Out with Lanterns, page 28
“I want . . .” she said, and straightening and pressing her back to Silas’s chest, she reached for his hand, stilled by her movement.
“Anything . . . tell me, love.”
“Give me your hand for a minute,” she said. He slid his fingers from inside her and she felt her own wetness on them when she coasted his hand across her hip, over the softness of her belly, to the apex of her thighs. “Here.”
“Show me again,” Silas said, nuzzling the nape of her neck.
Ophelia fitted her smaller hand over his, her fingers guiding him in long, slow circles over herself. Ever the quick learner, he paid attention to each small change in pressure, every place that made her shudder.
“Brilliant woman,” he murmured. “Sweetest”—a nip at her neck—“most radiant”—he pressed a kiss to her shoulder—“Ophelia.” He slid his free hand from her hip to cup her breast, lifting and kneading.
Ophelia pressed her fingers against his, against her, harder, faster until their hands moved as one, frenzied and uncoordinated. Silas was breathing heavy against her ear, his erection hard at her backside, thrusting against her in time to their hands under her skirts. Desire wound tight as a noose around her, blacking out the edges of her vision. She felt held, cradled by Silas’s attention, seen in a way she hadn’t known was possible. Of all the things she had wanted for herself, taken steps toward, she hadn’t really understood how finding pleasure in her own body would illuminate everything else. Now, hovering on the edge of her orgasm, she felt completely free. Flying into something entirely new, Silas at her side, urging her on.
“Let me feel you come, Fee . . . please,” he ground out, pressing open-mouthed kisses behind her ear, breath hot and sharp.
“Mhmm, just like that,” she whispered, turning her face back to him, feeling her breath catch as every muscle in her body tightened, her thighs shuddering with the effort it took to stay upright. Silas tightened his arm around her waist, holding her steady as he worked her toward the inevitable release. It came hard and slow, pulsing through every nerve ending, pleasure so bright and sharp it verged on pain, and she cried out, a low keening wail that he swallowed with a clumsy kiss. His lips were gentle, coaxing yet more pleasure from her, his fingers slowing, but not stopping as the orgasm rippled through her. Her hand on his was limp, but he didn’t need her instruction anymore, had learned what drew pleasure from her like song from an instrument. His fingers were wet with her, slippery on her clit, and he whispered words of praise when she bucked against his fingers. Words like “more” and “wet” and “beautiful” and “please.” She spun out into the pleasure of her orgasm and he caught her, held her while she returned to her body, kissing her softly at the temple, brushing her hair back from her sweaty brow.
Ophelia slumped back against Silas, fully sitting in his lap, her body boneless and sated, quivers still running like electric current under her skin. Of all the ways Ophelia had allowed herself to think of making love to Silas, it had never once occurred to her that it might find her bent over a bench in a dilapidated garden. Now that she was here though, his fingers working their steady magic between her legs, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, breaths dragging out of her too-tight chest, she couldn’t imagine anything else.
“Silas,” was all she said, turning in his arms, while they scrambled up to the bench, laughing at their stiff knees, her skirts in disarray, Silas’s movements hobbled by a distractingly large erection. He adjusted his trousers to sit and pulled her to sit astride his legs, bare legs dangling on either side of his. Ophelia reached out to stroke his length through the fabric.
“May I?” she asked, hand at the buttons of his fly.
The column of his throat worked and he nodded, eyes on hers. She licked over the dry pad of her bottom lip and Silas’s eyes followed the movement, a starving man at a banquet.
“That’s mine to lick,” he said, hoarsely, tracing her bottom lip with a rough thumb. Then leaning forward, he caught it between his teeth, nipping gently. Ophelia’s hands were clumsy at his groin, fingers catching and losing the buttons as his teeth worried her lip and he licked into her panting mouth.
“Shall I help you with that?” he asked, winking at her.
She laughed and nodded, leaning back to make room for him. Trousers undone, Ophelia parted the fabric, humming a satisfied noise at the sight of his cock, the solid length rising from the shadows of smalls and trousers, the smooth, flushed head, only just contained by his foreskin, already beaded with moisture. She stroked gently along one side and down the other, still surprised at the satiny give of his skin there. She liked how it moved over his rigid length, almost as slippery in her hand as she was between her legs. Silas groaned her name, running a hand along the outside of her leg and up to her hip.
“You like that, hmm?” she said, curious and proud of drawing out his pleasure.
“So much . . . so fucking much, Fee,” he said, jaw clenched.
She stroked him again. Down. And up. Watching his face, beautiful and tense, his hands gripping the edge of the bench. And then her hand on him, the way he had begun tiny thrusts up into her fist, his leg muscles moving under her. She rocked into him, echoing his movements and his eyes snapped to hers, their mossy depths taking her breath away. She couldn’t imagine loving anything more than the sight of Silas abandoned to pleasure, all the lines of worry and care gone slack, a sheen of perspiration across his sharp cheekbones, his lips swollen from kissing, her name falling like a mantra from his mouth.
“Silas,” she said, not slowing her hand. When he met her eyes she lost her train of thought for a moment. “Inside me . . . I want you inside me again.”
“Ah, Christ, Fee,” he growled. “Yes . . . yes . . . I’m half wild with wanting you.”
He moved so quickly she squealed, hands on her hips raising her over him, taking himself in hand once she was steady, one hand on his shoulder.
“Take your time, love. Go as slowly as you like, I’ll hold as still as I’m able.” He looked up into her face, smiling softly, pupils blown wide, and she found herself teary, overwhelmed with the gift of him. “Fee, what’s wrong? Have I hurt you?” he asked, brows drawing together.
“No, not at all.” She sniffed. “Just the opposite, you are exquisite, wonderful in ways I never imagined. I can’t quite believe you are to be mine.” She blinked down at him, feeling the warm mass of his shoulder under her hand, the lean length of his thighs against the insides of her knees, and knew she was home.
“I am quite wonderful,” Silas said with a wolfish grin. “Not as patient as I ought to be, though,” he said, mouthing her nipple through the thin lawn of her chemise, the head of his cock notching at her entrance.
“Oh,” said Ophelia. “Oh . . . oh.”
She exhaled and let herself sink down onto him. Silas groaned low in his throat, stroking her cheek and bending his head to kiss along the neckline of her chemise. She rose up a little, drawing another groan from him, then sank down, taking his full length inside her. Silas began thrusting and Ophelia experimented with canting her hips against him, felt her muscles already beginning to clench around his cock. Tilting her hips again she found her rhythm, nudging her clit against him with every thrust, and then she was coming again, head thrown back, hands clutching him to her. The climax shuddered through her, spooled out along each limb in fiery, golden tendrils. Silas crooned her name, still thrusting, holding her hips hard now as he chased his own pleasure. Her body milked him, every thrust sending echoes of pleasure through her until he stilled and pulled free from her, stroking himself twice, and spending across her bare legs. Their breath mingled between them, ragged and sharp. Silas lifted his face to hers, pressing kisses along her jaw. She pressed her mouth to his, nibbling at his full top lip, licking her tongue into the wet warmth of him.
“Thank you,” they said over each other, colour high on their cheeks.
Silas’s arms came swiftly around Ophelia and he lifted her onto her feet, tenderly straightening her skirts and putting her chemise to rights. “I love you, Ophelia Blackwood,” he said solemnly, brushing her hair back from her face before tidying his shirt and waistcoat. She could only bury her face in his chest, the wobbly happiness she felt inside too big to put into words.
CHAPTER 40
They organised themselves as best they could, covering Ophelia’s damp skirts with her shawl and buttoning Silas’s coat so that his wrinkled trousers were less evident. They lingered in the garden, neither wanting to break the spell of the afternoon. Silas felt like a zeppelin had inflated in his chest, buoyant and giddy, able to face anything if it meant doing so with Ophelia by his side. He felt in the pocket of his jacket, finding the cool loop of silver still waiting there, and he knew there was one final thing to do before they tackled things in the house.
“Fee?” he began. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you, or rather to give you.” She turned to him, her face still flushed, eyes bright and sharp as a bird’s, an edge of wariness suddenly there. He hurried to continue before he lost the thread of his thoughts. “I was wrong about so many things before, even this,” he said, fishing the ring from his pocket. “I brought this for you, a token of what we might make together, a promise more than an agreement.” She stared at the band in the palm of his large hand and he could see that she recognised it as Hannah’s. “Hannah gave it to me, thought it might be the right thing for our fresh start, but the more I think of it, the more I realise that it’s me who needs to wear it, to remember ‘deeds not words.’ I see now that you’ve always known that, haven’t you, love? You’ve been fighting for it your whole life, and I’ve only just joined you.” Silas slipped the band onto his pinkie finger, flexed his hand experimentally, and then held it out to her. “A reminder to myself that what we choose together is more important than anything the world demands of us. Always.”
He wasn’t sure what she would say, had only really realised what he was going to say as he said it. It felt right, though. He watched her looking at the band on his finger, saw recognition and a flash of hope. A soft smile played on her lips, almost more for herself than to him. He was so glad he had slid the ring onto his own finger, recognized in the moment that his own fear had made it hard to hear. He knew that so many people tossed around a great many words, but did very little to make them concrete. Perhaps this small gesture could be the beginning of many things. Changes he would make, ones they would make together. He wanted to be Ophelia’s champion, to protect her, but he saw now that she didn’t need him to do that. She was capable of anything she put her mind to, but she wanted someone, him, to walk with her, to choose a path together. That he could do, that he would move mountains to do.
The slim silver band glinted against Silas’s hand, his skin tanned by the sun and work out of doors. Ophelia took in the lines across his outstretched palm, the long lines of his strong fingers, the corded muscles of his arm disappearing up into his sleeve. She thought of the disastrous marriage proposals her father had tried to engineer, of how he had wanted to negotiate the price of having her off his hands, a bit of extra baggage he was happy to be rid of. She thought of Silas, standing where her father had almost taken everything, of what it had meant to him to leave for war, to lose this connection to his family, how he had stripped himself bare for her. All he offered her now was himself, untethered by land or obligation, willing to walk into a future of their own making because he loved her.
She looked up from his hand to his broad face, eyes searching hers, his mobile mouth still, drawn a little tight with concern. He waited for her answer, patient, and her heart clenched with love. She wanted to tell him how joy rocketed around her, fireworks on Bonfire Night, sun dancing on the water’s surface, larks in a wide blue sky, but all that came from her lips was, “You are the very best of everything, Silas Larke, and I love you beyond words.”
He stood stock still for a moment then grasped her hand, and pulling her into his chest, swung her around, whooping until tears rolled down her cheeks and her head swam dizzily.
“My God, I love you, you magnificent woman!” he said, laughing. “I want to shout it from the top of a tower, take out an ad in the Times—no—send it by Morse code around the world!”
He let her go and she slipped down his front, clothing catching between them. She reached up to cup his face in her hands, feeling the rough and soft of his cheeks under her fingers.
“For the first time in so long, I am excited for the future,” she said, softly. “For our future.”
“Let’s not linger then,” Silas said. “We could stay with my mother for a night or two, until you’ve finished up at the house. When you’re ready we’ll return to Mrs. Darling’s?”
“Mhmm, I would like to see your mother again, and Samuel. I am a little anxious to get back to the farm though; I’ve my WLA work term to complete and Mrs. Darling’ll still need our help to fulfill the required yield. After that, I guess it’s up to us where we want to go.” She slid her hand into his, squeezing gently. “I need to lock the doors before we go to your mother’s, and I’d like to bring a painting with me . . . it’s of my mother, and I want to have her with me.”
Silas nodded. “We’ll keep her with you always.”
One carpet bag, one painting wrapped in burlap. That was what her life at Wood Grange amounted to in physical belongings. She should have felt weighted down by the prospect of her father’s debts, the health of the estate, but Ophelia felt lighter than she could ever remember. She felt a steady confidence in Mr. Bone’s work with the will; for the first time, it felt like there was possibility about the estate, instead of defeat. Silas’s feet crunched along the gravel drive next to hers, and she couldn’t wait to crowd around Mrs. Darling’s table for tea. It wasn’t that she thought everything would be perfect from now on; she knew that the future would bring its share of challenges. The farm was still in danger of being repossessed, Silas might be called to the front once his leg was fully healed, she had no idea what she might do for work after the WLA finished with her, and she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that she and Silas could live outside the boundaries of polite society without consequence, but right now all those seemed surmountable. Silas loved her, and the brilliant joy of that eclipsed everything else at the moment. They would find a way; she was confident of that.
Swinging her arms, Silas’s hand in hers, Ophelia turned for one last look at the house.
“I’ll never be able to think of that garden the same way again,” Silas said in a theatrical aside, eyes mischievous.
Ophelia laughed and pulled him down for a kiss. “I hope not,” she said.
They walked slowly up to Silas’s childhood home hand in hand, the light of evening falling, birdsong all around them. When they reached the door and knocked, Mrs. Larke threw both the door and her arms open with a happy cheer, bundling them inside for dinner and a visit.
CHAPTER 41
Ophelia slept on the train the next day, her head lolling against Silas’s shoulder as they rolled through the Somerset countryside. She hadn’t intended to, they had so much to discuss and work through, but exhaustion caught up with her and dragged her under. Silas’s warm bulk and the clattering of the train tracks lulled her, taking the edge of panic off all the new information circling her mind. Silas nudged her awake on the approach to the station.
“We’re almost home now, Fee. Time to wake up.”
He squeezed her hand gently, but didn’t kiss her, though she could tell he was thinking about it by the way his eyes lingered over her lips. She wished they were alone so that he might soothe her nerves with the brush of his lips, tell her everything would be alright with a flick of his tongue. But that would have to be for later. For now, they needed to get back to Mrs. Darling’s and finish the haying. She thought about Wood Grange, about her father dying alone in the house, truly an island now that she knew the extent of his financial mismanagement. It was incredible what a life of entitlement did for you, she thought. To be utterly at the end of one’s resources and still acting as though you had the upper hand. She was incredulous and surprisingly sad. Not for her father, really, but for a person so corroded by vice and their own malice.
The blast of the train whistle cut through her thoughts, steam billowing outside the windows. She and Silas stood, he handed down her satchel, and tucking her mother’s portrait under his arm, led her to the doorway. The small station platform was quiet, only a porter and a couple of passengers making their way to the exit. Outside, waiting in the late afternoon light, was the local trap, the driver lounging against his seat, cap pulled low over his eyes.
“The Darling farm, please,” said Silas.
“Right away, guv,” he said, straightening, and reaching down to take their belongings.
Silas handed Ophelia up into the back seat and slid in beside her. They pulled out of the train station and jogged down the high street, making their way past the church hall and out into the country lanes. Ophelia felt the press of Silas’s thigh down the length of hers, muscular and firm through the layers of their clothes. He smiled at her, and she was sure that he felt as comforted by her presence as she did by his. He kissed her then, chaste and quick, but she felt the promise of everything to come and couldn’t help throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her nose into the perfect warm skin of his neck. “I love you,” she whispered and felt his lips move against her hair.
“I love you.”
CHAPTER 42
