Page 71 of Blackwicket
“Have you?” he replied.
“Why would you choose this life?” I evaded his question, desperate to understand what had made him into the shape of the man he was, violence a mantle on his broad shoulders.
Rather than letting go, he pressed my palm to his chest. His heartbeat was sure, steady.
“Take a look. You have my permission.”
I hesitated, but he’d dropped his guard. His magic entreated, and I surrendered. The unsettling thought that this might be a trap—that I would lay my magic in his hands merely for him to seize it—was ignored.
Unlike before, Inspector Harrow didn’t dampen the tide of his power, and it swept mine under. There was no taking, no wrenching it from me, only an unspoken invitation to sink into a magic this world couldn’t fathom.
He observed my face as I explored this vastness.
“You’re a Dark Hall child.”
I needed no confirmation beyond the experience of our energies weaving themselves together, the moment becoming suddenly more intimate as this secret was revealed. Yet as I drifted further, I came upon something else welded into the essence of the magic that made Inspector Harrow a commodity, and upon contact, it rose.
Inspector Harrow’s eyes closed briefly, exhilaration coursing through him, and thus through me. He brought my knuckles to his lips and inhaled, the change in his demeanor unmistakable.
“It’s time for you to go to bed now, Eleanora,” he said against my skin.
I should have agreed, should have retreated to my room, allowed the Inspector to find peace in solitude. But I was hungry for the connection, a force that stirred my magic in a way I’d never believed possible.
“You don’t need to hide from me,” I replied. “I’m not afraid.”
He sat up, his free hand cupping the back of my neck, dragging me to him. The crush of his lips was unforgiving, devouring, and he released my hand at his chest to hoist me onto his lap, coat and nightgown rising as my legs parted around him.
The layers of fabric were infuriating, preventing me from experiencing the full firmness of his body. I pushed my hands into his hair, parting my lips to invite his tongue, which delved to taste me in the same way it had in the alley, when this fire had first begun to smolder. I pressed into him, the sensation of his hard length against my sensitive heat making me ferocious.
He began undoing my coat, his hands sure, and soon he was yanking it from my shoulders, exposing the slip, cotton and simple. Some distant part of me, not addled by lust, lamented that I hadn’t worn the silk set of underthings. As it stood, I wore no brassiere at all, and the frisson of ardor had hardened my nipples, which rose prominently beneath the fabric.
“An interesting choice of wardrobe for a winter walk,” he grated, all the while tucking his finger into the strap of the garment, sliding it down my shoulder, tugging the front panel from my breast to expose me to the frigid air.
He braced an arm between my shoulder blades, twisting a handful of my hair in his grasp, pulling so that I was forced to arch nearer him. He didn’t lower his head to torment me as I hoped he would, but ran his mouth along my jawline.
“Were you hoping to run into someone?”
I wasn’t sure if it was teasing or an insinuation.
“A girl’s allowed her amusements,” I replied, irritation and want creating a heady mix.
“And tell me what you were going to do if you’d found no one to play with you,”
I wasn’t well-versed in this sort of banter, though it heightened my arousal. My experiences had all been mostly silent, punctuated by grunts and nonsensical exclamations from lovers.
“Victor, I’ve never done this,” I said, breathless, hesitant to admit my lack of experience in this field. In response, he inclined me further, angling my hips, my nightdress pooling in the aching juncture of my thighs.
“Touch yourself, Eleanora,” he growled.
My magic heaved, warming me from the inside so that a flush rose to my skin in contempt of the cold.
As any woman, pleasing myself was a thing I knew how to do well. I slipped a hand along my thigh, and Victor aided me by gathering the fabric, tugging it further up to expose the cream linen underwear and soft curve of my abdomen.
I guided my fingers over the fabric, damp with need, and across the crest of my desire, shuddering at the sensation, enhanced by having a witness.
“Finally doing as you’re told,” he said, bringing his mouth to my breast as I stroked myself, catching the hardened crown of my nipple between his teeth and tongue.
My core grew molten, and I rose to him. I worked knowingly at the taut nerves, the ministrations of his tongue nearly more stimulation than I could withstand. He unhanded my nightdress, utilizing this freedom to fondle my other breast, still clad in cotton, rolling the delicate flesh in his fingers, as my climax began to build. But as my muscles grew tense, Victor seized hold of my wrist, denying me.
