My breasts strain against the satin of my shirt, my nipples rigid buds that brush against his chest with each breath. His hand still cages my wrists as his long legs cover mine. I feel him, thick and hard against my belly. I am hot and achy and a little dizzy.
I arch beneath him, wanting—needing—something I can’t explain, and a growl vibrates deep in his chest as he pulls away. With his eyes locked on mine, he settles to the side of me.
Wait…why did we stop?
My eyes are heavy as he cups my jawline. I lean into his touch. Maybe the explosion he erupts inside of me can extinguish the darkness for good.
He trails a hand down my throat and unbuttons my shirt slowly, methodically, and I don’t stop him.
He continues lower still, his fingertips leaving a trail of goosebumps wherever they touch, and I don’t stop him.
I am powerful and powerless at the same time. He peppers kisses across my jaw and my cheeks, my nose and my forehead, my chin and my throat. When he finally kisses me again, his lips meeting mine, I am awash in him.
“God,” he breathes into my mouth, “you are beautiful.”
He lifts my skirt, and as we stare at each other, he slips a hand under the hem of my tights and then deeper, under my panties. Still, I don’t stop him.
He finds a spot no one has ever touched before, except for…I gasp, a spark shooting through me at the contact.
“So damn beautiful,” he growls into my mouth.
I am helpless as I grind against him, his fingers swirling down further. He slips one long digit inside me, and we both moan.
“Perfect.” His word barely registers.
His thumb finds my clit, and I arch up to meet him. He massages up and down inside my walls before sliding out. Emptiness threatens to swallow me whole before he pushes two fingers inside me just as his lips slant over mine. I mewl into his mouth, my hips moving in tandem with his strokes.
“Ian,” I breathe. My hands are everywhere. I can never have enough of him.
I trace the wall of his chest, squeeze the solid curve of his biceps, and let my fingers dip into the rigid indents of his abdomen. He continues his massage, sliding in and out, over and over again until warm shivers wash over me.
“Fuck, Harlow,” he growls between kisses.
His words—drenched with vulnerability and veneration—send me tumbling over the edge. I cry out as waves of heat wash over me, and I go rigid, sparkles of dazzling color exploding behind my eyes.
He kisses my hair.
I should regret what we’ve done.
I don’t.
“I want to stay,” he whispers, running my hair through his fingers and kissing it again, “but my father is expecting me for his weekly video call.” He nuzzles my neck, breathing in deeply before he adds, “Honor your word, Stormy. Return the favor.”
My words come out thick and slow. “I thought I just did?”
Ian laughs, and the sound hums like a vibrating guitar string inside his throat. “Oh, sweetness, it doesn’t count when you’re the only one who comes.”
He stands, looking down at me, appreciation flitting across his dark gaze. He leaves, shutting the door behind him.
22
Harlow
I don’t know how long I lay there, my skirt lifted and my tights askew, laid bare by the king of Voclain Academy.
I still smell him. I still taste him. I still…want him, and I am nagged by the thought I always will.
I stare up at the ceiling, blinking slowly and hoping a psychic will pop down and answer all of my questions. It would be so much easier if someone would just tell me my destiny, laying out my life in a neat and orderly fashion. That way, I would have zero chances of fucking it all up.
Molly would be horrified by what just happened. She’d probably think I’m an awful friend. Or would she? Because although I adore Molly, logically I realize I haven’t known her all that long and I don’t know all that much about her.
Who was her first kiss? No clue.
Has she ever had a boyfriend? No idea.
What’s her favorite color? Okay, I got that one. It’s powder blue, which is different from sky blue and baby blue. Thank you, one part Molly’s explanation and one part Google.
Is she a murderer? No. Freakin’. Idea.
Part of me thinks I should just ask her, but when does that ever come up in conversation, casual or otherwise? Hey, Molly, how was your day? Oh, and—do you mind—was it you in the study with the candlestick?
No, I should just trust her. That’s what a good friend would do. That’s what William would do. That’s what I must do.
I’ve seen Molly stop her car to allow a pair of butterflies to cross the road—I know, not the safest driving choice—and pick up stranded worms off the sidewalk after an early morning rain and deposit them in the grass—sort-of gross.
The point is, Molly doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She is devoted to her family. She is an amazing big sister to Atticus, and she is courteous and caring to strangers. She never strikes back, not even when Berkshire pushes her to what has to be her absolute limit. But Ian doesn’t strike me as a liar either. He may be a bully—he may be my bully—but he’s nothing but devastatingly honest, even when my feelings have to pay the price of admission.
I can’t ask him because I know enough to know the Rules—those stupid things I don’t understand—won’t allow him to tell me. Plus, if Molly was really dangerous, I think Ian would warn me. He would warn me, right? Asking Archie is off limits because of the Rules too,
