By the time I’d dealt with everything and shown him how to find the bathroom, alone with Caspian felt incredibly significant somehow. Almost too much.
I’d always loved Mum’s room. It’d been storage space when we first arrived but she’d done it up. It was right at the back of the house in—for lack of the correct architectural term—the pointy bit. The bed was tucked under the eaves and Mum had strung up a bunch of fairy lights so it felt like lying under a canopy of electric stars. It was my favorite place to read, tucked under this handmade quilt and propped up on these jewel-colored throw pillows, the sea whispering to me just on the edge of hearing.
It had seemed pretty magical at the time but with Caspian standing there—hunching a little to avoid banging his head on the ceiling and looking as if he’d been airbrushed in from an issue of GQ—it seemed more kind of…shabby. Quaint, if you were feeling generous.
And then he pulled his jumper over his head and I stopping worrying about the furnishings.
“God,” I mumbled, “you’re beautiful.”
Because he really was. And he’d previously given me so little opportunity to look at him. He wasn’t built, but he was what you might call nicely defined. Elegance and strength and this refined masculinity. Made me want to lick down the groove between his abs and press my mouth to the hollows behind his collarbones. Trace the long veins in his arms with the tip of my tongue. And I couldn’t tell if he was exquisitely manscaped or if nature had just somehow imbued him with the most attractive configuration of body hair imaginable: a sleekly delicious treasure trail, like a beckoning finger to his crotch, and a silky scattering across his pectorals, from which his nipples peaked rosily and—to my eager eyes—somewhat coquettishly.
He shifted—embarrassed, maybe. Or perhaps fearing for his life beneath my ravenous stare. “Come on, Arden. I haven’t shared a bed with anyone for a long time but I’m moderately certain it involves being in the bed.”
“Um, yeah. Right.”
It was such a small room that it only took him about a step and a half to close the distance between us. He caught my T-shirt and slowly peeled it off me. There was an interesting moment in the middle when I was blind and entangled and helpless…and then I was shiveringly half naked.
Just me, pale and scrawny. Nothing he hadn’t seen before but it felt different. Like my skin was thinner.
He flicked the delicate, stainless steel feather hanging from my CBR and smiled. “You’re very decorative. It always drives me a little wild, wondering what’s under your clothes.”
“You really think about that?” I was impressed by how casual I managed to sound. Even though my nipples were all “hello, boys” and my cock about a touch from going the same way.
“Oh yes. I sit in my office, thinking about your body jewelry, and the billions just slip away.”
It was enough to banish some of my awkward at least. I laughed and wriggled out of the rest of my clothes. Pulled back the quilt and crept into bed, tucking my knees up to my chin while I waited for him. “Did you have the worst evening?” I asked anxiously.
“I had a lovely evening.”
Oh God, he was taking off his jeans. Not that the phrase “taking off” did anything even approaching justice to the austere poetry of Caspian Hart getting naked. Well, almost naked. And I was glad for another opportunity to appreciate his taste in boxer briefs. They were just as good as I remembered. Clinging to all the places where I quite fancied clinging myself.
He sat down on the edge of the bed.
Don’t stare at his cock…don’t stare at his cock.
His legs were good too. I could imagine them doing all sorts of lewd things. Spreading, clinging, dragging me to him—
And now I was hard. Good going, Arden.
Thankfully, Caspian didn’t seem to notice my, err, struggles. “Well,” he said briskly, “how are we doing this?”
I flapped the corner of the quilt invitingly. “I know you said it had been a while, but, well, enter bed, commence snuggling?”
“Truthfully…” He was staring distractedly at a patch of wallpaper. We hadn’t been able to afford enough to actually do the room, so Mum had made a collage of samples, which looked less rubbish than you might imagine. “I’m a light and rather restless sleeper. I’m afraid I’ll make you uncomfortable.”
At this rate, we’d still be discussing sleeping arrangements come morning. “Um, we could go top to toe?”
He gave me this odd, grateful smile and got in opposite me. It was less uncozy than I thought it would be. I could feel his body heat against my skin and I could stare creepily at him, which was definitely a bonus.
He quirked a brow. “I can hear the sea.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it? You can see it too.” I gestured vaguely at the little arched window beside us. “And in the mornings you can watch the sunrise. Assuming you’re up in time, which I’m generally not.”
A yawn came out of nowhere, as if my point needed illustrating, and I cuddled down into the covers. Turned my face to the window so I could watch the ripples of shadow that were the distant waves.
Sleep danced at the edges of my brain but wouldn’t come any closer. Not with Caspian temptingly near.
I rolled onto my back again and wriggled my toes against the edge of his knee. “I feel like we’re having a sleepover or something. We should play spin the bottle or Truth or Da—”
The end of that sentence vanished into a hastily swallowed gasp as Caspian’s hand closed around my foot, strong and warm, the skin of his palm very smooth. He pressed his thumbs into an exquisitely tender spot beneath my toes and my spine arched like a crochet hoop.
“Hazel said no debauching,” I squeaked.
“No, she said any debauching should be transacted quietly.” He followed the curve of my foot, squeezing away tension I didn’t even know was there, making me groan with helpless pleasure. And then, when I was all languid, my foot his willing slave, he brushed his fingertip down the arch so lightly that it induced a full-blown, full-body shiver attack.
I made a noise like “Nngh.”
“Are you ticklish, Arden?” God, he sounded so…so wicked when he said it.
I writhed ridiculously, unable to stay still but not wanting to pull away. “No. Yes. Okay, yes, I’m ticklish. Wah!”
His thumbnail scraped against my sole and it was awful and lovely at the same time. Sensation like a tequila shot, pure and bright and cold, somewhere between pleasure and pain. It made me want to squirm and surrender and fight it and ride it all at the same time. And I had to clap a hand over my mouth to stifle whatever unraveled sound was going to spill right out of me.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” I threw back my head, the brush of air across my exposed throat as tantalizing as his fingers against my toes.
But he stopped anyway. Which was, well, epically nonideal.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying not to whine.
“Nothing. Just…” He’d gone gratifyingly growly. “The things I want to do to you.”
Well, now I was wide awake. “Like what?”
“Tie you to my bed and—”
“How?” I hadn’t meant to interrupt but the idea was sufficiently enticing that greed got the better of me.
He laughed—the sound so free, his nails still dancing torturously across the tenderest places of my feet.
I could barely breathe for feeling. The exquisite paradox of being indulged and maddened. “I need details!”
“In an X. Every part of you exposed and at my mercy.”
I swallowed an eager whimper. I could imagine it so well I could practically feel it. The warm pressure of whatever cuffs or ties he wanted to use on me. The way his gaze would strip me deeper still. How gloriously helpless I would be for him. God, oh God. Now I was indulged and maddened and as hard as advanced calculus. “And then”—the words were sticking to my dry mouth—“you’ll tickle me?”
He nodded, glancing away. Embarrassed maybe? As much revealed as I was.
Except I would never leave him alone in desire. “Please do that. I’d love it.”
He nodded again. And just when I thought I’d lost him, he murmured, “I’ll have Bellerose add it to my schedule.”
“That’s not funny.”
Laughing, I kicked out playfully with my foot, which made him laugh, too, and drag me down the bed. We tussled as quietly as we could, muffling giggles in each other’s skin, until we were just embracing, tangled up together. Caspian’s hands swept up my spine, bringing heat and a hint of possession. And I gasped, shamelessly eager to be touched and claimed. Full of this unexpected gratitude. I hadn’t realized just how empty he’d left me. How much I’d ached for roughness and for tenderness and for him.
“Arden,” he whispered. “My Arden.”
He brushed the back of my neck. I didn’t even know I was sensitive there but I half thought I could feel the whorls in his fingertips. Sensation spilled over my skin like a river breaking its banks, pretty much dissolving me into squirms and whimpers.
“Please, oh please.”
I hardly knew what I was begging for. But Caspian did, sitting up and gathering me into his lap, before covering my mouth with his.
Such a good kiss: hot and velvety and very thorough. The need was an inferno inside me but—for once—I didn’t snatch at pleasure. I let him give it to me. Let it slip inside me with the press and slide of his tongue. A slick, subtle invasion that I welcomed.
I tried to keep my eyes open. A slightly creepy habit, for sure, but I wanted to see him and all his wolfish intensity dissolving into mutual bliss. It didn’t work out. His tongue curled against mine and my eyes closed of their own accord, sweeping me into a warm, dark intimacy.
He didn’t take control from me. I gave it to him. Abandoning myself to his tongue deep inside me and his lips against mine. This gentle dominion. Flayed with the softest of caresses. It was so frightening and wonderful and perfect that I moaned. A muffled, undignified, needy sound.
He drew back, breathing harshly, his mouth still shining from my kisses. “God, Arden. The way you yield.”
In the haziness of his eyes I caught the echo of my own unraveling. And…yeah…I was dazedly proud of it. Whatever Caspian Hart did to me, I could do to him right back, and he wasn’t hiding from it anymore.
He ran the pad of his thumb over my lips and I parted for him instinctively. I was definitely game for some sexy digit-sucking action, impatient for the taste of skin, but he didn’t press inside. Just stroked me gently for a second or two, riding the crest of my gasp.
I stared at him, aroused and trembling and suddenly full of unquiet questions I wasn’t sure how to articulate. And then I just blurted them out anyway. Because that was how I rolled. “Why do you never let me touch you?”
His body tensed against mine. But he did answer me. And so simply it was kind of devastating. “I don’t like being touched.”
“You…what. Not ever?” A thousand horrible possibilities flashed through my head. “Did someone…did they hurt you?”
A small, unreadable pause.
“No,” he said. “Nobody hurt me.”
“But how can you not like being touched?” It was probably my favorite thing in the universe. And not just the sexy side of it: being stroked and snuggled and petted and fussed. All of that good stuff.
“I prefer to be in control of what I feel.”
“I wouldn’t make you feel anything bad.”
“That’s not what matters to me.” He settled us back against the pillows, but he kept an arm around me, which I was glad about. “Besides, you know my tastes run exclusively to dominant.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t have to be about who does what. It’s about how it’s done.”
He let out a faint sigh. “I need to know what my body experiences is mine, which is easier to manage when I take my pleasure. And I realize this probably sounds a little strange to you.”
“Actually, it sounds horrible.”
“It’s just the way I am.”
I lay there for a moment or two, feeling both cuddled and twitchy, which was weird. “Does this mean you’re never going to let me…do anything?”
“Define anything.”
“Hold you. Kiss you. Stroke you. Fuck you.”
“If, by the latter, you mean penetrate me, then no. I don’t enjoy it.” While he didn’t recoil in horror, fling me aside, and vanish into the night, never to darken Kinlochbervie again…he did look out the window in a manner that suggested he really wanted to. “As for the rest, didn’t you spend at least an hour this afternoon assuring me of the compatibilities of our natures?”
“We are compatible. But just because I’m largely indifferent on the matter of who puts what where and well up for submitting to you doesn’t mean I don’t want to participate.”
“I love the way you respond. Isn’t that participating?”
“Yes, but”—I could feel my mouth doing sulky, pouty things—“being with you and not being able to touch you is like working in a sweetshop and not being allowed to eat any sweets.”
“I’ve never worked in retail, but I’m moderately certain that you’re not supposed to consume the merchandise.”
I went to gnang him like I would have done with Nik…but stopped myself just in time. “You know what I mean. How do I spoil and cherish and adore you?”
“Flowers?” he suggested.
It was only the thought of my peacefully sleeping family that prevented me from screaming. “Oh my God, if you send me roses ever again, I will…make you eat them.”
His eyes widened. “I send you roses? And you don’t like them?”
“Every time we fuck. Don’t you remember?”
“I…” He hesitated.
“I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.
“You said to thank with you flowers so I had Bellerose set up a standing order with a florist.”
“Let me get this straight. You arranged to have your assistant send me post-buggery roses. As a token of gratitude.”
“I didn’t know they’d be roses.”
“That doesn’t help.” I pulled away. Curled up sulkily at the end of the bed. “Is that what happened with the tulips?”
“No. I chose those. They were so bright, they reminded me of you.”
I took a deep, steadying breath. “Okay. Pro tip: Don’t send me flowers for sleeping with you because…well…that’s one of those the-gift-is-in-the-giving situations. My reward for sleeping with you is getting to sleep with you. And if you do, for any other reason, want to send me flowers again, choose them your goddamn self.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.” He did look genuinely abashed. “I can see now it was perhaps…a little odd. But I really did enjoy our time together.”
“Good. Me too. Mostly. So you can see why not getting to touch you ever is a bit of a downer for me?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then all warily: “This is one of the ways my trying is supposed to manifest, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe? I mean, I wouldn’t want to make you do something you hated. That would be fucked up. But”—I pulled on my honesty socks—“at the same time, I don’t know if I’d cope being all Keep Off the Caspian.”
We were quiet again. And it was honestly pretty miserable. I desperately wanted for this not to be a big deal…but I’d agreed to things I wasn’t sure about the last time. And see how well that had worked out.
“You let me suck you off in Oxford,” I pointed out.
“More accurately I fucked your face.”
“That doesn’t alter the fact that my mouth was all over your dick. And a little bit on your balls.”
He hid a laugh behind his hand. “The point is, I felt in control.”
“You can always be in control.” I crawled back up the bed and knelt beside him.
“Arden…”
“My hands are yours.” I held them out, palms up, like a supplicant. “Tell me how to touch you.”
“I…I don’t know.”
A week ago, I would have assumed he was pushing me away but now that I knew to look for it, I caught the flash of panic in his eyes. “What about kissing, then. Can I kiss you?”
“All right. Just don’t put your weight on me, or I’ll hurt you.”
“I won’t.” I leaned in and brushed our closed mouths together. “How was that?”
“Fine.”
“What about here?” I nuzzled up his jaw to the tender space beneath his ear, not quite kissing him, just stroking my lips over his skin.
I heard his breath catch in the suddenly thunderous silence. Sat back meekly on my heels.
“Do that again,” he whispered.
His pulse was fluttery under my mouth. His stubble rough. And his cologne had mostly faded so he smelled of Kinlochbervie: salt and heather and sky. I followed the line of his neck down to his shoulder and then the ridge of his collarbone to the base of his throat, imagining myself Theseus and his body, with all its secrets, my labyrinth.
One of his hands came up and tangled in my hair.
I froze. Glanced up. “No?”
“Just…” Wow, that fine, flawless skin of his could really hold a blush. “Talk to me. Keep me with you.”
“You can tell me to stop at any time.”
“I know.”
I took a moment simply to look at him. Sprawled out over the rumpled quilt, he was gemstone dappled by the fairy lights, an emperor in an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of ruby and emerald and topaz and sapphire. His breathing was a little too fast for pure arousal but the way it made all his muscles tighten was honestly…sexy as hell. As was the fact that he was definitely and undeniably hard. His desire felt mine in a way it never quite had before. “You’re so gorgeous,” I told him.
“I asked you to talk to me. Not flatter me.”
As he watched, I pressed my hand flat to his stomach and slid it upward over the impressive topography of his torso. “I’m not flattering. I’m admiring. I mean…you do know how you look, right? You have noticed.”
“I take care of my body. And I’m aware I meet several of the criteria for conventional attractiveness.”
“Yes, but”—I traced a teasing boustrophedon between his abdominals—“you feel beautiful, too, don’t you?”
He blinked. “Does anyone?”
“I do. I mean, not after I’ve eaten so much curry I look like a cartoon frog. Or when I’m waxing my arsehole. But when you’re kissing me or touching me or telling me—um, unless you’re lying I guess.”
He reached out and pulled me in for a kiss, and I just managed to catch myself on my elbows before I crashed down on top of him. “I’ve never lied to you. You’re perfect.”
“You’re insane.”
I felt him laugh before I heard it—such a sweet, strange intimacy. “Beauty is more than flesh and bone.”
“If you tell me it comes from within, I’m sleeping on the sofa.”
“That will not be necessary. But I think who you are matters as much as how you look. And you, my Arden, are full of light. Is it any wonder I want you?”
Oh God. Another twitch upon the line. And there I was, as besotted as I’d ever been. Caspian Hart’s most willing subject recalled to my place at his feet. Exactly where he needed me. “I’m so yours.”
We kissed again, a slow deep tangling of tongues and breath, and this time I didn’t know who initiated it. Only that it didn’t matter.
“I know,” said Caspian, when we broke apart, “this is an entirely reprehensible time to ask but—”
“Yes. The answer’s yes I’ll come back to London with you.”
He murmured something shaky and unintelligible. And for once I didn’t press, didn’t push. He’d given me so much—more than, even in my wildest fantasies, I would have had the bollocks to imagine—and I’d promised him just a little patience.
I could do that. I could definitely do that.
I wriggled carefully into the space at his side and he drew me in closer still, his lips seeking my skin, almost as if he couldn’t quite stop touching me. Couldn’t quite believe I was really there.
Well. That made two of us.
My heart was overturned like a kid’s dressing up box—satin and velveteen and strings of beads, all the thrown-together treasure of cast-off adulthood spun into dreams beyond counting. In the morning, I’d have to gather them up again. Put away my pirates and princesses and lions and faeries.
But for now I could lie in Caspian’s arms and listen to the papery rustle of the wind through the oak tree and the shush-shush of the distant waves and believe that everything was beautiful.
And anything possible.