“Good.” Another step towards him. Almost touching him. Almost.
“I dream of you,” he said, not knowing what else to say to draw her closer. Nothing but the truth. “Ever since I met you. I think of nothing else but the mountains and you.”
“I dream of falling off the Matterhorn. I lose all my friends every night. I lose you. Sometimes myself. I don’t want those anymore.”
“Of course not,” he said, finally close enough to put his hand on her face, cradling her cheek. Her skin was so soft.
“Make me dream of something else.” Her brown eyes were liquid and pleading.
“I can try,” he whispered, his lips so close to hers. Their noses brushed against each other. His whole body was flush and warm and greedy. He wanted her in whatever way she’d give.
“Please try,” she whispered back, ending the distance between them.
She tasted of honey and walnuts, the dessert Tante Greta sent only to her, after Karl had told her of Justine’s preferences. Her lips were soft and lush, and he lost time as well as all sense of himself kissing her. He dropped his hand from her face and instead pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against his chest. It felt good and right. As if there was nothing else in the world that fit together better than the two of them.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, and his knees almost buckled. The sensation of her gently tugging, draggingher hand down to his neck, sent shivers through him. Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled at the satin ribbon at her waist. It didn’t budge. He tried the other side, and it flowed like water through his hand.
In return, she began picking at the top button of his coat. He broke away from her, panting, longing, gasping. “Justine.”
Her face was flushed, her lips cherry red from his, her dress gaping wide at the waist, and that dark red ribbon lay piled on the floor, taunting him. “Karl.”
“If we start this, I do not believe—”
“I want to finish this.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
She stepped closer to him, an echo of their dance earlier. “I want it all.”
His mind blinked out, as if two invisible fingers pinched the wick of a lamp, extinguishing the light. And he pulled her into his arms as he sat down on the edge of the bed. She sat on his lap as he kissed her, letting his hands roam the decadent curve of her hips.
Far from the blushing maid, she grabbed back at him, clutching his shoulders as if she were falling. He was lost in her. Mad for her. Soon, her clever fingers resumed their work on his coat. He helped her, and as soon as he could, he shucked off the garment. He’d only worn it to seem more appropriate, more formal. He’d wanted distance between them, and that coat could not stop him now.
His waistcoat was just as frustrating, and he peeled that off as soon as he could. “Your turn,” he gasped. His prick strained against his trousers, begging for the friction of her bottom and her hips squirming against him. But he ignored the whine of its insistence.
“Only if you help,” she said with a grin.
His hands were shaking, but he attacked her first red button, standing out in sharp contrast to the cream-colored dress. There weren’t that many of them, but the buttons were large and ornate, mocking him with the difficulty of the tight fabric.
“I, I cannot—” His hands shook with effort. He kissed her again, not able to keep control of himself, needing to taste her, be a part of her, be nearer than he was at that moment. Clothes were instruments of the devil.
**
“Are you nervous?” she asked, hoping she sounded coy, and not terrified with the amount of wanting she felt. He’d kissed her senseless, and she didn’t know what to do next. Her entire body was aflame with desire and feelings that were heady and new, and delightful. This is what she wanted, this was what she chased when she went up the mountains. But here, she could have it with someone, share it with someone, be nearer to someone.
But she didn’t have any other someone in mind at this moment. Only the man who helped her pull her friends from safety. Who believed in her, challenged her, wanted her.
He grunted at her, pressing small kisses along her jaw and onto her neck. The skin was so sensitive, and his lips were soft compared to the rasp of his stubbled chin. She shivered. He pulled her tight to him again, and she felt hardness press against her leg. This was what Eleanor had told her about, in those whispered sessions when Ophelia left the room to consult with her father, or a map, or something important. Because Justine had wanted toknow.
His hand moved to her breast, and a moan came out of her mouth. Also a new sensation. “Buttons,” he said, trailing kisses up and down her neck.
“Buttons,” she sighed, her fingers happily making quick work of the large, slick satin-covered fasteners. As soon as the top three were undone, he slipped his hand inside, his warm palm on the flat expanse of her chest.
“Justine,” he said, and that smooth way he pronounced her name made her want to swoon.
She finished undoing her buttons, letting the top half of her dress gape open. But his hand didn’t move. He looked at her in a way that seemed to worm into her mind, pulling her out of her experiences and into this shared one here, this moment.
His chest was heaving, as if he were going up a hill. She opened his shirt the rest of the way and placed her hand on his, warm underneath her palm. “Karl,” she said. There were a thousand things whizzing through her mind, all whistling with speed and fury, but here, his heartbeat strong and steady, she felt calmer and closer to him than she’d ever felt to anyone in her life.
