I love you, Thalia. I have for longer than I care to admit.”
As though he had demanded it, her body released the tension that had been building, and Maxwell groaned behind her as she fell apart. He slowed, drawing out her climax as the seconds spiraled and melded together, until she sagged against the wall. Any second now, her legs would give way underneath her.
Maxwell bent and kissed her neck, then withdrew, surprising her. He turned her, took her hand, and guided her to the floor, lying on his back and positioning her over him.
“I want to watch you,” he said, motioning her to slide on top of him.
She did. Grit from the floorboards dusted her knees. His terrible clay creation stood to one side of them, in the house that they lived in together, and she thought she would never be happier in this moment. They were raw, still molding and shifting, but this pleasure would stay. There was nothing but warmth and heat and softness in his eyes, and he loved her.
There was nothing else she needed from life.
His hands came to grip her hips, but he let her choose the rhythm and speed. Though she could see the tension building in his body, she moved slowly, grinding atop him, careful to lean her hands against the floor rather than against his chest.
And while she knew he wanted nothing more than to press into her, he held back, giving her the space to guide them both toward that final destination.
True to his words, he didn’t look away from her as finally pleasure overcame him and he spilled into her on the floor of her art studio.
CHAPTER 25
They made love again in the tub as they cleaned themselves of the mess he had made of her art studio.
Love, he supposed, was her telling him that his creation, which despite his best efforts in no way resembled her, was one of her favorite art pieces she had seen, and her insistence on displaying it somewhere when it fully dried.
Love was having her in his arms to sleep beside for the first time in what felt like years. A weight lifted from his chest.
“We should discuss what we ought to do about Joyce,” he said as Thalia snuggled more firmly against him.
The physician had said what he already knew: that there was nothing more to do about his chest than to bind it and wait for it to heal all on its own.
In the interim, he refused to sacrifice any intimacy with Thalia.
“Joyce?” she asked, her hand coming to rest on his.
“She was the one who betrayed your secret.”
“Ah. Rossi.” She let the silence fall between her. “I suppose I ought to be angry with her.”
“I was angry. Very much so. If it weren’t for Lydia, I would have prosecuted her.”
“For what? Disclosing the truth?”
“I would have found something,” he said grimly. “At the very least, I would have thrown her on the streets. But if I had done that, Lydia would suffer.”
“What did you do?”
“Sent her to Cornwall. At some point, I will have to make a decision about her future. She did her best to break us apart, and she might have succeeded, too.”
“She did so out of love for Lydia.”
“She might have thought so,” he countered, “but she did so out of her own selfishness. Her position is cemented when Lydia marries well, and she felt as though Lydia’s chances of marryingwould be lessened if we had a child.” He felt Thalia stiffen in his arms and held her closer. “Which is something else I want to speak to you about.”
