He did.
His fingers found her—found the place that ached and burned, that had been aching for him since the night in the library when he had whispered her name in the dark. She gasped, sharp and involuntary, and his mouth covered hers at once, swallowing the sound, his kiss gentler now where it had been fierce before.
He moved with devastating precision. Slow, deliberate strokes that built and receded like a tide—advancing, retreating, advancing again, each pass more certain than the last. His thumb circled, pressed, circled again, learning her as he learned everything: with intense, focused attention. With the concentration of a man who had been numb too long and was now determined to feel—to give—everything.
Lorraine clung to him, her face buried in his shoulder, her breath breaking into uneven, helpless gasps. The sensation rose in waves—each one stronger, more consuming—until she trembled against him, her fingers tightening on his arms, holding fast.
“Look at me.” His voice was rough, commanding—but beneath it, something unguarded. A need. “I want to see you. Lorraine. Look at me.”
She lifted her head.
Met his eyes—darkened, intent. He held her gaze as his hand moved with greater urgency, and she saw the change in him as he watched her—the hunger, the awe, the fierce, unsteady tenderness that softened every line of his face.
The wave broke.
Lorraine came apart against the cold stone, his name falling from her lips in a fractured whisper—breathless, reverent, drawn from somewhere deep within her. Her body arched into his, and he held her through it, his arm tight about her waist, his forehead pressed to hers, his breathing as unsteady as her own.
Afterward, they remained as they were—entwined, trembling in the cold November air.
Dominic’s hand withdrew slowly, almost reluctantly. He smoothed her skirts back into place with a care that made her throat tighten. Then he lifted her face once more and kissed her—softly this time, with a slow, aching tenderness that felt almost like reverence.
“Tonight,” he murmured against her lips. “Come to me tonight. My chambers.”
“Dominic—”
“Let me do this properly. Not against a wall—not in stolen moments before they return.” His voice faltered. “You deserve more than this. You deserve everything. Let me give you everything. Tonight.”
She looked at him—at the fire in his eyes, at the hands that still framed her face, at the man who had been ice and was now flame, who had lived in shadow and now stood before her, wholly alive.
“Yes,” she said. “Tonight.”
He kissed her once more—brief, intense, sealing the promise—then stepped back. The loss of him was immediate, a cold absence where warmth had been.
“Thomas will be back soon,” she said, smoothing her hair, her dress—restoring the outward order that concealed the upheaval beneath. Her hands trembled. Her legs felt uncertain, as though she had been remade in some subtle, irreversible way.
“Yes.” He watched her openly now—no restraint, no distance. Only want. “Tonight, Lorraine.”
“Tonight.”
He turned and walked back toward the house, and she watched him go—the breadth of his shoulders, the measured control of his stride, the tension still visible in every movement.
She sank onto the stone bench and pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks.
What have I done?she thought—and then, almost at once:What am I about to do?
And beneath both questions, the truth that swept everything else aside:
I do not care. I want this. I want him. And tonight, for the first time in my life, I shall take what I want.
Thomas and Jenny reappeared from the kitchen entrance, Thomas clutching his jar of water in triumph.
“Miss Weston! I found the perfect brown. Cook mixed it for me from—Miss Weston, are you unwell? Your face is very red.”
“The cold air.” She smiled—a real smile, unsteady and bright and likely far too revealing. “Tell me about your brown, sweetheart.”
Thomas launched into an eager explanation of tea and walnut ink and the precise shade required for a kestrel’s breast. Lorraine listened, nodded, asked the proper questions—and all the while, her body still thrummed with the memory of Dominic’s touch, and the promise of what the night would bring.
Tonight.
