After the Storm

12. Smithereens

If any other men were to feel me up in such a way, they'll find themselves six feet under within seconds. But this was Mr Ambrose we were talking about. He always seemed to get away with everything and anything.

His hand squeezed and I sucked in a deep breath.

A nasty thought popped up in my head. What if he doesn't like it? What if... Oh blast! There was nothing wrong with a generous derrière! Nothing at all!

Slap him! Where are your morals, woman?

To hell with morals! They always stopped people from doing what they wanted. After all, I wasn't one to reject anything that made me feel inordinately good. Take chocolate as an example. I loved it.

That annoying little voice in my head didn't give up. It whacked against the doors of my conscious mind, like how my Aunt would on the door to my room when trying to marry me off to some slimy suitor. Just that my conscience was trying to do the exact opposite – get me away from a man.

Unanticipatedly, I felt a pair of strong arms lift me by the waist. I squeaked in surprise but didn't fight back. With his white linen shirt so thin, I could see his lean muscles contract and move in an interesting way as he carried me, leaving me tempted to rip off his shirt and examine his biceps. However, 'examine' might have been too mild a word.

Even as I my feet were not touching the ground, our mouths never faltered but instead latched tighter than ever. 

Never let me go.

And he didn't. As if he could read my thoughts, his hold on me tightened and I was pulled even closer to his warm body. 

I felt him place me down on a cool, hard surface. I was on the table.

Why the table, you ask? I have no bloody idea either, but I wasn't about to go complaining as it elevated me to his height (it was a tall desk I must admit), making osculation much easier. It also allowed me to wrap my legs around his waist in a manner that would give my Aunt a heart attack. But upon seeing that I was snogging the richest man in England, she would probably revive and be very, very pleased with me.

What a comforting thought.

My hands acted on their own will, ripping off his shirt although I knew I'd have to pay for the damage later. I sucked in a deep breath as my eyes trailed down his well-built but not overly brawny chest. Lightly defined lines that ran down and across his abdomen did mysterious things to my body.

Damn. Even the staunch female suffragette within me could not argue that he looked no less magnificent than a Greek god. I really had to find out where that burning feeling between my legs originated from and why it only came about when I was with him.

As his fingers popped the buttons on my placket, he trailed a line of hot kisses from my mouth down to the hollow of my neck. I heard a breathy moan. Was that me? I never sounded so...feminine, unless of course, when I was performing defiling acts with my employer. Somehow, I didn't really mind.

How can you forget that he said you only have to do all that he asks for without questioning? How can you forget all that hateful things he said to you?

I tried to protest, convincing myself that I haven't forgotten.

Whatever you're doing now shows how you condone all that codswallop he told you!

I wanted to argue about that, but my mental tongue seemed to knot itself up. That voice did have a point.

I locked eyes with him. Shards of frost and undulating waves of blue swirled in his stormy orbs. His deep gaze would look similar as usual on first glance – cold and indifferent. However, the more I stared, the more I drowned in his gaze, I found something tepid in them. There was a strange force that they emitted, swallowing me and softening my resolve. I wanted to give in. I wanted to be hi—