“I do not, but the females of my species do. Fortunately, I’m not terribly interested in placing myself in a position where that would make a difference.”
“And is this such a place, my lord?” Another squeeze to his knot, slow and deliberate. Her finger began to pulse, palpating him until his heartbeat matched the cadence, thudding at the back of his tongue and behind his eyes. The desire to cover her body with his and claim her as his own was making him dizzy. “That is, one of the scenarios youdoplace yourself within?”
Silas struggled to meet her lips, crashing his mouth to hers, claiming her with lips and teeth and tongue, the same way he wanted to claim her body. He felt her quick intake of breath, her hand squeezing the shape of him as he stroked his tongue against her own, and finally, her soft sigh of acquiescence as she melted into the kiss, surrendering. She was hardly the first woman he’d had in such a position, but Silas couldn’t deny that the weight of her in his arms and the long press of her body to his was singularly delicious.
“This is a far more desirable position than I normally find myself in, my dear. Perhaps you would care for us to adjourn upstairs and continue your lesson in more comfortable surroundings?”
Her hands faltered at his words, releasing him entirely before pulling away slowly. She blinked down at him as she sat up, her chest heaving. “Yes, of course,” she gasped out. “My lesson. It’s good of you to keep reminding me, Lord Stride.”
The sound that came then from the hallway was so calamitous and unexpected that they both jumped, Eleanor crying out in surprise. In the blink of an eye, her dress was righted and smoothed, beautiful creamy breasts tucked away where they belonged, her hair patted back into place, and the look on her face only a tiny bit guilty.
“I-I should go, my lord. It’s getting quite late. Thank you for the valuable instruction.”
Silas wanted to argue, wanted to remind her that these late hours were normal for her, she’d said. That she was nearly like him — a creature of the twilight. She should stay, spend the rest of the night with him, stay with him until dawn and let him pleasure her until his skin was stiff and unyielding . . . It made no difference. She left quickly after the unceremonious interruption — which had been one of the musicians dropping their case — looking away as he kissed her hand, her eyes downcast and her cheeks flushed.And here you are, old boy — cock throbbing and not a soul to care.
“Will you sing for me?”
He was smiling as she turned. They had just finished taking tea in the conservatory again. It was his favorite room in the London house. The closest he could get to being out-of-doors while still safely ensconced, the moonlight shining down upon them.
There was much debate amongst his kind, whether they were creatures of the sun, creatures of the moon. They took their energy from the sun, absorbed heat and life, soaking it in from sunrise to sunset, but beneath the moon’s icy gaze, they came alive. Silas didn’t feel any particular affinity for the sun. He had never seen it, so he didn’t miss it. The moon, though, the moon he loved and could never get enough. Sitting beneath the glass ceiling of the conservatory across from Eleanor Eastwick in the middle of the night, the moon shining down on them, felt unbearably comfortable.Toocomfortable.
It was a heavy pressure that clawed at his insides, pulling him down until he didn’t know whether or not he wanted to surrender beneath it or struggle against it. There was that strange shift again in his chest as he watched her daintily sip from her cup – so lovely to behold, well mannered, well bred, pauperized by life’s cruelties, beyond her control, and his arms twitched, aching to take her. If he learned that Eleanor Eastwick was a witch, Silas would not be at all surprised. His arms, his chest, his grasping hands — they all longed to pull her under the sensation with him, and it was only his good sense that kept him upright.
Now she stood across the room, looking out the glass wall to the garden courtyard beyond, but her expression as she turned made his own smile falter. She looked stricken. Some nameless emotion crossed over her face, darkening her eyes and making her smile resemble a grimace. Silas had no idea what it was or what caused it, only that he had the peculiar impulse to kiss it away and banish it forever.
“I’m likely to be a tad too rusty for that, my lord.” She’d recovered well enough, but her smile was strained, and her eyes downcast.
“I highly doubt that. I remember your performance that night in Paris. You are magnificent. There was a table of ladies next to me, and all three of them were sniffling. I won’t require an elaborate opera scene, merely a —“
“Please don’t ask it of me.”
The misery in her voice, cutting him off, made the words die in his mouth. Her eyes were bright with tears, and he nearly swallowed his clumsy tongue. His feet moved without his permission, crossing the room to her in two long strides, pulling her into his arms.
“Don’t sully these lovely cheeks with tears, my dear. I can’t bear to see you look so melancholy.”
She turned against him, pressing her face to the place where his heart was tripping in his chest, and he wondered if she could feel its uneven syncopation. It was an inappropriate position, too familiar, too close, and not nearly close enough. Silas took the opportunity to lower his face to her hair. Lilac water, soft and lovely, the singular smell of her skin beneath, the sweetest thing he’d ever smelled in his life.
“Why does something that brought you so much joy now bring only sorrow, my lovely Miss Eastwick?”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Shaking her head slowly, her eyes pressed closed, tears trapped between the fringe of her dark lashes. “That’s not my life anymore. It won’t ever be again. I won’t ever sing like that again. I won’t ever perform again. I’ll probably never see Paris again. My parents will never be alive again. There’s no sense in living in the past, Lord Stride. Not when the future looks so terribly different.”
There was nothing he could say to dispute her words. There was nothing he could say that would make it better, nothing he could do that would make her circumstances any different, he told himself. He was a rake, a profligate, unable to even fulfill his own life path. He couldn’t change hers as much as he wanted to. All he could do was kiss the miserable look off her face, and so he did. Her lips were soft and yielded easily to his mouth, and he swallowed the sound of her choked sob when it escaped her, sucking up her sorrow, easing her burden, at least for a little while.
Her hands were tight in his hair, nails scoring his scalp and around the base of his horns, and it was too easy to scoop her into his arms. She put up no resistance, clinging to his neck as he carried her to the chaise on the other end of the room. Unlike the handful of other times he had kissed her, she was a fully active participant just then. No longer timid, shy violet shrinking from his touch, she pulled his hair and scratched his skin, her small teeth glancing off his fangs. Lips and tongue and breath, her head dropping back as his mouth moved over her jaw, her hands tightening around him as he laid her down, his body overtop hers, wings covering them like a great black canopy. There was nothing he could do to keep her from being so upset, but he could take her mind off it with this, and he had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted her at that moment.
“Let me have you, little moth.”
The sensation of her nails dragging down his back was blunted by the fabric of his coat, and suddenly the layers of clothing he wore – his fine linen shirt, beautifully brocade waistcoat, his velveteen flocked cutaway tailcoat — were too much. He wanted to take her to his bed, strip her bare, and feel her soft skin pressed to his for the fleeting few hours when his skin would be as receptive before he turned to hard, unyielding marble. He wanted to stretch her legs open for him, bury himself within her plush heat, and inhale the sweet smell of her until he had made her scream, spending himself within her.Madness.
“Is-is it going to hurt? It is, isn’t it?”
She keened again as he sucked the pulse point in her throat, letting his fangs graze her tender skin. “I shall do my best, little moth, to make sure you enjoy every moment. Remember, the skilled butterfly has no need to injure the flower.”
A sharp intake of breath beneath him, another hard kiss, her hands mussing his cravat to search for his skin. “Then have me, Lord Stride.”
The journey from the conservatory to his bed had never seemed farther. Gargoyles were capable of flying great distances once they were already airborne and after they’d had a full day of sun, but he could not simply launch himself into the sky like a damnable bird. They needed to catch the wind, needed to jump and let their wings lift on the downdraft, and so it was with that in mind that he turned out the conservatory doors into the courtyard, Eleanor Eastwick aloft in his arms. She clung to his neck as he ascended the steps that led to the second-floor garden, her face to his chest as he turned to the balcony, and her scream ringing in his ears when he jumped.
It was a dangerously short distance, and he’d broken many bones in his youth learning that lesson, but Silas wasn’t worried. Cadmus had always been the one to instigate such experimentation, being unable to fly himself, and as a result of always bucking under the pressure of his older brothers cajoling, Silas had learned exactly how he needed to lift his wings, how to elongate and arch his body, how to catch the wind. And failing that, he had learned how to fall with the least amount of corporeal damage. He would curl himself around Eleanor and shield her from any harm, absorbing the full impact if necessary. He would heal in the sun, no matter how broken he might be, and everything would be fine. Another scream as his wings caught the wind like great, leathery sails, pulling them up, up, up and over the house, around to the upper floor where his bedroom balcony was located, landing with a softthump.
