CHAPTER 110: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND TEN

Carcel’s hand slid upward, past the curve of her knee, seeking the familiar, frustrating layers of linen and lace that usually guarded a lady’s virtue. He expected the rough scratch of a petticoat, the tie of a chemise, the barrier of an underskirt.

He found nothing.

His fingers met only warm, smooth, bare skin.

He stopped. His hand froze on her thigh, just inches from the top of her stocking.

"Wait," he said, his voice rough with sudden confusion.

He looked at her, his brows knitting together in the dim light of the study. He squeezed her thigh gently, confirming the lack of fabric.

"Did you..." he started, his voice dropping to a whisper of disbelief. "Did you come here without even wearing an underskirt?"

Ines bit her lip. She couldn’t look him in the eye. She looked at the button of his shirt instead. She gave a small, shy nod.

"Yes," she admitted softly. "I... I was in a hurry. Edith was rushing me, and the dress is heavy, and I didn’t want to be late, and..."

She trailed off. It was a half-truth. She had been in a hurry, yes. But she had also remembered the library. She had remembered how the layers of her ballgown had been in the way. She had remembered how desperate she had been to feel him. Leaving the undergarments behind had been a conscious, wicked choice.

Carcel stared at her. The image of her running through the dark, cold night, wearing nothing but a stolen maid’s dress and her own skin, did something terrible to his self-control.

"Coming outside," he murmured, his hand resuming its upward path, slower now, more reverent, "with your skin all exposed like this..."

He slid his hand higher. The rough wool of the maid’s dress was a stark contrast to the softness of her inner thigh.

"It is dangerous, Ines," he said, his voice thick. "But..."

His fingers brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs.

"...it is very good for undressing."

He didn’t need to fumble with ties or buttons. He simply reached her.

His fingers found her center.

He touched her, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. She was not just warm. She was drenched. She was slick, wet heat, waiting for him.

"Since when," he whispered, his voice shaking with the force of his own reaction, "have you been this excited?"

He didn’t wait for an answer. He couldn’t.

He sat up straighter. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her down the length of the sofa.

"Come here," he growled.

He pulled her closer, until her hips were resting on his thighs. He wrapped one large arm around her waist, holding her back steady against the armrest, anchoring her.

With his other hand, he went back to work.

He spread her legs wider, pushing her knees apart. He slipped his hand between them, his fingers finding the swollen, sensitive nub of her desire. He began to rub her clit, a slow, circular, maddening rhythm.

"Hmm? Ines?" he asked, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. "Tell me. Have you been like this all week?"

Ines threw her head back against the leather armrest. Her eyes fluttered shut.

She couldn’t speak. She could only feel.

She was enjoying the sensation she had been missing for a week. It was like water to a dying plant. The friction, the pressure, the heat of his hand—it was everything.

" I would be lying to myself," she thought, her mind drifting in a haze of pleasure, " if I said I didn’t come here for this."

She hadn’t just come to see his face. She hadn’t just come to play a game.

"I came to his place in the middle of the night," she admitted to herself, "for him to touch me. For him to give me pleasure."

She gasped as his thumb pressed harder, sending a jolt of lightning through her.

"Pleasure I have been deprived of for a week," she thought. "Pleasure only he knows how to give."

She moved her hips, pushing back against his hand, silently begging for more. She was shameless. She admitted to herself.

Carcel watched her. He watched the way her breath hitched. He watched the flush spread down her chest, visible above the tight neckline of the gray dress.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Now that I think of it," he whispered, his voice dark and teasing.

His fingers didn’t stop moving. They kept up that steady, relentless rhythm that was driving her mad.

"The protagonist of your novel," he murmured. "Doris."

Ines opened her eyes halfway, hazy and unfocused. "Doris?"

"She was also a maid," Carcel reminded her. "Wasn’t she? In the scene you wrote... she was wearing a uniform. Just like this one."

He plunged a finger inside her, sliding deep into the wet heat.

Ines cried out, her hands gripping his shirt.

"Is becoming a maid your fantasy, Ines?" he asked, twisting his finger inside her. "Is that why you wore this? Did you want to play a game?"

Ines was losing her breath. The room was spinning. The sensation of him inside her, filling her, stretching her, was overwhelming.

But she needed to speak. She needed to tell him.

She gulped, trying to find air.

"Not... not exactly," she panted.

She looked at him. She looked at his dark eyes, so close to hers.

"It isn’t about the uniform," she whispered. "Or the status."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice gaining a sudden, fierce clarity despite the haze of passion.

"But the idea," she said, "of a love that transcends everything... that is appealing."

Carcel stilled his hand for a moment, listening.

"The passion that ignores titles," Ines whispered. "That ignores status. That ignores rules. Just... just wanting each other deeply. Without names. Without the ton."

She looked at him.

"Like Doris and Stefan," she said. "Like us."

Carcel looked at her. He saw the truth in her eyes. It wasn’t a game to her. It was a definition of love. A love that didn’t care if he was a Duke or if she was a maid. A love that just was.

Something inside him broke. The last of his restraint shattered.

He didn’t want to tease her anymore. He didn’t want to use his fingers. He needed to be closer. He needed to be part of her.

He pulled his hand away.

Ines whimpered at the loss, but he didn’t let her mourn for long.

He sat up. His hands went to the waistband of his trousers. He worked the buttons quickly, his fingers fumbling with haste. He shoved the fabric down, freeing himself. He was hard, heavy, and aching for her.

He reached for her.

He didn’t lay her down. He didn’t get on top of her.

He grabbed her waist and lifted her.

"Up," he commanded softly.

He turned her around in his arms. He positioned her so that she was sitting on his lap, straddling him, but facing away from him. Her back was pressed against his chest.

She was sitting on his thighs, her legs spread wide over his. The gray skirt of the maid’s dress was bunched up around her waist, leaving her completely exposed to him.

He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her tight against his body.

He used his other hand to guide himself.

He pressed the tip of his shaft against her entrance.

Ines gasped. She could feel him. He was hot and hard against her softest skin. The position was new. It was vulnerable. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him everywhere. His chest was a solid wall behind her back. His arm was a steel band around her waist.

He leaned forward, resting his chin on her shoulder. His cheek pressed against hers.

"Ines," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion.

He pressed forward.

"Whenever I think of you," he said, his breath hot against her neck. "Whenever I touch you like this... whenever I am inside you..."

He pushed his hips up.

"Nothing else matters," he vowed. "Not the title. Not the past. Nothing."