Page 46 of Lady and the Butcher
He made a low, approving sound. His fingers pressed where my thigh met the rest of me. Not yet. He wasn’t cruel for sport. He was building something on purpose.
The carriage clicked over stone. The world narrowed to breath and motion and the small sounds I couldn’t swallow. My heels dug into the rail. The dress became a tent and a secret. He moved under it like he had all the time in the world, and I had none.
“Say you want it,” he said.
“You know, I do.”
“Say it.”
“I want your mouth.”
The words made heat streak through me like lightning. He rewarded my honesty.
“Good girl,” he said.
Then he put his mouth on me.
The world tipped. The city vanished. My fingers dug crescents into the upholstered bench. I tried to stay quiet and failed. The first sound was a gasp that slipped out of me. He answered it with more pressure, more intent, and the gasp turned into a broken, breathyyes.
He held my thighs steady with his hands, thumbs anchored where they could calm my shaking, and worked me until thought was a thing that lived far away and had nothing to say to me. The rhythm of the wheels fused with the rhythm of his mouth until I wasn’t sure which one kept time for the other.
“Atticus,” I said again, wrecked now. “Please.”
He hummed like he liked the way I said his name. The vibration rolled through me and something in me shattered, then kept shattering. I would have floated away, if his grip hadn’t kept me there.
I had never been this undone. Not like this, with my dress hiding and revealing, a man kneeling on wood in the middle of a city that would know my name, if it tried. I should have been terrified. I was free in a way I didn’t know how to make small.
“I can’t,” I panted. “I can’t—I’m?—”
“You can,” he said, voice dark and warm against my skin. “You will.”
The last thing I saw clearly was the arch of a wrought-iron gate flashing past and the glow of a porch light tilted like a halo. Then the world went white around the edges and narrowed to a point. I broke like a fever breaking. Heat and relief and the kind of tears that didn’t make it out of my eyes because breath had stolen all the exits.
He didn’t stop until I pushed a shaking hand into his hair, not to pull him closer, but because my body had gone too bright to bear and I needed gravity.
He eased back with a final, slow press that made me whimper. The air hit my skin and felt almost cold. I pulled the hem of my dress down with clumsy hands that didn’t want to obey anyone. He didn’t rush me. He rose in that unhurried way of his and retook his seat like he had only adjusted a cuff.
I tried to breathe like a person. It was comical. My chest worked in small jumps. My thighs were tremors. The night smelled like jasmine and horse and something sweeter that had my name on it.
He looked satisfied and entirely unrepentant. His hair was a little mussed from where I’d gripped him. His mouth was … flushed. I had to look away or I would combust.
My laugh came out broken. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I should be furious.”
“You will be later,” he said, amused. “You’ll call me a terrible man again.”
“You are.”
“Like I said, you didn’t ask for a good one.”
I pressed my palms to my cheeks. They were hot. “You can’t say things like that in public.”
“No one is listening.” He glanced at the driver. “Are you?”
“Just the road, sir.” The man’s voice was steady. His ears were red.
