A Snow moon christmas

Melting the snow

*Merida*

Beyond the glass and stone, it sounds as though demons trapped in hell howl.

"It's only the wind," Chester reassures me.

We are enclosed in a cocoon of warmth provided by the ragged draperies. Our clothes are resting near the fire, somewhat dry. I should probably gather up my things and get dressed, but I don't want to move. I think I might like to stay here forever.

"I have heard this manor is haunted," I confess.

"Is that why you hesitated to stop here?" he asks.

I nod. "I know it's silly to believe in ghosts, but there you are."

"Nothing about you is silly," he says, bringing me joy with his words.

"They will have noticed I'm missing by now," I say, realizing that we both are likely missed.

"They won't come looking yet. Their visibility is no better than ours," he assures me.

I lick my lips. "When my father finds us here, he will insist that we marry. Being alone with a gentleman in an abandoned manor during a storm is more scandalous than being discovered in a man's arms near a trellis of roses in a dark corner of the garden."

His finger trails along my neck, and he slides my hair over my shoulder, pressing his lips to my nape. Despite our warmth, a shiver runs through me. "But does he hold your heart? You captured mine from the beginning," he confesses.

I twist around, looking sharply at him. "Then why did you give your attention to Miss Anne?"

He cradles my face with one hand, stroking his thumb along my cheek. "Out of a misguided notion that I owed it to my brother. He wrote me a letter as he was dying and asked me to see to her happiness."

"But he died long before you gave me any attention," I respond.

"Unfortunately, the officer who had the letter did not deliver it until this past spring. He feared it getting lost, so he brought it himself. If not for me, Walter would not be dead." He says sadly.

My heart goes out to him as guilt runs through his voice. "You did not make him ill."

"No, but he wouldn't have been there had I possessed the funds for him to live like a gentleman. The income from my estates was dwindling. I couldn't support him in the manner in which he wished to live, so we agreed that a commission in the army was best. Not an hour passes by that I don't miss him, not a day goes by that I don't regret not finding another way. I could have married any number of women with dowries that would have provided me with the means to live more luxuriously. Instead, I was holding out for love. I was waiting for you."

I don't pull away when his lips meet mine. His tongue strokes the seam of my mouth, urging me to open it for him. I shouldn't, but I do, because if I'm honest with myself, I have been waiting for him as well. I had turned down offers of marriage during my first mating Season, thinking perhaps I would be more content as a spinster. But then I saw him across the room at a ball, and it felt as though he were standing right in front of me, touching me, gazing into my soul, weaving some sort of spell over me. When he asked me to dance, I thought I had arrived in heaven.

Then this mating Season, when he informed me that he would be pursuing Miss Anne, I wondered what I had done to extinguish the passion that had trembled between us.

Yet here it is again, blazing to life.

I twist around completely, giving him easier access to my mouth, and with a deep growl, he deepens the kiss. His fingers thread through the tangled mess of my hair, holding me in place, while his other hand explores my back, squeezing a shoulder, skimming down my side, and coming around to cup my breast.

I know I should be incensed with the liberties he is taking. Instead, I moan softly and let my hands roam a similar journey, discovering the corded muscles of his back, the flatness of his stomach, the breadth of his chest. Smooth. Silk over steel. It's as though he has been forged by the gods. His clothing hides well his attributes, and I feel as though I am unearthing little buried treasures.

Dragging his mouth along the arch of my throat, he rasps, “I want you, Merry. You can’t imagine how much I want you."

Oh, I can imagine it very well, because I want him. As wrong as it is, I want him with an intensity that threatens to destroy me. When Lightfoot kissed me in the garden, I didn’t want to melt into him, to meld my body with his. But with Chester, all rational thought scatters away like dried leaves before an autumn breeze. I can't think, don't want to think, I only want to feel the eager press of his hands, the hunger of his mouth against my flesh.

Shifting his weight, he carries me down to our makeshift velveteen bed. I think the thickest of mattresses could not be more welcoming. Rising above me, he stares down at me. I comb my fingers through his unruly locks before bringing my palms down to cradle his jaw. The rough bristles tickle my tender skin.

“I was a fool, Merry,” he whispers. “Misguided, trying to do right by my brother, putting my own wants, needs, and happiness aside. I want you. I need you. You bring me happiness such as I have never known. Let me show you how much I can love you."

I swallow hard. I know he is not speaking of flowers or poetry or chocolates. He wants to give of himself, completely and absolutely. He wants me to freely, accept what he is offering.

When we are discovered here, the scandal will be insurmountable. Alone with him through the storm. Lightfoot will let me go. My father will insist Chester marry me. I will be ruined. I might as well be ruined in truth.

Besides, I desire him with a fervor that I think will be my undoing. If I don't have him at this moment, I will probably die anyway. Reaching up, I place my hand on the nape of his neck and bring him down.

He latches his mouth onto mine with a fierceness that matches the storm. Hot, heavy, and passionate as though walls exist that need to be torn down. He makes short work of removing the covers that separate us, and then we are bare flesh against bare flesh from top to toe. Velvety warmth that could melt the thickest pond surrounds us. I feel my heart's resistance giving way inch by inch as his hands and fingers explore me, while mine do the same with him. Broad shoulders, strong back, taut buttocks.

He has rescued me from the pond, guided me through the storm, and created a haven for us to wait out the screeching winds. He has managed to hold my fears at bay, and I have known that somehow he would save me.

A small part of me wonders if he is saving me now as well.

I can't marry Lightfoot after this. I won't marry him. One night he pursued me with purpose. But once my hand and dowry was secured, passion, desire, whatever it was that led us into the garden, took refuge, never to be seen again. With Chester, it always hovers near the surface, threatening to join us, promising to carry us to exalted heights.

Here I am, clamoring up those heights, unafraid as Chester's mouth trails over every inch of me, exploring, enticing, kissing provocatively. The bend of my elbow, the back of my knee, the turn of my ankle, the tip of my tiny toe. Down, up, over, and around. He leaves no part of me untouched.

His mouth returns to mine as he nestles himself between my thighs. I feel the pressure of him, the weight, the heat. I lift my hips to receive him. Holding back my cry at the sharp pain as he sinks fully into me, I concentrate on his mouth, its texture, its flavor. I focus on his hair, the strands that are never tamed for long.

His movements are slow, leisurely. The pain eases, and pleasure slips in to replace it, sweet and ripe, like a new bud feeling the sun coaxing it up. With each petal unfurled, the pleasure increases. Thrashing my head from side to side, I anchor myself to him as he takes me on a journey for which there are no words.

I cry out as the release slams into me, as my world darkens, then explodes into light. With a rough groan, he gives a final thrust and stills, his arms closing more tightly around me. Lethargy works its way through me.

The last thing I hear is his whispered, “I love you," before sleep claims me.