Kissed at Midnight (14 page)

“Oh, August,” she spilled
out. “Feels so good.”

“Keep moving,” he said
tightly. “Keep moving, my sweets.”

My sweets.
My
sweets.
It was not until that moment she realised how much she longed to be
my
sweets
.
My
anything really. No one else had been interested in
claiming her, not even her parents.

Before she could respond, he
picked up the pace, working her frantically against his hardness. She
maintained that pace by rocking with him while a sweet burn kindled under her
skin, making her feel as though she had drunk strong spirits.

It shattered through her—the
blissful feeling. Her body shook and she drew in great breaths while her peak
flooded through her. She clenched her eyes shut to focus on the feeling and the
image of August’s blue eyes floated in front of her vision.

He didn’t let up, didn’t
release her. Fingers clamped to her waist her rocked her and rocked her. A
guttural groan came from him and her eyelids flew open to watch it happen.

“Damn it.” He hissed the
words and lifted her away from him and she stared on as he raised the blankets
and pumped furiously. She longed to curl her hand around his and help him but
her orgasm had made her limbs weak and useless. She sat, slumped to one side,
awe-struck by the sight.

His gaze locked with hers as
he spilled. It said,
This was you, Ivy. You did this to me. You do this to
me.

Drawing in a deep breath
that made his chest rise and made her long to spread her palms across it, he
used his nightshirt to clean himself and released that breath before looking at
her. She knew what was coming. Some words of regret perhaps or he would berate
himself for losing control.

So before he could speak,
she leaned over and kissed his slack lips. Ivy caught sight of his brow
creasing in surprise briefly as she flattened her lips to his.

“That was wonderful,” she
said when she drew away, “thank you.”

And then she left him. Satisfaction
mingled with regret. The desire to crawl back into bed with August and while
away the morning tucked into his side, perhaps seeing if she could get him
aroused again, burned low in her belly. But that wouldn’t happen.

Not yet at least. She
allowed herself a grin as she slipped back into her bedroom and peeked in to
see Elsie sleeping soundly in her cot. She’d created a crack. Soon she would
break all the way through and finally get what she craved.

It was no good. He’d have to fire her. This couldn’t go
on. He glanced at the window and saw Ivy holding Elsie while they waved
goodbye. He was to spend the day at the tunnel site. Hopefully they’d caught up
after the collapse. After his last visit, he wasn’t so sure though. The men had
likely been replaced—there were always men looking for work, even dangerous
work like tunnel construction—but the damage had been great and much of the
brickwork would need replacing. His palms grew sweaty when he thought of the
money and time lost with the delays, but more than anything regret yanked at
his gut at the loss of life. This was his project and regardless of why it had
happened, the blame would always land at his feet.

He greeted the driver and
stepped up into the closed carriage. A glance to the window revealed Ivy still
watching him. She did that a lot—watched him. It was disconcerting indeed.

He’d have to fire her.

August had this awful notion
she saw through him. She continued to inch him forwards and now he was hanging
from that bridge by just his fingers. Each time she bestowed a look upon him or
she brushed past him or tried to get close, one finger would slip. He thought
it likely he was hanging on by only his fingernails now.

Settling back against the
plush seat of the carriage, he eyed the dark blue velvet interior and told
himself not to glance back at her.

One week. Seven days.
Countless hours. And yet he’d still not forgotten what it was like to have her
ride against him, to have her come apart. His own release had been blinding but
unsatisfying. He doubted it would ever be satisfying until he was buried inside
her—a gravely worrying notion as he had little intention of taking her
innocence.

A twisted smile teased his
lips. He couldn’t help admire her determination again. She wanted something and
she went for it. He was the same. He’d worked damned hard to get where he was,
driven by a passion to see the country continue to prosper and a need to push
for more—to achieve things men said were impossible.

Taking Ivy Davis, however,
was not something he wished to achieve. At least, the honourable part of him
didn’t wish to. A small part of him whispered at him to give in to her. To let
her push him over. What would be waiting at the bottom for him, though? A few
moments of pleasure and then she’d be gone, leaving him with the knowledge he’d
ruined her. Perhaps she might even take a little of his soul with her too. He
had the distinct impression that one night buried in the gregarious Ivy could
do such a thing, sublime creature that she was.

The carriage took him out of
the town and over the bumpy country roads. The land here was wild and barren in
places but breathtaking. Not enough to distract him unfortunately. That woman
occupied his thoughts far too often.

He’d have to fire her.

But where would she go? And
who would look after Elsie? No, he couldn’t let her go, not quite yet. August
Avery would not let himself be dictated to by a woman. He’d use today to centre
his thoughts, gain some control back and steel his determination. Employee.
Master. Nothing more. And he’d do well to remember that.

Of course, the image of her
in her nightgown, riding him, her lips parted in pleasure plagued him until he
reached the tunnel site. His fingers near burned from the memory of holding her
slender waist.

Not even the whipping wind
as he stepped out of the carriage and made his way down the dirt track to the
entrance of the tunnel could wash away that memory. A sound beating might
banish the memories but he doubted it. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try. He’d
visit the club some time this week, though he wouldn’t allow himself to get
bruised and battered. If Ivy insisted on tending to him again, he suspected it
would be the end of him.

Mud squelched under his shoes
and a whistle rang out. Men spilled from the tunnel in search of sustenance. A
ramshackle hut housed the tables and they all made their way to it to eat their
fill of stew. August paused to admire the entranceway. They were making good progress
after all. Some of the stonework had been put in place and they looked to be
maybe a month away from finishing.

He stopped by the foreman’s
hut, but Mr Phillips must have been dining too as he was nowhere to be seen.
Deciding he would find him after lunch, August left the hut and went to inspect
the interior of the tunnel. Lamps lit the way and wooden scaffolding lined the
damp interior. Underfoot, boards created a relatively dry walkway but they
squelched into the mud with each step. He gazed up at the brickwork, ignoring
the drops of water that landed on his face and shoulders.

Pride filled him. He’d
almost done it, and all the naysayers would have to admit he was not an utter
fool for such an endeavour. This tunnel would be the pinnacle of his career.
Here, in this dark hole, he’d made his mark on the world.

Satisfied things were not as
dire as he’d feared, he returned to the foreman’s hut to find Mr Phillips at
his desk with a bowl of stew.

“Sir,” he greeted, coming to
his feet.

August waved him back down.
“How are things, Phillips? I see we’ve made progress on the facade.”

“Yes, sir. We took on
several more hands after the collapse and have kept up the pace.”

“How many extra hands do we
have now?”

“We took on five more to
replace the men lost and another half dozen to keep us on schedule.” The man
pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I’d say we’ve only lost about a week.”

August nodded and flicked
through the accounts book on the desk. “It shouldn’t cost us too much more to
keep on those extra men for the remainder of the project. Hopefully we’ll still
be on budget.”

“Yes, sir. We planned for
these things and though we didn’t expect a collapse this late on, it has not
made too much of a difference.”

“Excellent.” He paused to
peer out of the small, grimy window as the whistle that signalled the end of
lunch sounded. “Who is that?”

A figure was visible up on
the hilltop. He appeared to have a camera and was photographing the tunnel.
Phillips stood and came to his side.

“Oh that’s a Mr Knightsbridge
from the Manchester Gazette. A real pain in the arse, if you don’t mind me
saying, sir. He’s been trying to gain access to the tunnel to photograph the
progress but I keep having men carry him off. He will not listen when I tell
him it’s too dangerous. Says that if it’s too dangerous for him, why are
hundreds of men allowed to work inside.”

August pinched the bridge of
his nose. A naysayer. Here was one of the men who had flouted his project as
foolish—a waste of time and money. Why build a tunnel when they could just go
around the hill? Never mind that it saved time, land and money. Why would men
forever be scared of change?

The fleeting notion that Ivy
brought about change invaded his mind and he shoved it away. He wasn’t scared
of change or, heaven forbid, a woman. He simply didn’t want to bed an innocent.

Slapping closed the accounts
book, he drew in a breath through his nostrils. “I shall speak with him.
Perhaps if he has some answers, he’ll leave you be. It’s too dangerous to have
him getting in the way of the workers.”

Phillips nodded and sat down
to finish his stew. August stepped out of the hut and squinted at the figure on
the hill. He noted the reporter appeared to be turning his camera to the dining
hut. What was so interesting about the hut that he needed to have photos?

August wasted no time in
climbing the hill to come to Mr Knightsbridge’s side. The man was tall and
reedy with a slightly sickly countenance. Not many men were taller than August
but this one managed to peer down his nose at him with a distinct air of
haughtiness.

“Good day,” August greeted.
“Can I help you?”

“Mr August Avery, is it
not?”

“It is indeed.”

The reporter offered a hand.
“Mr Knightsbridge of the Manchester—”

“I know.” August took his
hand and shook it hard enough to make the man wince. He released the man’s hand
and folded his arms. “My foreman tells me you’ve been making a nuisance of
yourself.”

“I’m merely doing my job, Mr
Avery.”

“Which is?”

“Reporting the news, of
course.” Mr Knightsbridge patted his camera. “The public likes a good story and
your tunnel has them enraptured it seems.”

August snorted. He might
think of little else but railways and tunnels—and Ivy—but he didn’t think the
public were all that fascinated by it. Give them a completed tunnel and there
would be a fanfare when the first train passed through but who wished to see
photos of mud and filthy workers?

“Enraptured? Really?”

“Since the devastating
collapse, there has been increased interest. Perhaps you could give me a quote
for the paper, Mr Avery? A message to the readers on how you will prevent any
more travesties?”

His tightened his jaw. “We
work as safely as we can. Accidents happen. They always will but it has nothing
to do with the safety regulations we have in place.”

“So you think you are
providing adequate protection for your workers?”

August let his brow furrow.
“Since when is the gazette interested in the lives of navvies? Aren’t you
better off reporting on the latest ball or scandalous piece of gossip?”

A smirk on the man’s lips
made August want to bunch his fist and wipe it away.

“People care these days.
This is where the stories are, Mr Avery. Tales of sorrow and tragedy. That’s
what people want.”

“How fortunate for you that
you found your tragedy, Mr Knightsbridge. No doubt it sold many newspapers for
you. But let me assure you, there shall be no more tragedies unless I find you
on site again. As you have pointed out, these sites are dangerous and I could
not guarantee your safety.”

“Is that a threat, Mr
Avery?”

Was it? Perhaps it was. Heat
bubbled beneath his skin. How dare this man insinuate that August hadn’t done
everything in his power to protect the workers? Did this man ever talk to them
or play cards with them or even look at them with anything other than disdain?
He doubted it. But August knew them, spoke with them, sat at the same table as
them sometimes. And now this man was using those deaths as entertainment for
the masses. Bile rose in his throat.

“Get off this land, Mr
Knightsbridge, before I have you forcibly removed.”

That smug look remained and
August fisted a hand at his side. He’d probably given the reporter his story.
He could see the headlines now.
Respected engineer or potential murderer?
What
a mess.

“Good day to you, Mr Avery,”
he said as he began to pack away his camera.

Unable to summon a polite
response, August turned and stomped back down the hill. When he reached the
bottom and peered back at the hill, he saw the reporter was making his way to
the road and a waiting carriage. Good. He hoped that was the last they saw of
him. Now he just had to hope the man didn’t write some disparaging article and
further tarnish August’s name. The scepticisms surrounding this project had
already done a vast amount of damage.

He rubbed his temples and
strode back in the direction of the office hut. For the briefest moment he
longed to be in Ivy’s arms. He wanted her soft fingers brushing through his
hair and telling him not to worry. To breathe in her scent and hear her voice
would soothe away all his ills. The idea shocked him so much that he came to a
stop and had to take a moment to gather his wits. He was used to the burning
desire now but never before had he wanted to just be held by a woman. What the
devil was she doing to him?