Rose turned to Felix, and this time she was the one to pull him down for a kiss.
“Come to bed,” he said as they pulled apart. The words were so simple, so absolute, that Rose had to laugh.
She let him lead her to the master suite. The room was just as she remembered—grand, a bit too cold, but now warmed by the promise of his company. Felix shrugged out of his coat and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her with an intensity that sent a shock of heat up her spine.
She crossed the room, unlacing her dress with steady fingers. He watched her, not lecherous but reverent, as if undressing was an act of faith. She let the gown slide to the floor, then climbed onto the bed beside him.
He reached for her, and this time there was no hesitation.
Felix’s hands were careful, almost trembling, as he traced the lines of her collarbone, the curve of her hip. Rose let herself touch him in return—his shoulders, his scars, the tender skin at his waist.
They lay together, bodies entwined, hearts thundering.
His breath tickled the nape of her neck, steady and reassuring, but as she shifted, she felt the hard line of his desire pressing against her hip.
Felix murmured something incoherent, his eyes fluttering open, and in that hazy moment, their gazes locked. He cupped her face with one hand, his thumb tracing the curve of her lip, and she arched toward him, her pulse quickening.
With deliberate slowness, watching Rose’s face for any sign of distress, Felix rolled them over, so she was beneath him, his weight a comforting press that made her gasp. His cock, already rigid and insistent, slid against her thigh, and she allowed her hands to roam over him. Her fingers glided along his back before venturing lower to wrap around his shaft, feeling its velvety heat pulse in her grip.
He groaned, low and primal, as she stroked him with a steady rhythm. Her own arousal built, her core growing wet and aching for his touch.
Felix’s lips found her neck, then her breasts, lavishing them with kisses that turned to sucks. His tongue teased her sensitive peaks until she writhed beneath him.
Their bodies moved in unison. Rose gasped, pulling him closer, and he thrust into her with careful intent, filling her completely. The pleasure was immediate and profound, a slow burn that built with every stroke. His hips ground against hers in a rhythm that synced their breathing.
Rose drew him deeper with her arms and legs around him, her moans mingling with his as the tension coiled tighter, the friction of their bodies igniting sparks of ecstasy. It was not a desperate thing, not a hungry collision of need. It was slow, deliberate, the pleasure building to their combined climax in waves that crested and broke, leaving them gasping and laughing at the wildness of it all.
Afterward, Rose curled against his chest, the beat of his heart steady and strong beneath her ear.
Felix stroked her hair, his voice thick with sleep. “We can do this, can’t we?” he murmured.
She pressed a kiss to his throat. “We already are.”
He pulled the blanket over them both and settled her into the crook of his arm. “Promise you’ll never leave,” he said, voice small and boyish.
She smiled into the dark. “Only if you promise the same.”
He squeezed her tight. “Forever, even in darkness.”
She believed him.
In the hush of the great house, in the warmth of his arms, Rose let herself fall asleep at last, trusting that tomorrow—and every tomorrow after—would be theirs.
EPILOGUE
THREE MONTHS LATER
It was the sort of afternoon that existed only in memory: the air lush with the breath of new grass, sunlight dappling through the orchard boughs and pooling in the soft valleys between the rose beds.
Rose Greycliff sat cross-legged on a tartan blanket in the garden, the thick spring air saturated with the perfume of hyacinth and the faint, iron tang of earth. The old wounds in her chest had healed, or at least callused over, and the only reminders were the sharp, joyful pangs that sometimes took her unawares.
Felix was farther down the path, Lizzie in his arms, the two of them absorbed in a private lesson in avian diplomacy. Felix pointed to a starling perched on the yew hedge, mimicked its bobbing, officious stride, and Lizzie’s face broke into a sunbeam grin so wide Rose felt herself almost laugh.
The child was talking now, if one called it talking; a staccato barrage of “ba-ba” and “dib!” and the occasional Greycliff-inflected “no!”
She watched as Felix, never a man given to clowning, dropped to a squat and wagged his head, making a fool of himself for the sole purpose of delighting his daughter. Lizzie clapped with delight, fat fists pounding the air.
In the three months since the fever, the child had gone from a fragile, withered shoot to a creature of impossible resilience. She toddled now, in short, determined bursts, always aiming for the next bright distraction or, failing that, the nearest ankle.
