Chapter 25: The Unending Ride
The morning sun climbed slowly over the Manoban estate, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold. Jennie lay motionless in her bed, listening to the distant sounds of the household waking—servants moving through corridors, pots clattering in the kitchen, a horse stamping in the stable yard.
Kai had left her chambers just before dawn, pressing a perfunctory kiss to her forehead, murmuring something about estate business and his father's expectations. She had pretended to sleep, feigning the peaceful repose of a dutiful wife, and the lie had tasted like ash in her mouth.
The tonic sat on her nightstand—a dark, viscous liquid in a crystal bottle. Moonwort and goat's milk. Strengthen her womb. She had poured it down the basin the moment the maid's footsteps had faded.
Now she rose, her body aching in ways that had nothing to do with her absent husband. Leonid had been gentle with her, and then he had been savage, and then he had been tender again, and she had taken him into her body and her heart and her very soul until she could no longer tell where she ended and he began.
She dressed with care, choosing a gown of pale green muslin that reminded her of the greenhouse. The fabric whispered against her skin as she moved, and she caught her reflection in the looking glass—flush high on her cheeks, lips still swollen from his kisses, eyes bright with secrets.
"A morning walk," she told the maid who came to attend her hair. "I shall take breakfast in the garden."
The maid curtsied. "Of course, my lady. Shall I have the footman accompany you?"
"That will not be necessary."
Jennie made her way through the mansion with careful nonchalance, nodding to the servants she passed, pausing to admire a painting she had seen a hundred times. The morning light slanted through the tall windows, catching motes of dust in golden beams, and the house felt quiet, almost peaceful.
She had not planned this.
She had told herself, as she dressed, that she would walk in the gardens. Perhaps sit by the fountain. Perhaps read a book in the summerhouse. Anything but what she was doing now, her feet carrying her down the gravel path toward the greenhouse, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The greenhouse rose before her, a cathedral of glass and iron, its panes misted with the humidity within. Vines curled around the frame, and through the cloudy windows she could see the dark shapes of exotic plants. The door was slightly ajar.
She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The air hit her like a wave—warm, heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming orchids. Ferns brushed against her skirts as she moved deeper into the space, following a winding path between stone benches laden with pots. The light filtered through the misted glass, soft and diffuse, casting everything in a dreamlike glow.
He was waiting for her at the far end, seated on a marble bench, his back against a pillar twined with jasmine. A book lay open on his lap, but his eyes were on her—dark and intense and utterly unsurprised.
"I wondered how long it would take you," he said, his voice a low velvet brush against her skin. "I thought perhaps after last night, you might need a day to recover."
She stopped before him, her hands trembling at her sides. "I should have stayed away."
"Indeed." He closed the book, setting it aside. "And yet here you are."
"You knew I would come."
"I prayed you would." He reached for her, and she went to him without volition, her knees giving way as he drew her down. "I have been sitting here since dawn, thinking of you. Of the way you sound when you come. Of the way you feel around me. Of the fact that I am going to burn for eternity in the depths of hell, and I cannot find it in myself to care."
"Leonid—"
"Don't." His thumb traced her lower lip. "Don't tell me we should stop. I know we should. I have known since the first moment I saw you, standing in the chapel in your white gown, my brother's ring on your finger. And I have wanted you anyway."
She kissed him.
There was no hesitation, no gentle preamble. Her mouth found his and she consumed him, and he consumed her in return, hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, closer, as if he could fuse them together through sheer force of will.
"Tell me what you want," he breathed against her lips. "Tell me, and I will give it to you."
She pulled back, her chest heaving, and looked at him—this man who had become her obsession, her salvation, her ruin. His dark curls were tousled, his lips reddened, his eyes burning with a hunger that matched her own.
"I want to feel nothing but you," she said. "I want to forget that I am Lady Manoban. That I am your brother's wife. I want to be nothing but yours, for however long we have."
His jaw tightened. "However long we have."
"Yes."
He rose, and before she could protest, he had lifted her onto the marble bench, his hands working at the closures of her gown with practiced efficiency. The fabric parted, sliding from her shoulders, baring her to the warm, humid air.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, pressing his lips to her collarbone. "Every time I see you, I cannot believe you are real."
She shivered as he worked his way lower, his mouth trailing down her sternum, her stomach, pausing to nipping at the soft skin above her navel. Her fingers tangled in his curls, holding him there, and she felt the heat pooling between her thighs like molten gold.
"Leonid, please—"
"Please what?" His voice was muffled against her skin. "Please tell me how much you want this? How much you want me?"
"Please touch me."
He smiled against her belly, and she felt the vibration of it through her whole body. "I intend to."
His hands hooked into the waistband of her undergarments, and he drew them down her legs with agonizing slowness, pressing kisses to each inch of exposed flesh as it came into view. When she was bare before him, she would have closed her thighs in modesty, but his hands were there, spreading her, holding her open.
"Look at you." His voice was rough, reverent, utterly obscene. "So wet for me already. Have you been dripping for me all morning, Jennie?"
"Yes," she gasped. "God, yes, ever since you left my bed—I could still feel you inside me, and all I wanted was more."
He made a sound—low, guttural, almost animal—and then his mouth was on her, and she forgot everything else.
His tongue found her clit with unerring accuracy, and she cried out, her back arching off the marble, her fingers clutching at his hair. He licked her with long, slow strokes, savoring her, and then he sealed his lips around her and sucked, and the world dissolved into a haze of pleasure.
"God—Leonid—" She threw her head back, her hips bucking against his face. "Yes, right there, please don't stop—"
He showed no inclination to stop. His tongue lashed at her, flicking and circling, and then he pressed it inside her, fucking her with it while his thumb circled her clit with devilish precision. She was already close, the heat building in her core like a wave about to break, and he seemed to know it, relentless as a tide.
"I want to taste you," he said, pulling back just long enough to speak. "I want to swallow every drop of your pleasure. I want to watch you come apart on my tongue."
"Then do it," she begged. "Please, Leonid, I need—"
He dove back between her thighs, and this time he was hungrier, more desperate, eating her like a man starved. She bucked against his mouth, her thighs clamped around his head, and when he thrust two fingers inside her while his tongue worked her clit, she shattered.
She came with a cry torn from her throat, her body convulsing, waves of pleasure crashing through her as he lapped at her, drinking her down, murmuring filthy praise against her slick flesh.
"My perfect girl. So sweet. I want to fuck you on this bench and taste you on my lips for the rest of the day."
She was still trembling when he pulled her onto his lap, arranging her astride him, her knees bracketing his hips. The bulge of his cock pressed against her thigh through his breeches, and she could feel the heat of him even through the fabric.
"Help me with these," he said, guiding her hands to the buttons of his fall. "I need inside you. Now."
Her fingers worked eagerly, fumbling with the fastenings until his cock sprang free, thick and hard and flushed dark with need. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking slowly, and he groaned, his head falling back against the pillar.
"Fuck, Jennie—your hand—"
"You like that?" She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "You like my hand on your cock, Leonid?"
"I like everything you do to me. Everything you let me do to you." His hands gripped her hips, lifting her. "But I need to be inside you. I need to feel you around me."
She positioned herself over him, the head of his cock pressing against her slick entrance, and they both stilled, breathless, frozen on the edge of the moment.
"Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see your eyes when I enter you."
She looked at him, dark eyes meeting dark, and then she sank down.
He filled her impossibly, stretching her, and she gasped at the fullness—the way he seemed to reach every nerve, every hidden place inside her that she had never known existed. He was so deep, so thick, and for a moment they simply remained there, joined, breathing together.
"God, Jennie," he breathed. "You feel like heaven. Like you were made for my cock."
"Move," she demanded. "Please move."
He did.
He thrust upward as she bore down, and the impact sent pleasure sparking through her like lightning. She rode him with growing confidence, finding a rhythm that made his breath hitch, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Just like that," she moaned. "God, Leonid, just like that—"
He sat up, capturing her mouth in a filthy kiss, his tongue tangling with hers as he continued to pound into her from below. One hand slid up her body, finding her breast where it spilled from her gown, and he squeezed it rough enough to make her gasp.
"I love these tits," he muttered against her mouth. "I love the way they bounce when you ride me. I want to suck them while I fuck you."
She whimpered, and he obliged—leaning forward to seal his lips around her nipple, sucking hard as he drove into her. The stimulation doubled, triple, her pleasure building to a fever pitch.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please, don't stop, I'm so close—"
"Come for me." He bit down on her nipple, sharp, and she cried out. "Come on my cock, Jennie. Show me how much you need it."
She shattered again, her inner walls clenching around him, and he followed her over the edge with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing inside her as he spilled his seed.
For a long moment, they stayed tangled together, breathing hard, slick with sweat. The greenhouse pressed around them—silent, humid, redolent with the scent of sex and orchids.
Then, a sound from outside.
Footsteps crunching on gravel.
Leonid's eyes snapped to the door, and he moved with a fluid grace that amazed her—lifting her off him, setting her aside, tucking himself back into his breeches with practiced speed.
"Stay here," he breathed. "Don't move."
He crossed to the greenhouse entrance, stepping outside with an air of casual authority. Jennie heard a servant's voice, low and deferential, and then Leonid's response, smooth as silk.
"The lady is taking some air. She is not to be disturbed."
A pause. "Of course, Mr. Manoban. I shall inform the house."
"See that you do."
The footsteps retreated. Leonid returned to her, a wicked smile curving his lips.
"Where were we?" he asked, pulling her back into his arms.
She laughed, breathless, giddy. "You are incorrigible."
"I am yours," he corrected, kissing her forehead. "Completely, utterly, hopelessly yours."
He eased her back onto the marble bench, settling between her thighs, and when his mouth found her again, she did not protest.
She let the pleasure take her, again and again, until the sun curved across the sky and the greenhouse grew golden with afternoon light. The gardener came twice more, and Leonid dismissed him with the same imperious authority, his voice never faltering even as his tongue worked between Jennie's legs.
They did not speak of what would happen next.
They did not speak of Kai, or the heir, or the impossible guilt that would follow them home.
They simply existed, bodies tangled in the warmth of the glass house, two souls burning toward their own damnation.
Because some loves were beautiful, and some loves were ruinous, and theirs was both.
When the sun began to sink toward the horizon, Jennie finally rose, her legs unsteady, her body achingly satisfied. Leonid watched her dress with hungry eyes, making no move to help, content to drink in the sight of her.
"Tonight?" she asked, and she hated the desperation in her voice.
He shook his head. "My mother expects me at dinner. And you have a husband to attend."
"I cannot—"
"You can." He stood, crossing to her, and kissed her once, gently, sweetly. "Stay with me tomorrow. I will find a way."
"And if you cannot?"
His smile was dagger-edged. "I will always find a way to you, Jennie. No matter what stands between us."
She wanted to believe him.
She had to believe him.
Because the alternative—a life without him, a life of duty and heir-making and Kai's oblivious affection—was a fate worse than death.
She slipped out of the greenhouse, the evening air cool against her heated skin, and walked back toward the mansion with secrets burning in her chest. She would wash. She would dress. She would smile at her husband and eat her dinner.
But all the while, she would be thinking of tomorrow.
And of Leonid.
Always, only, Leonid.