Meet Me at Midnight (Romance, Completed)

Chapter 7

The path to the stables was shrouded in darkness, and for a moment, I wished I'd brought a torch, but I suspected Midnight wouldn't appreciate that. He chose darkness for a reason; I just didn't know what it was. Silence reigned. We hadn't kept horses since Angie and I turned nineteen, when the last of our childhood ponies died and neither of us had the inclination to look after another. Horse riding had been Mother's idea, anyway. Just one more skill every eligible young lady should have under her belt whether she liked it or not.

The door to the barn creaked as I pushed it open, and I forced thoughts of rats and spiders from my mind. Midnight was all that mattered. I'd expected inside to be pitch black, but a single candle flickered in the draft from the doorway. A tea light, small and flat, giving just enough light for me to avoid tripping over the wheelbarrow parked in the aisle.

The last stall, he said, and if he'd lit the candle, he must be there already. Heart hammering, I tiptoed forwards, right into his arms.

"You came," he whispered.

"You thought I wouldn't?"

"I worry every time."

His confession gave me confidence. "Trust me; there's nowhere I'd rather be."

I melted against his chest as he kissed me, and with no danger of sinking this time, I stood on tiptoes and gave as good as I got. The man made me wild, so wild I felt like a character from one of my books, not plain old Augusta.

It was Midnight who broke the clinch, but only to run his hands down my body.

"Tell me you didn't wear this to the party?"

"You weren't there?"

"Not this time. I only came here to see you."

A shiver ran through my body. Me. He'd come to see me. I tried to kiss him again, but he pulled back.

"You didn't answer my question."

"No, I didn't wear it to the party. I borrowed it from Angie's wardrobe afterwards."

His fingers found the zipper and lowered it an inch. "Good girl."

"You like it?"

"I like what's inside it."

The faint sound of him opening the dress all the way to the bottom was the loudest noise in the stables as I held my breath. He did too, I think. Then his hands were on me, running up the bare skin of my stomach until they closed over the lace cups of my bra, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"Perfect," he breathed, running one thumb over a nipple.

It hardened under his touch, and as I pressed forward with my hips, I found it wasn't the only hard thing between us.

Midnight tugged me forwards, and a soft thunk echoed in my ears as he sat down.

"On my lap," he ordered, half lifting me as he pulled me further towards him.

My knees hit one of the old wooden storage trunks, covered with a soft blanket. He'd come prepared again. I straddled his legs, taking the opportunity to grind myself against him, but he held my hips still.

"Not yet, mon cœur."

"But you're having all the fun."

He let go with one hand, paper rustled, then I felt something at my lips.

"Bite," he said.

Strawberries. He'd remembered the damn strawberries. And not just any old fruit—these were fat and juicy and covered in dark chocolate, bitter against the sweetness. A dribble of juice ran down my chin as I chewed, and he swiped it away with his tongue, finishing with a long kiss that made my toes curl.