CHAPTER 111: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

The fire in the grate had burned down to glowing embers, casting a deep, red-orange light across the room.

Carcel held Ines tight against his chest. She was sitting on his lap, her back to him, her body warm and soft against his hard frame. He buried his nose in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin. She smelled of the night air, of the exertion of her run, and of the lavender soap she always used. It was a scent that made his head spin.

He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her even closer, until there was no space left between them.

"Even if you were a maid," he whispered, his voice vibrating against her skin, "or if I were a servant..."

He paused, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear.

"I would still desire you this much," he vowed. "The clothes do not matter. The titles do not matter. It is you. It is just you."

Ines turned her neck a bit, trying to look at him. Her eyes were hazy, half-closed with pleasure. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in short, soft gasps.

"Carcel..." she said, her voice small and trembling.

She felt overwhelmed. She had come here playing a role, wearing a costume, trying to be bold like the women in her books. But Carcel... Carcel stripped away the pretense. He saw the truth.

Carcel didn’t let her turn all the way around. He kept her close, his chin resting on her shoulder. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to share the dark, possessive thoughts that had been plaguing him since she walked through the door in that gray dress.

"If you were a maid," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, husky growl, "I would have lusted for you every time you cleaned in front of me."

The image was vivid in his mind. He closed his eyes, picturing it.

He imagined himself sitting at his desk, working on boring ledgers. He imagined her coming in, wearing this rough, gray dress. He imagined her dusting the bookshelves, stretching up high so the hem of her dress lifted. He imagined her scrubbing the floor, on her hands and knees.

"I would watch you," he whispered into her ear. "I would watch the way your hips moved. I would watch the way a stray curl fell into your eyes."

His hips moved instinctively beneath her.

His shaft, hard and heavy, rubbed against her clit slowly. It was a teasing, maddening friction. He wasn’t inside her; he was pressing against her, sliding against her wetness, building a pleasure that was sharp and electric.

Ines gasped, her head falling back onto his shoulder. The sensation was intense. It was a slow, steady rhythm that sent shocks of heat straight to her stomach.

"I would be hard," Carcel confessed, his voice thick with need. "Just like this. I would be ready to take you immediately. I wouldn’t care if the door was open. I wouldn’t care if anyone saw."

He moved his free hand—the one that wasn’t anchoring her waist.

He brought it up to her chest.

The gray bodice of Edith’s uniform was tight. It was strained. The buttons were small and cheap, holding the fabric together by a thread.

"When we are alone," Carcel whispered.

His fingers found the top button. With a deft, quick movement, he undid it. Then the next. And the next.

He undid the buttons of the uniform, popping them open one by one. The rough wool parted. The white chemise underneath was thin, no barrier at all.

He pulled the fabric aside, freeing her breasts.

They spilled out, pale and beautiful in the dim light, the nipples hard and dark with arousal.

"I would seek out the softest skin," he murmured, his eyes fixed on her, "that no modest clothing could conceal."

He moved his hand. He didn’t just touch her. He claimed her.

He caressed her breasts. His palm was hot and rough against her soft skin. He cupped the weight of them, his fingers teasing, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peaks.

Ines cried out.

"Carcel, please..." she begged. Her voice was a broken sob of pleasure.

It was too much. The friction below, the heat of his hand above, the rough words in her ear. She felt like she was going to shatter. She tried to move her hips, trying to find the friction she needed, trying to get him back inside her.

But the sofa was too soft. The angle was wrong.

Carcel sensed her frustration. He felt it in his own body. He needed more. He needed to see her. He needed to take her properly.

He stood up abruptly.

He didn’t let her go. He kept his arms locked around her, lifting her with him as he rose.

He carried her.

He walked across the room, his boots heavy on the floorboards. He walked to his desk—the massive, solid mahogany desk where he did his work, where he signed his contracts.

He reached it. He didn’t bother to clear it. He simply leaned forward.

He bent her backward.

Ines gasped as her back met the cool, hard wood of the desk. She was lying on his papers, on his ink blotter. She reached out blindly, her hands scrambling for purchase. She held the edge of the desk for dear life, her knuckles white.

She looked up at him.

He was looming over her. He looked wild. His shirt was open, his hair messy, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying fire. He looked like a man who had lost all control.

He looked at her, spread out on his desk in a maid’s dress, her bodice open, her breasts bare, her legs spread wide for him.

"I would have craved you," he said. His voice was a raw ache. "Every minute of every day. I would have thought of nothing else."

He moved closer. He stepped between her legs, pressing his hips against the edge of the desk.

One of his hands went to her waist. He held her steadily, pinning her to the wood so she couldn’t slide away. His grip was iron.

The other hand went to her breast. He didn’t just hold it. He played with it. He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling gently, twisting.

Ines arched her back, a sharp cry escaping her lips. The sensation was blinding. It was sharp and sweet.

"Carcel..." she moaned, her head tossing from side to side on the papers.

He wasn’t inside her yet.

His shaft was positioned at the entrance. He was pressing the broad, hot head of it against her opening. He was teasing her. He was rubbing against her sensitive flesh, coating himself in her slickness, but he wasn’t entering.

He was in the middle of her thighs, a heavy, demanding presence, but he held back.

He looked down at her face. He wanted her to ask. He wanted her to want it as much as he did.

"Tell me," he whispered, his hand still working on her breast, his hips making small, teasing circles. "Tell me what you want, Ines."

Ines couldn’t think. She couldn’t distinguish between titles or roles. She only knew the emptiness inside her, an emptiness that only he could fill.

She looked at him. She looked at the hunger in his eyes.

She lifted her hips, trying to capture him, trying to force him in, but he held her hips down, denying her.

"Please," she pleaded, tears of frustration and desire pricking her eyes.

She reached down, her hand brushing his thigh, urging him forward.

"Please," she sobbed, her voice raw. "Put it inside already."