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It was not at all surprising when Mrs. Watson decided to retire immediately after the dessert course had been cleared from the table, pleading a headache that she quite obviously didn’t have. It was even less surprising when the staff seemed to simply fade from existence at the same time, the house as quiet and still around them as it would be were they truly alone. Lord Ingram had expected this, had known that it would happen when he’d accepted the invitation. If he allowed himself to be honest, he’d been plainly counting on it.
Now, of course, he was reminded of what exquisite agony it was, being alone with Holmes while still constrained by his own sense of honor, by the societal influence he just couldn’t quite shake. It was pleasurable too, of course, and always had been. Lately it was shifting rather decidedly in that direction -- the enjoyment growing, the pain one of anxious anticipation now rather than regret or hopelessness.
“I didn’t think to see you again before the start of the Season,” Holmes said after a few long moments had passed in silence. It was more of a test than a fact, of course. She would have seen the announcement of the lecture he’d come to give in the papers, and Mrs. Watson had been aware enough to issue a dinner invitation several days in advance.
She was asking why he’d come -- why he’d chosen now to make his first public appearance since the disaster at Stern Hollow.
“I thought I would give people something new to say about me,” he told her, and was the slightest bit surprised to find that it was true. If there would be gossip no matter what he did, he might as well do things that were worthwhile. “And I wanted to see you, of course.” That was true too, and it felt important to say, though she certainly knew.
She looked at him through those sinfully long lashes of hers, the curve of her lips her only response -- and the only one she needed. She was wearing the black widow dress that had once evoked images of a ladybug, the polka dot fabric of the skirt now replaced with one featuring tiny red hourglasses. She could look every bit as powerful in pink lace ruffles, but there was something especially sensual in the contrast of dark cloth against fair skin.
Or maybe he really was just that desperate for her company…
“Very generous of you,” she said at last, and he realized he’d nearly managed to forget what he’d said in the first place. Only nearly, though.
“To the gossip ladies?” he asked, his tone measured, “Or to you?”
“So far you have been a perfect gentleman to me,” said Holmes, her tone leaving no doubt that she would have preferred otherwise.
Lord Ingram flattened a palm over his heart, feigning scandal. “Cold as ice, Holmes.” He wanted to fulfill her preference. He wanted to with a hunger that only she awakened in him, a thirst that could not begin to be slaked by a lifetime’s worth of letters.
“I have often been called that,” she said placidly. Only the glimmer of unholy mischief beneath the blue of her eyes belied the fact that she knew they were playing a game.
“Only by those not fortunate enough to truly know you,” said Lord Ingram, as though he hadn’t done exactly that, moments ago.
She said nothing, only continued to pin him with that steady knowing and expectant gaze as he struggled to figure out what he wanted from this night. But no, that wasn’t true. He knew full well what he wanted. He wanted to take her to bed, this moment. To see her every instant that her work would allow. To marry her, if she would have him, society be damned. No, it certainly wasn’t a question of want. It was a question of what he would allow himself to have. What he could enjoy, without regret.
He had yet, in truth, to regret anything he’d done with Holmes.
Except, of course, the waiting. The denial.
“Come upstairs,” she said at last, as if sensing the direction of his thoughts.
“Holmes--”
“I know,” she interrupted. “Your divorce has yet to be finalized. I’m not asking you to sleep with me. Though I certainly won’t discourage you if you’ve changed your mind.”
I have, said the traitorous voice of his desire. I have changed my mind. Take me now, right here on the dining table.
He swallowed, throat dry and sticking. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Then come upstairs and don’t sleep with me,” she said evenly, though therewas still a hint of challenge in it. The fact that she and his baser instincts often spoke in unison was hardly a new development. It was one of the many things that made her so damned alluring.
“Mrs. Watson --” he began lamely. That Mrs. Watson was trying to facilitate their affair was beyond obvious. She very clearly approved. And yet, the thought of the woman who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a real maternal figure knowing about...well, this…
“Mrs. Watson is going to assume that we are behaving in any number of depraved ways no matter where we are tonight,” said Holmes. “And no doubt be delighted about it.”
He felt his cheeks heat, which was ridiculous. He’d given her a perfectly scandalous tea gown and had equally scandalous stockings just waiting for the right occasion. He had pictured her wearing both many times. Had also pictured her taking them off. He had even stroked himself while doing it. So what was so difficult now about saying yes? Did it really have anything at all to do with honor or had he simply forgotten how to allow himself anything he badly wanted?
Had he ever known how in the first place?
“There will be talk,” he heard himself begin, then broke off abruptly. There would be talk no matter what he did. There always had been. The choice was whether or not to be miserable while it went on. Hadn’t that been the entire point of coming to London today? He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Yes. Show me the way.”
She smiled -- not the usual delicate curve of her lips, but a genuine grin. And if it was just the slightest bit predatory, well...so much the better.
No, who was he kidding? Her expression as she glanced back over her shoulder on the stairs was a goddamned dream. For months he’d wished for her to look at him with even half of the customary relish she showed toward her food, and now...Now he might as well be an iced pound cake that had grown legs.
All right, so that wasn’t the sexiest image that he could have come up with. Possibly his brain was more than a little bit addled with desire.
He’d been imagining her bedroom for...as long as he’d been corresponding with her, really. But certainly much more after he’d been married, after he’d become trapped in estrangement and isolation. And since their brief stint as lovers at Stern Hollow...well, there were many things about Charlotte Holmes that were bordering on obsessions for him, and that was certainly one of them.
The room, in reality, was so quintessentially Holmes that he huffed a laugh of delight as the door closed behind them. Another woman would have protested, would very likely have become defensive. But she only watched him, studying him as he studied her most private spaces.
Plenty of her extravagant and dramatic taste was on display. The bed was large and lush, covered by a gauzy canopy that did absolutely nothing to conceal the many, many garish pillows nestled upon it. There was a stack of fashion magazines on the nightstand, bits of scrap paper sticking out where she’d evidently marked things of interest. On the vanity were several wigs -- one that was clearly meant to be a longer version of her own hair, another streaked through with grey, and two she would wear when dressing as a man. There was also an assortment of cosmetics, a brush, and hair pins. A tincture of rose water.
Interesting -- and endearing -- as all of that was, it was the desk that fascinated him the most. It was everything the rest of the room was not. He might actually have thought it belonged to a second person, had he not known Holmes as he did. On the wall above it, a selection of papers was tacked up: Maps. Small notices cut from the newspaper. Notes and sketches in her hand. On the surface of the desk itself was a lemon drizzle cake, protected by a glass cover and missing two slices. Next to it was a plate bearing only crumbs and a half-read patent office catalog. There were stacks of books, too. A text on poisonous plants and another on medicinal mushrooms. There was also one on historical weapons and...his own book. It had been in the Baker Street house last he’d seen it, but clearly she’d brought it back to her own bedroom.
When had she done that?
And did he dare consider why?
He sensed her gaze on his back, heard the rustle of her skirts and yet he was surprised at how close he found her when he turned around. Or -- not surprised so much as affected. She was so near that he couldn’t take a single step without touching her. He could smell the sweet oil that she used on her hair, the light floral note of cold cream he had once -- only once -- seen her rub on her cheeks and decolletage, the hint of cinnamon sugar he’d come to believe was purely hers. He could hear her soft intake of breath and feel it on his face when she exhaled. For a moment he stood frozen, every cell in his body crying out for her. He wanted her so badly that he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think where to begin.
“Ash,” she murmured, as if she knew he needed something to break the spell. She said nothing further, but it was enough.
He took her face between his palms and kissed her.
Holmes was not experienced in the art of kissing. Even at fifteen, Lord Ingram had had far more practice than she, had done it with ladies more experienced still. And yet hers were the ones that were indelibly seared into his memory. Perhaps it was because they had been so few for so long -- moments of brightness he’d clung to like a candle’s flame in an icy wasteland. Perhaps it was because she was a fiendishly quick study in this as in so many other things.
Or perhaps it was simply because he was hopelessly in love with her and had been practically since they’d met.
This kiss, he was certain, would join the others in his collection of favorite memories. It was at once blissful and agonizing, like going from icy depths directly into roaring flames. He felt at once sated and starved. Kissing her was everything he’d wanted, and yet he needed so much more.
She was flushed and panting when they broke apart at last, his hands still framing her face and hers tangled in his hair. He was certain he didn’t look any more composed, and he was also acutely aware of how little control he retained over himself, over the need he’d kept so carefully leashed for so many years. He had to find a direction for it before he broke every promise he’d ever made to himself.
“Show me,” he said finally, his own voice ringing oddly in his ears, “where you write to me.”
She eyed him for a moment. It was obvious, of course, that she must use the writing desk currently pressing into his hip. To someone of her skill, that deduction would seem beyond elementary. But the facts of it weren’t the point. He wanted to hear her say it, wanted her to paint a picture.
He saw the moment that she came to that realization, the corners of her lips curving upward again, the gleam in her eyes unmistakable.
“Here.” She took him by the upper arms and steered him out of the way to take a seat in her desk chair. “Most of the time, at least…” She let that last trail off laden with promise, a clear invitation.
No -- a temptation.
“Most of the time?” he prompted, moving to stand over her shoulder. There was more distance between them now than when they’d been kissing, but he could still feel her presence like a force of nature.
“Yes,” she said placidly, though there was an undeniable undercurrent of heat in it. She was drawing this out, teasing, which of course was what he’d wanted and was also now regretting. “I have been writing you a great many letters recently.”
Lord Ingram swallowed again, still struggling to form coherent words. “I had noticed.” Her letters had been increasingly suggestive of late -- since Christmas, in fact. Since he’d given her the gown and promised true romantic rendezvous in the future. Her writings hadn’t reached a level of true scandal yet, but he had no doubt they would. And every hint from her inflamed him all the same.
“So mostly I sit here while I compose my letters,” said Holmes, raking her gaze over him, “but sometimes I require...variety.” She took up an absolutely ridiculous pink quill pen and ran the feather end along the inside of his wrist.
He shuddered hard and rolled up his cuffs without another thought, suddenly aware unbearably warm, claustrophobic in his dinner suit. “Variety?”
She watched him for another moment, clearly seeing everything, and rose. She said nothing in words, simply pushed the jacket off his shoulders, and the next thing he knew, he was shrugging out of it. Her fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat next, making quick work, and then laying it on top of his discarded jacket. When she reached the buttons of his shirt, his heart leapt in anticipation, beating against his sternum like the wings of a wild bird. But she stopped after the first two, trailing a fingertip over the line of his clavicle as she stepped back.
“There,” she said pleasantly. “That’s more comfortable, isn’t it?”
“Holmes,” he gritted. It was mostly certainly not more comfortable. He wanted to crawl out of his skin.
“Right,” she said with an air of more innocence than she had ever genuinely possessed in her life. “You wanted to know where else I write my letters.” She picked up a piece of cake from the desk and began to nibble at it as she crossed the room.
“Holmes…” Lord Ingram repeated, aware that he was following her like a bloodhound on a scent.
“Sometimes I’ll bring a lap tray over here and write,” she told him, stopping in front of the large window and continuing to slowly consume the cake. “A lovely view, particularly when it rains or snows and I can feel extra luxurious for being warm indoors.” She licked a crumb delicately from the corner of her lip and swallowed her last bite.
“Holmes,” he said a third time, suddenly becoming aware that his hands were fisted at his sides with the effort of not touching her.
“And sometimes,” she continued, her expression absolutely wicked, the hunter going in for a prized kill. She moved to the side of the bed, hiked up her skirt, and draped herself over it with a familiarity that went straight to the base of his cock. She draped her skirts to one side so that her legs remained not only exposed but open. “Sometimes I get so distracted thinking of you that I don’t write at all. I simply sit here and…” She let her movements finish the thought for her, dragging a hand up her inner thigh.
All at once, the final thread of his self-control snapped and he lunged to kiss her, lifting himself onto the mattress in the same motion. She made a low, throaty sound of approval against his lips and goddamn, wanted was the best thing he’d ever been in his life. For several long, incredible moments, he lost himself in sensation -- in the wet heat of her mouth against his, the sweet tang of cake still on her lips. The teasing pressure of her hands in his hair, the barest hint of fingernails against his scalp. The pressure and friction against his erection as she rocked her hips even through all their layers of clothing.
He was still in a haze of desire and instinct as he worked her skirts up higher, then fumbled to undo his own belt and trousers.
“Wait.” She caught his wrist as he reached to remove the last layer of her underthings and the entire universe ground to a halt.
“What?” he gasped, scarcely recognizing the sound of his own voice. “What is it?”
“You said you didn’t want to sleep with me.” Her voice was steadier than it had any right to be. “Not until your divorce is finalized.”
“Forget that,” he said immediately. “I’m a fool.”
“No.” Holmes met his gaze and it was clear that she was serious. She wasn’t teasing, and she wasn’t being petty about his prior refusals either. “I won’t be an accomplice to your self-loathing, Ash. And you’re in no state to rationally change your mind.”
“Holmes,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “Charlotte.”
“No,” she repeated calmly, and gently pushed at his shoulder.
He took the hint and rolled off of her, covering his face with his hands. She was right and he knew it. He needed to get ahold of himself before he actually started begging, but he had no idea how to even begin. He’d lived three years of actual celibacy and never felt agony like this. He was so desperate that his whole body shook, so hard it felt as though his entire being ached with it.
“Ash.” The mattress shifted as she came near again. She rested a hand on his wrist and he dropped one of his own to look at her. She looked nearly as wild with desire as he felt, though somehow inhumanly steady as always. “You said you wouldn’t sleep with me until you were a free man. But it seems to me that leaves many other things we could do.”
It took a long moment and several effortful deep breaths before he realized what she was saying. It took longer still before he was able to form words. “You were -- going to touch yourself for me, weren’t you.”
“That was one of several possibilities,” she agreed. She ran her fingers down his arm and caught his hand, her touch soothing now.
She was being patient with him, he realized. She was -- protecting him. He’d learned to fear ridicule if anyone saw even a hint of his need but Holmes...well, she had always been unlike anyone else. There had never been any hiding from her and she had always made it perfectly clear that she wanted him just the same.
“I like that possibility,” he told her. “I assume that you wanted me to...reciprocate.” It felt like an utterly bizarre thing to do in front of anyone, but he very much liked the idea of watching her.
“That was my hope,” she agreed. “Would that be permissible by the limits you’ve set for yourself?”
He considered. It would be utterly taboo by the rules of propriety, of course. But he’d been in full violation of those for months now. This was not about propriety. It was about keeping the agreement he’d made with himself, and by those standards…
“Yes,” he told her. “It would.”
“All right,” she agreed. For a moment silence descended again as the reality of it sunk in. He had never done anything like this before. But then again, hadn’t that always been true with Holmes? She was the safest thing in his life, even if it had taken him far too long to realize it.
“Show me,” he said finally, “how you touch yourself.”
She had been waiting for him, he realized, and now he’d broken the last remaining surface tension. She hiked her skirts back up with a flourish, lifted her hips and swept her drawers down her legs. Then she looked back up and arched a brow at him expectantly.
Lord Ingram shook himself, painfully aware of the peculiar vulnerability of this whole situation. Still, it was an incredible relief to finish undoing his trousers, to free his erection from the constricting fabric and get a hand around himself at last. He rolled his head back on the pillows as he tried to swallow a groan, but the sight of the canopy over their heads was a reminder of whose bed he was in, the reality he was living. Holmes leaned over to kiss his lips, and the last vestiges of apprehension melted away.
He craned his neck to deepen the kiss, then rolled onto his side so that he could watch her as he began to stroke himself with a slowness that he only managed because he knew he wouldn’t last long otherwise. She had her legs spread without an ounce of self-consciousness, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she teased herself with a fingertip. The look on her face was the exact same concentration that she got when she was on a particularly difficult case, and he realized abruptly that watching her work would never be the same again.
“I’ve imagined this,” he told her, then huffed a breathless laugh. “Well, not exactly. I never imagined -- both of us together, but you --”
“You imagined me touching myself?” she asked, though there was no actual way she hadn’t understood perfectly. He was beginning to realize that sometimes she simply liked to hear him say things aloud -- which was especially flattering, knowing how Holmes valued silence.
“Many times.” He adjusted his grip on himself, grunting at the increase in pressure. “Next to us together, it’s one of my favorite things to imagine.”
“Mine as well,” she said casually, spreading her legs a bit to slip a crooked finger into herself. Her thumb was still doing most of the work, though, nestled in the dark gold curls between her legs.
For a moment he was so busy watching, committing those movements to memory, that he almost missed what she’d actually said. “You -- what? You imagined -- me?”
“Of course I did.” She said it almost off-handedly, but he didn’t miss the thoroughly mischievous gleam beneath the haze of pleasure in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing to him. She always did.
He bit out a curse, hand moving faster even as he tried to pace himself. He could already feel the band of heat building low across his pelvis and he forced himself to take a deep stuttering breath, determined to draw this out as long as he possibly could. “What did you imagine?”
“You have beautiful hands.” She was flushed and breathing hard already too, apparently as ready for this as he had been. She added a second finger, grinning as he choked on air. “You have a beautiful cock, too.”
This time he did more than choke, his whole body freezing as he gaped like a fish. “You -- I -- what?”
She pressed her thumb hard against herself, making an absolutely wanton sound of pleasure as she rocked her hips up into her own hand. “Is that not what you’d call it? Do you prefer some other --”
He bit out a curse and kissed her because he absolutely needed to be touching her, felt as though he might actually die if he didn’t. She shifted closer, leaning in until he wrapped an arm around her, pulled her in against his chest. They were both still mostly clothed, yet this felt to Lord Ingram like the most intensely intimate thing he’d ever done -- the rough sounds of their breathing mingling, the rhythm of their hands in sync though still separate. And they’d each imagined the other doing this, had liked the idea so much that --
This was what he’d craved for what felt like a lifetime: not just attraction but trust, freedom. Fun. It had been so long since he’d felt at liberty to enjoy anything like this, to let his enjoyment be known.
“Are you close?” he asked, when he could feel his own control slipping, knew there wasn’t much more he could do to pull himself back from the brink.
She nodded, her eyes half closed.
“Show me,” he managed, determined to watch.
Paradoxically, she slowed her movements, pressing hard with her thumb once, twice, and then she was rolling her head back against his shoulder, whole body shuddering with completion.
“Holmes,” he grunted, so affected by the sight of her that he was scarcely able to manage a warning.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Now you.”
He turned his face into her neck as he let go, muffling the guttural cry he couldn’t contain. He was utterly lost in the mix of euphoric pleasure and sheer relief. He’d had so few moments of true release in his life, and this one was far more profound than the simply physical.
When he’d caught his breath and come back to Earth, Holmes had her arm around him, their positions somehow reversed.
“Was that all right for you?” he asked, though he thought he knew her well enough to deduce the answer from her expression.
“I think,” she said slowly, her eyes sparkling, “that was the most delicious dessert I have ever had.”
Lord Ingram stifled a laugh as he dropped his head back to her shoulder, for the moment utterly content.