Page 67 of And Then There Was the One
Without breaking the kiss, he walked her backward toward her bed and eased her onto it ever so gently, drawing back to look down at her, something soft and tender in his expression that she had never seen there before. She did not know what to do with that expression or how to respond to it, so instead she reached for the buttons keeping her bra fastened, and made short order of removing it and tossing it to the floor. His gaze tilted from tender to heated at the sight of her bare breasts, and Georgie—who apparently could not be trusted to keep her mouth shut—found herself saying, in a jesting sort of tone, “Nothing to write home about, I know, but—”
Any further speech was forestalled by his hand on her mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply, and when he looked at her like that—when she couldseethe physical proof of the way his body responded to her—she could not even bring herself to argue with him.
After a moment, he drew his hand away so that he could direct his attention to the buttons on her trousers, undoing each one with care and then sliding her trousers down her legs, her underwear following a moment later. She should have felt embarrassed to be lying before him like this, as if she were on display, when he still had half of his clothing on—and yet, embarrassment was nowhere to be found. Nor was modesty. Instead, she bent a knee, spreading her legs a bit, and her mouth went dry at the sudden ravenous look in his eyes. He knelt on the bed, tugging her legs farther apart, and then leaned down and wasted no time at all in putting his mouth and tongue to work at her center.
Georgie arched off the bed at the first long lick of his tongue, a wordless cry escaping her lips; she might not be a virgin, but she was beginning to think that her education thus far had been shamefully limited. She felt Sebastian smiling against her, which should have annoyed her, but she could barely even remember her own name at the moment, so emotions such as annoyance were clearly far from her grasp. Instead, she reached down, slid her fingers into his hair, and proceeded to dissolve beneath his mouth. At one point, he drew back slightly from where he had a finger working inside her and his tongue busily centered on one particular spot, and asked, sounding a bit breathless, “Did you just start listing breeds of roses?”
Georgie glanced down at him from where she had been staring unseeingly at the ceiling. “I honestly have no idea.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he said with a grin, and bent his head once more, until, with a cry, Georgie shattered.
It was sometime later that she became aware of her surroundings again—the soft quilt beneath her; the cool air on her bare, heated skin; the glide of Sebastian’s index finger up and down her arm. He was lying on his side next to her, his trousers having been discarded, his erection tenting his cotton shorts; he was propped on an elbow, watching her face with something that almost looked like… nervousness.
“Why,” she asked, once she felt capable of forming words in human speech, “do you look like that?”
“Was it all right for you?” His tone was uncertain.
She reached over to still his hand, which continued to move restlessly up and down her arm. “You must know it was. You have to know how good at that you are.” She hesitated, searching his face. Despite all of her previous teasing, she suddenly did not want to mention his long romantic history—did not want to think about anyone else, in the intimate quiet of this room, this bed, the small universe that seemed to contain the two of them, and only them.
“I’ve never received any complaints,” he said, “but I’ve never cared this much—about making it good.”
Georgie looked at him for a long moment, trying to work out the perfect words to utter—and then, ultimately, realized that she didn’t need words at all. She reached for him, pulling him down atop her, relishing the feeling of his weight on her,of his bare chest against hers. Her arms wound around his neck as their lips met, the kiss slow and tender. Georgie slid a hand down his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath her touch, until she reached the waistband of his shorts.
“Do you think you might see your way to removing these?” she asked, wrenching her mouth away from his. “They’re about to be very, very in the way.”
“Gladly,” he said, pulling away from her and shifting onto his knees, making quick work of the buttons. Before Georgie could fully appreciate the view, he was in motion, hopping off the bed and reaching for his discarded trousers. A moment later, he triumphantly brandished a packet at her—a condom, she realized.
“Prepared, were you?” she asked dryly, rising onto her elbows.
“Eternally optimistic,” he said cheerfully, making his way back to the bed with record speed, and dedicating his attention to the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, his hands occupied by her breasts. From there, her attention seemed to fragment, landing on small details that burned themselves like a brand into her mind:
His fingers between her legs, slipping easily through the slickness there.
The feeling of his cock, firm in her hand as her fingers slipped round it.
The hoarse, guttural sound that seemed to tear itself from his throat at her touch.
The veins in his neck as he gritted his teeth and drew back, breathing heavily, to roll on the condom.
The sudden pressure, the fullness as he entered her andpaused for a moment, their breathing ragged in each other’s ears, their hearts pounding in time.
And then, suddenly: movement, friction, the feeling of sparks working their way down her spine. She wrapped her arms around his neck, braced her feet on the bed, and met his thrusts with her own.
And by the time they had finished—with his fingers once again between her legs and one of her legs hooked tightly round his hip, his face buried in her throat, words entirely beyond them both—Georgie had a sudden, ridiculous thought:
There really was something to be said for a romantic subplot in a mystery after all.
It was late—sometime well past midnight. The house was silent, and Georgie’s room alternated between moonlight and shadows—she’d not drawn the curtains, having been distracted by other, more pressing concerns. She and Sebastian lay in bed, their legs tangled together. She’d thought him asleep—perhaps he had been—until a moment earlier, when he stirred and reached for her, wordlessly pulling her closer against him. She stiffened for a moment, and then, hesitantly, allowed her head to sink onto his shoulder.
She discovered that it felt rather nice.
His hand came to the tangle of hair at the nape of her neck, and slowly ran through the frizzy curls, his fingers occasionally catching in a knot. She felt her limbs grow heavy—she’d thought sleep was still out of reach, her mind too busy turning over the evening’s revelations (both mystery-related and personal),but beneath his touch, she felt herself being lulled into stillness of both body and mind.
“What is your sister’s name?” she asked after several minutes of this, the words coming a bit more sluggishly than they would have normally done.
His hand stilled for a brief moment, then resumed its motion. “Julia,” he said, his voice quiet. A hesitation, and then he added, “My brother is Charles. Why do you ask?”
Georgie was quiet for a second or two, trying to work out how to put her thoughts into words. “It feels odd,” she said at last. “To feel that I don’t know anything about you, when we’ve just…” She raised a hand, sketching a vague gesture in the air. “You know.”
