Unfinished (Historical Fiction) - By Harper Alibeck Page 0,22

Access was the grease that lubricated where money could not.

Here he stood, skulking about the servants' stairwell, squeezing into passages that threatened to cut off the blood supply to his arms. It was Thursday night, and he stood outside her door and tried to find a way to ask her if he could come inside and talk to her. He'd read the final letter and realized that this was what she did. She used a bitter, caustic sarcasm and wit to express her anger, then she'd cool down later. Right now he was as concerned with talking to her as he was with controlling his raging arousal. The angrier she got the more it excited him, and he wanted to strip off her clothes and take her right there on the hallway floor.

Moonlight poured into the hall through a warbled window, the light rippling and distorted, showcasing the glassmaker's imperfections. He looked outside and up, noting the cloudless sky. Stars appeared so close and their light diminished in comparison to the smiling moon.

Rap, rap rap. Thick knuckles made muffled sounds on the heavy oak door. Padded footsteps made their way and he felt the doorknob slide counter-clockwise in his hand. He held loosely, hoping to keep her quiet and calm lest he be revealed and subject him – and her – to the inevitable scandal that his discovery would provoke.

“James!” she hissed, surprise blasting from those glittering eyes, proper shock emanating from her pores. She stood straighter and leaned into his chest, looking up. “What on earth do you think you're doing here?”

Wisps of light cotton floated under a thick flannel gown lined with silk. So this is what that beautiful body looked like in simple form. She wore no undergarments and the hallway chill tightened her nipples enough so that he could see them, practically feel their texture in his mouth, a nub that –

Stronger than she looked, the force of her hand clenching his upper arm pulled him into her bedroom. She shut the door slowly, softly, behind her, then stood before him and crossed her arms over those arched nipples that possessed him.

“Are you mad? Breaking into my father's home?”

“You once asked whether I have a healthy fear of billionaire fathers,” he began.

She smirked and tipped her head to the left, like a wife evaluating her husband after a night out drinking with work friends. Her hair was mussed and the overall effect of her nightdress, the bed behind her, and his mad dash up the stairs as an intruder made him cross the simple feet between them and grasp her shoulders.

“My answer is 'no.'” And with that he leaned in and kissed her, pinning her arms to her chest for a few seconds before she wiggled and slid them around his waist, his hand cupping her jaw and bringing her lips to his. They were breaking so many rules in one embrace, here in her father's home, in her bedroom, his hands roaming down her back, embracing her and bringing her in to him, hips pressing against him as she stood on tip-toe.

Somehow they found their way to the bed, her mouth matching his with passion, her hands roaming through his hair, their short breaths the only sound as the moon watched from afar. “Come here,” she said in her signature sultry tone, the voice matching her taste. He kissed her, his hands burying in her soft, curly hair. Soon naked before each other, they pulled back and he saw her teasing smile, realized that what he wanted was, for once, to have all the control.

He was a live, bulging wire. He wanted to make love to this woman who was giving him so much pleasure, who had given herself to him earlier and who now tweaked and perfected his arousal with such mastery. What he wanted, more than anything, was to make her match how she was making him feel right now.

He felt large and lumbering over her frame, his hands covering the terrain of her soft flesh with roaming fingers and an eager tongue. One hand floated down her breastbone, over her navel, and found her warm and wanting as he slipped one finger in. He could feel her wall of muscle tightening against his finger as his tongue wandered lazily down past the ribs under her breasts, across her navel, over one hip. He explored her, teasing through soft curls to find her swollen and ready.

Every woman had a distinct taste, and she