Authors: Jessa Hawke
And just like that, with the most random of fate's toss of dice, Anabelle's life clicked into place. With her heart hammering so loud she was sure that Henry could hear it, Anabelle reached out towards his face and kissed him. Who gave a damn about propriety? Here was someone who knew her.
Henry had lost the ability to distinguish between his attraction towards Anabelle as a woman and his intense vulnerability before her as a person. All of these, combined with the image of her as a child pinned beneath him in the hay, rolled over him until the moment crackled with electricity. Her mouth on him, the mouth he knew had never touched another’s, made him feel home. How long had it been since he felt like that? He did not know. He gathered her in his arms, her form slight against him, her back firm against his hands and her breasts lush against his chest. He leaned her over the bale of hay, nestled her in, and broke away. Could this be her, could this be his Anabelle? Henry had not retained any romantic notions about returning home to any first loves until that very moment, until Anabelle's wide brown eyes looked up at him, trusting as a kitten with a brand new owner. He would not hurt her. Ever.
“I mean it, Anabelle,” he said hoarsely, certain parts of his anatomy meaning it perhaps a bit more against her.
“I mean it, too, Henry. I will not belong to anyone but myself, but I want to share a life with you.”
“Good,” he replied, clasping her wrists in his hand and raising them above her head so that the lush curve of her breasts pressed against the neckline of her gown. “Because I do not want someone who needs saving. I do not need saving. I want a partner, and you have been the right one since the moment I kissed you ten years ago.”
She made a small noise in her throat, heart full, and he lowered his mouth back on to hers. It was so gorgeously wonderful that she wanted to remain there forever. He tasted like water, and whenever he lifted his head from hers, he was unable to tear his eyes away from her lips, making them feel plump and lovely, capable of diverting his attention for all time. She loved the feeling of having her hands bound above her, entirely at his mercy. How intoxicatingly and unexpectedly lovely not to have to be in charge of the kisses after having to make so many decisions at home. Lovelier still because Anabelle knew that she was not being truly bound by Henry; he was not being rough with her in a way that she did not invite, and at a moment's notice, she knew that her hands could be released. She was free.
How surprising still that she did not shy away from him. It was as if she knew his body her entire life. As he pressed down upon her, scattering kisses above the neckline of her dress, she groaned, a completely un-ladylike sound that she did not care at all if he heard. She wanted him to hear it. He was her partner, after all, not somebody she had to mend, sew, protect, or hide anything from. So there he had it, the real Anabelle Givens, and he could damn well take it or leave it.
At the fierce look in her eyes, Henry knew he was in trouble. She was challenging him, daring him to take her pleasure away. He felt a shock of sadness that she would react this way; how many of life's small joys had she been robbed of? He knew only of a few, and he vowed that she would not know unnecessary loss every again.
“I want to give you something, Anabelle,” he told her, and hiked her skirts up past her knees.
She squealed, attempting to push them back down, but stilled as Henry lifted one of her legs over his shoulder. What a strange sight, to see one's own limbs displayed in such a manner. But these thoughts, too, were quelled as Henry slowly fingered his way up her leg, squeezing her calves and thighs in such a manner that every coiled-up muscle in her body relaxed in his hands. Then, to her surprise and confusion, he kissed her thigh. The sensation was not unpleasant, nor was the gentle way he handled the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Pulling aside her underclothes, he revealed her to his sight and Anabelle Givens was new reborn.
Anabelle hardly knew what happened after Henry Princely bent his head and kissed her firmly in the one spot that she thought would never see the light of day. As Henry's tongue sought out a particular spot in that area, Anabelle shivered, feeling the wet organ lick her; as he passed over a particularly sensitive place, she let out a little moan. Picking up on the cue, he licked it again, and at her responsive hip buck to it, knew he was in the correct place. Drawing his tongue in circles around it elicited a tightening of Anabelle's thighs around his head, and so he repeated the motion again and again, causing a hot feeling to slide from the pit of her belly all the way down to her toes.
Oh, but it was delicious! She could hardly think, did not want to think; all she wanted was the feeling of Henry thrashing his tongue in that one focused spot, but simultaneously, she wanted him all over her. As she grasped his head with her hands, forcing him in between her thighs, she was surprised to discover that he not only did not struggle against her hands, but seemed to feed off of her groans in the air and intensify his efforts. It was wonderful; she felt as if she was building on the brink of something monumental, but it was just there, just slightly out of reach. In the haze of need that awakened and sharpened in her she realized that Henry had managed to free one of her breasts from the confines of her dress and was now kneading it in synchronicity with the motions of his mouth on her flesh. As he rolled the breast in his fingers, he alternated the pressure between light and firm, so that Anabelle hardly knew what to pay attention to—the tingling that was radiating from her nipple or the wetness between her thighs.
“Henry,” she breathed, and he brought his mouth to close over hers as he drove his fingers directly into her wet slit, bringing her to a most monumental finish.
It was endless, waves of pleasure rolling over her entire body until she convulsed over his fingers, holding nothing back. And he, who drank in her cries of delight straight from the source, looked over her face as it contorted into an open-mouth, slack-jawed expression, felt an absurdly proud feeling come over himself, mixed in with an unexpected sense of possession. Anabelle Givens was his. To have, to hold, to pleasure. And one day soon, to make love to. He could not wait.
Later, as they lay together in the hay, her head on his shoulder and one arm across the broad expanse of his chest, everything around them was calm. It had been a long time since Anabelle had felt that safe, and it was perhaps no surprise at all that the place where she felt most cared for was in Henry Princely's arms. As she recalled what had just happened between them on the hay, she felt no shame. Looking up at the hayloft that was above them, she felt instead that everything in her life had come full circle, and if this was the beginning, rather than the end, then it was a good place to be. The last time she was here and feeling like this, Lady Givens was still alive and Henry Princely was demanding that she be his wife.
“Did you mean what you said before, Henry?” she asked him suddenly, tilting her face up to catch his profile in repose.
“About what?”
“About asking me to marry you,” she replied, after a moment's hesitation.
He looked down at her from the corner of his eye, then closed his eyes again. “Would you regret what just happened between us if I did not?”
Anabelle's heart beat faster, but she considered the question; Henry had never before given any indication of asking nonsense questions, so here he was again, demonstrating the kind of masculine vulnerability she was fast beginning to understand was his bread and butter. “No,” she answered him finally. “I would not. I came to you willingly, and you made me feel safe.”
Henry rolled up, taking her with him in the process. Taking her hands in his and placing them on his chest, he looked Anabelle right in the eyes with a look so piercing it clean took her breath away. “We have more in common than anyone else I know, sweetheart. I would do what we just did every night for the rest of my life with you and never grow tired of it. Do you understand how potent that is? And it is not because you are the most beautiful woman in the world to me. It is because I know that you do not hide your real face from me, that there is no falseness in your joy, and that you would do this with nobody else.”
Anabelle gulped. She could not stop the shaking that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of herself.
Henry kissed her hands and continued. “I am saying that I wish to roll around in the hay with you, and then I wish to speak with you. You are my helpmate and my partner. Anabelle Givens, will you build a future with me, or will you make me ask you to marry you a third time today?”
She laughed aloud, a shaky, relieved laugh that betrayed how terrified she was for the length of his soliloquy. “I will marry you, Henry Princely. I will be your lady.”
“Your Grace,” he said with an impish smile.
“Your Grace,” she cracked back, and the day shone bright around them.
* * *
“So you ended up with the Givens girl,” slurred Lady Princely from the velvet-backed chair.
It had been an interesting day for all parties involved. The wedding arrangements had been swiftly arranged, with Jack Whetstone having traveled to the nearest magistrate to obtain the special wedding license. There had been some talk as to why exactly the wedding had happened quite so quickly, but Henry and Anabelle had not cared. After the wedding feast and party was over, Henry had decided to brave bringing Anabelle over to the Princely mansion.
Years had passed it by as they had Anabelle's childhood home, but because it was her childhood imagination that had captivated Henry as a child, she had never seen it much. Fantastically clean and spacious, Anabelle could see that Henry put a lot of work into maintaining it; his father's bedchamber remained largely untouched since his passing. When she asked Henry why that was, thinking to a few rooms in her own home that had also begun to grow cobwebs as of late, he shook off the question and quickly changed the subject. It also seemed that his mother, who Anabelle remembered as a lady of great industriousness, was present, as well.
As they had neared the drawing room, Anabelle noticed a tension in Henry's face. “What are you afraid of, darling?” she asked him as they neared the heavy oak doors, intricately carved with bronze reliefs.
Henry hesitated, taking in the wide-eyed concern of his newly minted wife. “It has been a long time since you have seen my mother, Anabelle,” he finally said, taking her hand and tucking it into his arm. “Do you remember what your father was like, towards the end?”
Anabelle nodded, recalling how she had tried to hide evidence of her father's debauchery from everyone.
“My mother has not been quite the same since my father passed, and I am afraid she did not deal with his illness as smoothly as I did.”
“You told me about the decanters, Henry,” she told him gently, squeezing his hand.
“I know,” he answered, unable to meet her eyes. “But, to know how someone used to be, to recognize their potential, and then to have watched them fall so low..” he trailed off, unable to continue.
“You do not have to deal with this alone anymore,” she told him, her heart in her eyes. They walked in together.
Lovely Lady Princely's face had long since set into a fine web work of lines that made her seem far older than she was. She sat with a glass of something brown and liquid at a chair in her dressing gown, seemingly oblivious to the momentous occurrences of the day that had just passed. Taking in the white wedding gown on Anabelle, something registered, however, and the words with which she greeted her only son and his bride were informal bordering on rudeness. Recalling her father's own behavior when he was in the cups, Anabelle knew better than to take offense.
“Yes, and I ended up with little Lord Princely,” Anabelle told her, taking a seat opposite from her mother-in-law.
A shadow of a smile passed over the older woman's face and was swiftly replaced by a look of wistfulness as she took in her very blond, very lion-maned son as he settled in beside his new wife. “He is not so little anymore,” croaked Lady Princely, taking a drink of whatever was in her cup.
Anabelle looked at Henry, whose face was knotted with anxiety. “No, he's very large now, isn't he? And for that I am glad, for if I were still able to push him into the hay and cry uncle, that would make for a most unorthodox marriage, do you not agree, Lady Princely?”
For a moment, there was a sharp silence at Anabelle's gamble, and then Henry Princely heard the most delightful sound that had he had heard in the mansion in years. His mother, wound tighter than a fist despite the drink, let out a short, snorting laugh. Henry looked at his new wife with amazement, for it seemed that she was full of even more surprises than he had originally anticipated.
His mother, in turn, stood up from the velvet chair and smoothed out her skirts. “Well,” she said, more conversationally than he had heard in years, “I suppose it is a good thing that he is grown now. Although I cannot say that I care much for the state of his hair. You look positively bestial, Henry, do something about that,” she told him, smoothing out the great shaggy head with her fingers. Something warm passed through Henry, something he had been missing for many years.