Page 121 of Tears of Ink

“But what about your mother and grandbaronessy?” I smile against his mouth.

“Honestly, who gives a fuck?” He hikes me up and I wrap my legs tight around his waist. He walks us to a room on the East wing. His mouth on mine, his hands firm and tight.

The door kicks shut behind us, and his gaze reads my face. “Let me love you, Faith.”

He’s said this before.

And I want to tell him that I want him to love me, just as I think I might possibly love him—as inconceivable as that emotion may be to me.

I don’t say a word when he settles me back on the bed. Instead I lay down and offer myself silently to him, praying that he can feel it even if I don’t say it.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - S I X

I’m lying on my back, my eyes focused on the ceiling. I can’t believe this is about to end. Tomorrow is the final day. The day of the Bowsley Ball. RSVP’s have been returned, caterers are in, and there’s a small army of staff milling around the house getting it ready. Some areas are being roped off—mainly the East wing where Eli took me the night before last. It shows how little I know about him that until that evening I didn’t know he slept in a guest room when he came here, apart from of course when he’s in my pink walled room with me, which he has been every night he’s been home.

But then, don’t I know how he tastes, feels? Don’t I know the way he moves in the dark, and the emotions that live under the surface of his skin?

We haven’t talked about what happens after tomorrow.

I said two weeks and then I’d walk away.

That now seems impossible.

It’s more impossible than when I faced down the Everest of marble in my studio all those weeks ago before turning it into a cameo of Eli’s face.

I don’t think I can walk away.

There’s a gentle rap, one I recognise and my body responds to, before the door is even open.

And there he is, beautiful and blue-eyed.

“Busy?” He smirks a little as he comes into the room and settles next to me on the bed. His lips seek mine and I fall into the silence as his kiss whisks me away to a land where bad things don’t happen.

When I pull away, his eyes dance. “I’m hoping your failure to come to dinner means you’re hungry.”

My fingers trail along the outline of his jaw and scratch against his dark stubble. He’s wearing a favourite outfit of mine: tatty old jeans and a T-shirt. This is the Baroness’ son at his most attractive.

His lips against mine, he slides across me until his weight is pinning me to the mattress and my body sings with delight. “I’ve missed you today.” He pecks kisses amongst his words. “When am I going to see this secret you’ve been creating?”

“Tomorrow.”

I grin against his mouth and run my hands down his shoulder blades. “Did you say something about food?” I kiss him harder, faster, and slide my tongue into his mouth until it tangles with his. Our kisses are hotter and more desperate than anything I’ve ever tasted.

“Food,” he breaks his lips to ask, “or this?”

I chuckle as he rolls us over until I’m on top and his hands are running along my spine and ribs. My top rides up and the tops of his fingers graze across my skin. “I hope you’ve washed all the paint off.”

He rolls us again. “Are you complaining?”

“Maybe,” I squeal as his fingers delve for my ribs, his teeth nipping at my earlobe.

I hate being tickled and try to clamber away, but he has me, and he’s much stronger. We are both laughing and kissing and breathing every moment of perfection that this is.

Then I look at him and catch my breath. “We’ve got twenty-four hours left, stop messing around and fuck me, Fairclough.”

His eyes widen, the dark recesses flicker with deep emotion and then he pounces, and soon my cries of laughter have morphed into something else and I scream his name like it’s the only thing left in my soul.

“So, food?”