Finally. FINALLY.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Slowly, almost reverently, she slid one hand upwards and pushed his mask aside. The silk ribbon snagged briefly against his hair before giving way; the mask dropped, dangling from her fingers. For a moment she simply looked at him—at the beloved planes of his face freed from disguise, the vulnerable softness at the corners of his mouth, the crease between his brows that she’d wanted to smooth away for months.
Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him.
The first brush was almost nothing—a question, a trembling press of lips against lips. For one suspended instant he stayed utterly still, as if the slightest movement would shatter them both. She could feel his breath, warm and uneven against her cheek, could taste the faintsweetness of wine and something indefinably Edward.
Then his restraint snapped.
He made a sound—half groan, half prayer—and his arms came around her, pulling her against him with a desperation that stole what little breath she had left. The world narrowed to the strength of his hold and the sure, searching warmth of his mouth as he answered her kiss and deepened it.
Her hands slid from his face to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the scholar’s robe. He was always so controlled, so careful; she had never quite allowed herself to imagine how it would feel to be held by him with no carefulness at all. Now she knew. It felt like safety and ruin and home, all at once.
The marble balustrade pressed cool against her back as he angled them, but she barely felt it. All her senses were consumed: the rough edge of his jaw grazing her gloved knuckles as he cupped her face; the faint tremor in his fingers as though he, too, could scarcely believe this was allowed; the way his thumb brushed the sensitive skin just beneath her ear and sent a shiver racing down her spine.
She parted her lips on a sigh and his breath caught, his hand tightening in the small of her back as he deepened the kiss in earnest. Heat unfurled low in her belly, a slow, dangerous bloom of wanting that had nothing whatever to do with prospects or fortune. There was only this: the slide of his mouth over hers, the unsteady exhale when she answered him with all the feeling she’d hoarded for years.
He whispered her name against her lips, the syllables breaking slightly, as if it cost him something to say it and yet he could not stop.
“Venetia.”
Her heart clenched. She had heard him say her name so many times—courteously, wryly, diffidently—but never like this. Never like a vow.
She dared to slip one hand up into his hair, feeling the thick, slightly unruly strands give beneath her fingers. Heshuddered, a small, helpless reaction that thrilled her more than any compliment in the candlelit ballroom ever could. His lips gentled, then claimed hers again, slower now, exploring.
This was what she had imagined in lonely moments and fierce, foolish daydreams: the weight of his body anchoring hers, the solid warmth of his chest beneath her palms, the sense of…rightness. As if some misaligned piece inside her had finally slid into place.
If this was what sin felt like, she thought wildly, she could quite see why people risked eternal damnation for it.
One of his hands lifted to her cheek, his bare palm warm against the cool satin of her mask’s ribbon where it had slipped to her neck. Gently, he tugged the mask free and let it fall, his gaze roaming over her face as if he, too, wanted to see clearly the person he’d been trying not to love.
“You should not have done that,” he murmured, sounding entirely unconvinced by his own rebuke. His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, slightly swollen from his kisses. “You should not have kissed me.”
“You kissed me back,” she managed, a little breathless.
His mouth curved. “I know. I am a very poor example of moral restraint.”
“Thank goodness for that,” she whispered, and leaned in again.
This time, when their lips met, there was no hesitation at all. They both knew exactly what they were doing and did it anyway. His hand splayed over her ribs, careful and yet claiming, feeling the race of her heart beneath silk and tight lacing. She pressed closer, fitting herself along the length of him, memorizing the feel of the hard line of his thigh, the way his chest rose sharply when she dared to taste him a little more boldly.
She had never been kissed like this. Oh, there had been the odd stolen salute in the past, clumsy and hurried in shadowed gardens, but those had been mere gestures. This was…real. Every lingering stroke, every soft, startled gasp answered by a gentler caress. Weeks and months of wanting dammed up and finally allowed to spill over.
If this were all they ever had, she thought, she would still be grateful. She would spend the rest of her life knowing, at least once, what it was to be truly, wholly wanted by the man she loved.
The taste of him, the way he whispered her name against her mouth—this was what she’d been missing. This rightness, this completion.
This was perfect. Absolutely perfect and nothing could possibly—
Then voices erupted from the ballroom.
Oh, for the love of—
“The contessa’s emerald earrings! They’re gone!”
“Search everyone!”
“No one leaves until the thief is found!”
