The stumble caused her to tip sideways. She caught herself on the wall—or, she tried to catch herself—and fell back instead.
She let out a little yelp andwhooshedbackward. The candle fell from her hand, hitting the step with a thud; the flame sputtered but did not go out. The last thing she heard before Gabriel caught her was a muffled curse—then her shoulders collided with the immovable wall of his chest, his hand clasped to her waist. He closed his other arm around her and held her—her back to his front—in a long, tight, silent embrace.
For a full minute... two... three minutes (it felt like a blissful eternity), they remained very still, and very locked together. The only sound was their breathing. After a long moment, Gabriel ever so carefully, ever so gingerly, sank his face into her hair. She heard his slow, deep inhale as he breathed her in. His mouth touched her neck. She reveled in the stamp of his lips on her throat and tingled from his beard on her cheek.
“Ryan,” he whispered.
She blinked, trying to orient herself in this backward lean, her toes teetering on the steps. It was a position she couldn’t possibly sustain if he weren’t holding her up—but he did hold her; and he called her name; and heinhaledher. The combination of touch and breath and beard set off a ricochet of flying stars inside her. The weight of the house was gone; now she felt buoyant and rising. Meanwhile, Gabriel fellagainst the wall, seemingly too overwhelmed to stand. He pulled her with him, balancing his shoulders against the plaster, clutching her back to his chest.
Ryan’s thoughts matched the weightlessness inside her; all reason floating away. She retained enough sense to examine the situation—their hazy, breathless path from quarreling, to considering marriage, to now cleaving wordlessly against the wall. And then, for a reason not entirely clear, she started to giggle.
“What?” he breathed.
“I don’t know.” She bit her lip.
He made a growling noise and flipped her, spinning her in his arms until she faced him. Now they were nose to nose; he held her against him with an open palm to her bottom; his thigh between her legs.
“If we marry,” he threatened, “there can be no more of this.”
Now she laughed even harder. “Oh no, not this. Never this. Why not?”
“Because, it will confuse our resolve to live separate lives. Neither should have to choose between our established homes—the homes we love.” He stared at her mouth.
“Oh please tell me more,” she said, still laughing, “your offer gets better and better, the more you describe it.”
“Go on then—laugh. How hilarious, this predicament. My freedom upended. Your life under attack. The only solution...” He trailed off, staring at her mouth. Ryan licked her lips.
“The only solution is a marriage in name only,” she finished softly.
“If we can manage it—yes.Ifyou’ll not corner mein dark passages.” He squeezed her bottom, pressing her into his hardness. The contact levitated her, body and mind. She closed her eyes savoring the thrill of it.
“I’ve not cornered you,” she told him. “I was minding my own business with my maid.Youappeared from nowhere.Youfollowed me down this dark stairwell.Youhave made this odd proposal.”
He dropped his head forward, notching his face against her neck. He growled.
Ryan answered that growl with a little whimper. One of the first things he’d taught her in his dark bedroom was how verygoodhis rough beard felt against her sensitive neck. From scalp to toes, Ryan’s body buzzed to life. Every point of contact was suffused by heat; one place in particular burned with bright urgency. Ryan hiked up her knee, hitching her ankle over his hip, trying to satiate that burn.
Gabriel repeated the growling noise and tucked her foot behind his back, grinding her into his erection. Ryan let out a sigh of pleasure, the sound escaping through a smile. He was so...dramatic—and it thrilled her. Everything about this encounter was overblown and gothic and felt far more tragic than necessary. How had he survived the forest without the potential for forbidden stairwell embraces?
How had she survived her own life at Winscombe without the same? She’d always been measured and reasonable; the answer to everyone else’s crises. She couldn’t remember ever having experienced feelings so intense—hope, confusion, doubt, want—that stemmed from her own crisis.
With boldness she didn’t know she possessed, Ryanmoved her head just enough to press her lips to his ear. “Gabriel?” she called on a low whisper.
For half a second, his body went very still, then he squeezed her more tightly, raised his head, and kissed her.
It started out gently—a nibble, a taste. Then, like a tinder catching flame, he slanted his head and dove in. His tongue plunged, his breath heaved, his body bowed off the wall to press into her. He propped up a knee, balanced her astride it, and used his free hand to roam her body. Hips, waist, ribs, the sides of her breasts—nothing was left unexplored. He tipped her backward over the steps, holding her secure at the waist, and palmed her breast. When that wasn’t enough, he delved beneath the neckline of her pretty new dress, invaded her stays, scooping out her breast. Panting, he lowered his mouth to the burning tip.
He kissed her mouth and her neck and her breasts with the same frantic desire, his only way. He kissed so fiercely, traced her so thoroughly, Ryan stopped trying to keep up and simply fell slack in his arms. Oh, she tried to touch him. She had a vague notion of her fingers skating drunkenly to the neck of his shirt, searching downward, fumbling for warm skin. She liked touching him—shewantedto touch him—but oh, how she also loved surrendering to him and being kissed within an inch of her consciousness. She was invigorated—a taut, thrumming whip of sensation—but also limp with pleasure, all at once. She was malleable and fluid and responsive. She forgot about the meeting with the Creweses, and the servants in the kitchen, and the dim passage. She forgot everything buthim.
After some time—what did time matter when it would never be enough?—after her mind had left her, after strumming, burning pleasure had become her sole existence, apungent smellinvaded her consciousness. An odor. It was heat, and leather, and—
Burning leather.
“Gabriel, the candle,” she rasped, dropping her head back.
“What?”
“The candle,” she panted, “I dropped it. Do you see it? Is it—”
