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“Do you want anything?”
When Rupert was at Harrow, freshly seventeen and endowed of a beauty and a greed that rivalled those of the gods, he’d been subjected to perpetually boring lessons on Dante’s Inferno, as it was apparently considered important for boys like him to spend their afternoons contemplating eternal damnation before eventually inheriting the family country estate.
Rupert remembered remarkably little of it, he was bright enough to keep decent grades but his mind had been too absorbed by the newfound joy of fucking anything that moved to care remotely for dead poets’ verses. Entire afternoons that should have been devoted to medieval Italian literature were instead spent devoting himself between a girl’s (occasionally a boy, because that’s the way it was in boarding school) legs, singing his own verses as he reached for a blinding pleasure.
The older masters liked to drone on about temptation as if the very act of pursuing, wanting, needing was sinful in itself, we’re not animals, as Dante rightly says through Ulysses words, “you were not made to live like brutes, but to pursue virtue and knowledge”.
Rupert had considered this evidence that none of them had seen a pair of tits since 1945.
At seventeen, the idea that desire might be dangerous had seemed profoundly ridiculous. Desire was fun. Desire was a blonde sixth-former sneaking into a classroom after dark. Desire was a stable girl's hand disappearing beneath a tablecloth during a dinner party. Desire was finding yourself alive in a body that wanted things and discovering, with immense relief, that the world wanted you back.
Rupert, though, wanted too much.
Wanted too much then, wants too much now.
Somewhere in Dante’s labyrinth of sinners and punishments there had been a circle reserved for the greedy, just like you, Mr. Campbell-Black, his master had said while Rupert doodled horses in the margin of his exercise book and contemplated how many minutes he had left of that calvary.
Rupert couldn’t remember which circle it was. The Fourth? The Fifth? Frankly, he hadn’t cared then and cares even less now.
Men bent double beneath enormous weights, shoving them across the ground with their chests until they collided with one another, endlessly straining towards something they could never quite possess. At seventeen, Rupert had thought it was a ludicrous punishment.
If one was going to spend eternity in Hell, surely there were more entertaining ways to pass the time than pushing rocks around. Now, however, he's beginning to see the point.
Rupert had spent most of his life believing himself immune to torture, to punishment, wanting had never been much of a hardship when people had a habit of placing them directly into the palm of his hands. Horses, men, women, houses, estates, silver cups. The wanting was usually the difficult part, the having tended to sort itself out.
Taggie O’Hara, unfortunately, had exposed a flaw in the system. Because she was everywhere.
If fate had wanted to be merciful, it would have sent her to London, back to Ireland, or wherever she fancied herself happy to be. Instead she remained stubbornly, maddeningly present, and he couldn't blame fate for it. He did that. He chose to keep her in Rutshire, as close as possible to him. Sitting across from him during meetings, laughing at something her siblings had said, wandering through his house in the night like a tiny, welcome ghost in his life.
Most desires diminished with familiarity, Rupert had always relied upon that. Mystery evaporates, beauty becomes ordinary, the world moves on.
Taggie refused to cooperate.
Every conversation simply produced the desire for another. Every afternoon made him greedier for the evening. Every accidental touch left him wanting another one, and then again and again. It was like trying to quench thirst with seawater.
Perhaps that was the punishment.
To be given just enough to keep the appetite alive, to have her laughter but not her kisses, to have her company but not her naked in his bed, to spend hours in her presence while being denied the one thing he wanted with a desperation that was becoming increasingly difficult to disguise.
The old Italians would probably have appreciated the symmetry.
Forty years spent greedily taking whatever caught his eye, and now the universe had finally discovered a joke at his expense.
Do you want anything?
Rupert looks up.
Or rather, down.
Taggie is standing directly in front of him, close enough that he can make out the tiny constellation of freckles scattered across her nose even in the darkness. A flash of lightning beyond the kitchen windows briefly illuminates her face before disappearing again.
His jumper hangs off her shoulders, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem falling almost to the tops of her thighs. Rupert remembers buying it years ago. Remembers pulling it over his head after polo matches, after long days in the saddle, after evenings spent drinking far too much whiskey in front of a fire.
It has absolutely no business looking better on her. Beneath it, visible whenever the lightning catches the fabric just right, there is the tiniest peak of a white nightgown, nothing remotely scandalous, the sort of thing nuns probably wore. Which does nothing to quiet his mind, God knows he would want her even if she'd been wearing a sack of potatoes. He is, after all, a healthy man with functioning eyes. Any man with functioning eyes would want her.
Her question is tricky, though, because when Taggie looks at him, like she's doing right now, with her gentle and unassuming doe eyes, he doesn’t want anything.
He wants everything.
He wants to know what she dreams about. He wants to know what she looked like when she was seven years old. He wants to know whether she sings to herself when she’s alone in the kitchen. He wants to know what sort of flowers she’d plant if somebody gave her an entire garden to fill.
He wants to know what she would call a horse.
A dog.
A child.
He wants to know what she’ll look like in ten years. Twenty. Forty. He wants every version of her that has existed and every version that hasn’t happened yet. He wants the stories she hasn’t told him. The thoughts she keeps to herself. The tiny pieces of her day that nobody else notices and that would probably bore anybody else to tears.
He wants her laughter at breakfast, beside him on long drives, at Penscombe on rainy Sundays.
He wants her in every future he can imagine.
“I mean, tea or…” Taggie continues, smiling uncertainly when he doesn’t answer immediately. There is a curious flush spreading slowly across her cheeks, fingers twisting the cuff of his jumper as she lowers her head, no longer meeting his eyes.
Surely he can't tell her that he wants to bend her down over the sink and have his wicked way with her, can't he? That he wants to find if her cunt is as exquisite as the delicacies she cooks everyday, if she's ready for him as he is for her, if she'd let him fuck her all over the counter like he dreamed over and over since they kissed, if—
“Tea sounds lovely,” Rupert splurts, nodding down as if he could erase the dirt coating his thoughts.
The smile that immediately brightens her face is so disproportionate to the achievement that he almost laughs, one would think he’d just informed her she’d won the lottery.
“Right,” she says quickly. “Tea.”
He watches as Taggie fumbles around the kitchen, stopping to collect a couple of mismatched candles that have seen better days, mummy uses them to meditate but i don't think it works that well, you know?
Rupert finds himself smiling.
There is something deeply reassuring about Taggie’s inability to hold a single train of thought. Conversations with her never travel in straight lines, they wander, they double back, they stop to pick wild flowers by the roadside.
He likes that.
More than likes it.
Most people speak to impress, and Taggie, his Taggie, speaks exactly as she thinks, allowing other people, allowing him, of all people the privilege of following along.
“I swear the lighter was right here." she mutters, complaining under her breath as she looks into a drawer.
Rupert doesn’t answer, simply reaching into his pocket and producing his lighter. The expression that crosses her face is so profoundly betrayed that Rupert almost laughs aloud.
“You had one?” she huffs, resting her hip against the table as she watches him stalk closer, flattening herself against the cabinets when he leans forward to flick the lighter on.
“Darling,” he says, unable to stop smiling, “I’ve been carrying a lighter since before you were born.”
The flame springs to life between them. Rupert lowers it towards the candle, but for a moment he forgets what he’s doing. She's too close, her clean, sweet scent pervades his nostrils and he has to stop himself to inhale like the beast he is, pursing his lips shut when he feels her nightgown brush against his trousers.
“Very funny,” she mumbles, though she doesn't actually move away. She leans forward just a fraction, her breath catching the tiny flame and making it dance wildly between them before it finally catches the white cotton wick of the candle.
Taggie is standing so close he can see the individual strands of her hair where they’ve escaped whatever loose attempt she’d made to tame them when he'd finally got her home. They spill over her shoulders and down her back in a thick auburn curtain, catching the lighter’s glow and turning briefly molten.
His eyes trace her as she drags her hands through the long mane, pushing them out of the way and patting the stubborn fringe down.
Rupert cannot remember when he learned the exact shape of her hands. He cannot remember when he started recognising her footsteps before seeing her. He cannot remember when he began automatically looking for her in every room he entered, or when his day started feeling wrong if he hadn’t spoken to her.
Rupert thinks he must've gotten pretty obvious, because Taggie is watching him with furrowed eyebrows, a frown marking the soft skin between her eyes, he wants to press his thumb there, gently rub until it smooths out, until every single one of her worries slides away.
"I'll go find the kettle." she murmurs, stepping back like she's just got a bad burn to heal.
He lets her fuss. There is a comfort in watching her move around the dark kitchen, the gentlest ease that Rupert isn't entirely sure he deserves to witness. She fills the kettle by the light of the single candle, her movements a little too quick, a little too tight, as if she’s trying to ignore his presence. She's not doing the greatest job, if he has to be honest.
Rupert waits until the water boils, then steps in without a word, taking the heavy ceramic teapot from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly, a jolt of warmth, almost scorching, as he helps her pour the steaming water into two mismatched mugs so she doesn't burn herself in the dim light.
Carrying the mugs and the candle, they move quietly over to the kitchen table and sit down. They’ve barely settled into their chairs when a clumsy weight hits the side of Taggie’s leg. Claudius (the O'Haras surely love to give their pets the most abysmal names) scrambles up without an ounce of grace, throwing his front paws directly into her lap and thumping his tail wildly against the chair.
"Hello, baby. Did we wake you up?" Taggie whispers with a breathless laugh, though her hands are already sinking into his thick, unruly fur, her face softening in the amber glow of the candlelight. There is an unreserved warmth in the way she loves—even a clumsy, tiny nuisance of a puppy—that Rupert finds both utterly beautiful and rather terrifying. It’s a capacity for tenderness that he doesn't quite know what to do with, it leaves him stranded on a chair with nothing to do but stare like a lovesick child.
As Claudius completely monopolizes Taggie, a much quieter shape ambles out from the shadows beneath the table. Gertrude bypasses her mistress entirely and with a slow, heavy sigh, she rests her furry chin directly on Rupert’s knee, looking up at him with soulful, unblinking eyes. Rupert looks down at the old dog, a genuine, lazy smile touching his lips.
He reaches down, his long fingers scratching her behind the ears exactly where he knows she likes it, feeling the steady, rhythmic thump of her tail against his boot.
"Are you feeling neglected, old girl?" Rupert asks Gertrude, tipping his head forward when she sighs again. "Poor little baby."
"She likes you best, you know," Taggie says softly, playing with Claudius' paws as she speaks. "She usually doesn't give anyone the time of day if I'm in the room, but the moment you sit down, she deserts me."
"She has excellent taste," Rupert replies, his lips twitching into a lazy, lopsided smile. "She recognizes a fellow creature of refined sensibilities. We don't throw ourselves into people's laps like..." He gives a pointed nod toward Claudius, who chooses that exact moment to let out a tiny, high-pitched puppy snore.
“Well, you gave him to me,” Taggie says, aiming a fierce but entirely unconvincing glare at him across the candlelit table. She shifts her weight slightly, careful not to disturb the sleeping lump of fur pinned against her ribs. "He’s just affectionate. It’s a very desirable trait in a dog.”
“He surely doesn't know the concept of personal boundaries." Rupert corrects dryly, though the fondness in his eyes as he looks at her entirely betrays his words.
“Well,” Taggie mumbles, her eyes dropping to the flickering wick of the candle as she traces a circle in the puppy's fur, “he takes after his previous owner, then.”
Rupert lets out a low, rough chuckle that catches in his throat as a bright, beautiful flush creeps up Taggie's neck, and she quickly lowers her eyes, suddenly fascinated by the black pads of Claudius's paws.
"I'll have you know," Rupert says, his voice dripping with dry amusement, "I owned him for a total of thirty minutes before delivering him to your doorstep. If he has any bad habits, they were acquired under your roof, not mine."
"Alright," Taggie mumbles, her voice very small but determined as she continues to stroke the puppy. "Shared custody, then. You can't just disown your part in him."
The grin that touches Rupert's lips fades into a rueful smile. He looks down at Gertrude, whose chin is still pinning his knee down, and his fingers slow their rhythm.
"Mm." he muses, fixing Gertrude's collar. "I wouldn't want to disappoint you, too."
Taggie looks up instantly, the teasing light completely vanishing from her eyes, replaced by that fierce, instinctive empathy that always made Rupert feel raw in front of her.
"How is it going?" she asks softly. "With the children?"
Rupert sighs, a heavy, tired sound filling his lungs as he reaches into his pocket, this time to pull out his silver case. He slides a cigarette between his lips and flicks the wheel of the lighter, the bright flash briefly illuminating the deep, weary lines around his eyes before he blows a stream of gray smoke toward the kitchen ceiling.
"Awfully," he says bluntly. He rests his head against the back of the chair, staring at the candle wick. "But it's my fault. Entirely my own doing, I can hardly complain."
"You can," she says softly, her voice cutting through the wind blowing violently against the windows. "If you want."
Rupert shifts, his broad shoulders settling back, and despite the topic, a strange, ironic sense of warmth washes over him. He is uncomfortable, sitting on a hard wooden chair in a freezing kitchen in the middle of the night, yet he feels more fundamentally at ease than he had hours ago, lying in his own bed next to his actual girlfriend. Strong, sleek, sophisticated Cameron, who fit perfectly into the high-society world he usually operated in, but who felt entirely miles away from the man sitting here in the dark.
He looks down at Gertrude, who gives a soft, encouraging thump of her tail against his boot as if she’s in on the secret, too.
"Marcus won't speak to me," he says bluntly, the admission tearing out of his throat before he can stop it.
"Oh," Taggie mumbles, her face twisting into an expression of pure, instinctive sorrow. "I'm sorry, Rupert."
She reaches out and takes a slow sip of her tea, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the tea now gone cold as she sets the mismatched mug back down on the wooden table.
"Maybe he just needs a bit of time," Taggie offers softly, her eyes drifting back to Rupert's face, lips pressing in a thoughtful pout. "He's so sensitive, isn't he? He just feels so much."
Of course she would see through him so easily, she reminds him so much of Marcus it hurts, with the exact same bruising vulnerability, the kind of skinless sensitivity that makes them bleed for other people without a second thought, without care for themselves. It was a trait Rupert had always viewed with awe and absolute terror, mostly because he knew the world tore people like that to pieces.
"Yeah. Don't know where he gets it from."
"You're sensitive, too," Taggie says instantly, her voice quiet but utterly resolute. "You just hide it well."
Rupert takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke screen the sudden, sharp tightening in his throat. He doesn't look away from her. He can't. The sheer audacity of her, sitting there in a faded cotton nightgown that smells of simple soap, dismantling the armor it took him thirty-eight years of living to build.
"I don't hide anything, Taggie," he says, "I’m just an arrogant bastard. Ask anyone in Rutshire. They’ll give you a highly detailed list of my sins, and not one of them involves being 'sensitive.'"
"They don't know you," she replies simply, her fingers returning to the slow, rhythmic stroking of Claudius’s velvet ears. She doesn't back down an inch, her bright eyes reflecting the tiny, dancing flame of the candle between them.
"And you do?"
Taggie looks down at the table, her lashes casting long shadows against her skin as she nervously traces the edge of her cold mug.
"I like to think I do," she says softly, her voice barely louder than the wind rattling the windowpanes.
One thing about Taggie, his sweet, gentle Taggie, is that she's rarely wrong. For a wild, reckless second, he wants to lean across the table and tell her everything, he wants to tear down every trembling wall he's stupidly built between them and let it all pour out of him like a river in a sudden, violent flood, every bitter regret, every failure, every dark, disturbing thought that keeps him awake at three in the morning as Cameron slept soundly beside him.
Instead, he wrenches his eyes away from her cherubic face and forces himself to look down at his wrist, checking his watch with a sudden, jerky movement.
"It's late," he says, stubbing his cigarette out with a ridiculously shaky hand.
Taggie gently shifts the sleeping puppy off her lap and stands up, her nightgown brushing against her calves.
"Come on," she says gently. "I'll fix you up in Caitlin's bedroom."
"You're sure she won't mind?" he asks, teasing ever so slightly.
Taggie pauses, turning back to look at him with a sudden, wry little smile that makes her eyes sparkle in the gloom.
"Mind?" she echoes softly. "I'm worried she'll never want me to wash her sheets again when she finds out you've slept in them."
Rupert laughs, a proper laugh this time, deep and unburdened, the rich sound following them out of the kitchen and into the staircase. The house is almost completely dark now, the almost burnt away candle remains behind them, trembling across the kitchen walls before disappearing altogether as Taggie pulls the door gently closed, though not before Gertrude and Claudius dutifully pad out behind them, their paws clicking softly against the flagstones.
Instantly, the pitch-black darkness of the old, rambling house swallows them whole. Rupert takes two blind, halting steps forward before his shin violently collides with the sharp corner of a heavy oak lowboy.
"Christ," he mutters. "I can't see shit."
"Come" she breathes back, and before he can grope blindly for the wall or ruin his shins any further, he feels a small, warm touch slide against his wrist. Taggie’s hand moves down, her fingers small but remarkably steady as they wrap securely around his large, calloused palm.
Rupert lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, his long fingers instinctively curling tighter around hers. He lets her guide him, his boots finding their footing after her, following her just as Claudius is doing, which is quite an apt comparison, albeit a tad humiliating.
Almost one year ago (although they felt like ten) he had been the one dragging Taggie up the stairs, his grip firm so she couldn't escape to go back and fix whatever needed her attention, practically carrying her because she had worked herself to the bone looking after everyone else, leaving herself entirely spent.
Rupert remembers how frail she had felt then, how desperately he had wanted to shield her from her own boundless generosity.
"Nearly there," Taggie whispers, completely unaware. She turns a corner at the top of the landing, her thumb brushing casually, soothingly against the back of his hand as she speaks in that husky voice of hers. These stairs are a bit trickier than the ones in the drawing room, you know? And daddy never fixed the third step, we always end up stumbling there.
Taggie turns right down the long, drafty corridor, her nightgown billowing slightly in the chill air and Rupert follows like a man under a spell, his eyes locked onto the back of her head, completely unable to let go of her hand and as her thumb gives another tiny, completely unconscious swipe against his knuckles, he knows he is completely powerless against her.
"Here we are," Taggie mumbles, pausing outside a door at the very end of the wing. She finally lets go of his hand to reach for the brass doorknob, and the sudden rush of cold air where her palm had just been makes Rupert’s chest ache with an pathetic sense of loss.
Taggie pushes the door open, revealing a small, neat bedroom flooded with the pale, silver light of the storm outside.
"I'll just get the fire going for you," she murmurs, already stepping toward the hearth. "It’ll be freezing in here."
She sinks gracefully to her knees on the cold hearthstone, her long nightgown pooling around her like a white cloud in the moonlight. Her small hands immediately start reaching for the kindling, freezing her own knees to make sure he's warm. He doesn't deserve her. Nobody does, really.
"There's no need, Taggie," Rupert says, lowering himself down next to her. He reaches out, his large hands gently but firmly covering hers to stop her from grabbing the wood. "I'll be fine. Go to bed."
Taggie doesn't pull away. She turns her head, her face so close to his that he can feel the soft warmth of her. Rupert has to take a deep breath, exhale as wide as possible to resist the old good greed mounting in his chest.
Her lips press into that familiar, stubborn pout. "Just let me do it, you're shaking like a leaf."
"I'm not shaking like a leaf," he repeats sardonically. It's a lie, but the tremors in his hands have nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with her. His thumb unconsciously brushes against the soft skin of her wrist, entirely captivated by how delicate she feels against his calloused palms. "And I don't want you catching a cold on my account. Get up off the floor."
Taggie produces a sharp, indignant little sound that cuts through the quiet room, and completely stops her fumbling with the kindling.
She turns her head to look at him fully, her face illuminated by the stark, silver moonlight. Her skin looks translucent like this, as bright as she is.
"You're always deciding for me" she says, "Don't you ever get sick of it? Of thinking of me as if I were another one of your children?"
Rupert stares at her, caught completely off guard by the sudden flash of fire in her usually mild. If she knew the ways he thought about her, he would have her running out of the door in seconds, desire so tainted and desperate that it scares him too.
"You don't know how I think of you." he says tensely. You really don't.
"How could I?" she whispers back, her voice trembling just enough to betray how much he affects her. "You change like the weather, Rupert. I never know what's coming next with you."
"I am not having this conversation with you right now," Rupert says under his breath, and before she can protest, he catches her securely under her elbows and drags her right up off the freezing hearthstone, lifting her until they are both standing.
Taggie stumbles slightly against his chest, her hands flying up to clutch at his sweater for balance. The sudden impact of her small, soft body against his frame sends a jolt straight down his spine, a visceral reminder of exactly how little there is of her. He can feel the heat radiating off her skin through the thin fabric of her nightgown, contrasting sharply with the deep, aching chill buried in his own bones.
"Christ," she huffs, her voice rising just enough to carry in the quiet room. Her small fingers dig into the wool of his sweater, her breath fanning warm and sweet against his throat. "Lower your voice, will you? My parents are asleep."
Rupert freezes, his hands still enclosing the soft flesh of her upper arms, his thumbs pressing into her skin just enough to feel the delicate, steady pulse beneath. He stares at her, his mind scrambling to catch up with his senses.
"Your parents are here?" he asks, his voice dropping into a incredulous whisper.
"Well, yes," Taggie whispers back, her brow furrowing as she looks up at him. She doesn't pull away from his grip, she leans her warmth bleeding into his cold palms. "Where else would they be?"
"Declan's here?" he presses, a sudden, cold jolt of anger clearing the remaining cobwebs of exhaustion from his brain.
Taggie tilts her head, her expression softening into genuine concern. She reaches up, her bare palm flat against his jaw, her fingers brushing the rough stubble there. The touch is so tender, so completely unearned, that it makes his throat tighten with a painful, suffocating ache.
"Rupert, are you alright?"
He looks down at her, his vision narrowing until there is nothing in the room but the pale oval of her face and the steady warmth of her hand against his jaw. Her skin is so smooth, so impossibly soft against the rough, wind-bitten edges of his own skin, that it hurts.
"You're telling me your father was here," he says, leaning his face into her palm just a fraction, a subconscious, desperate surrender before the anger takes over. "He was here, asleep in his bed, and you went out into a bloody storm to fetch my horse alone?"
Taggie’s thumb twitches against his cheekbone, a tiny, instinctive gesture of comfort that only makes his grip on her arms tighten.
"I... I didn't even think about waking him," she confesses softly. His brave girl, powering through the wind slapping into her face with only her thin jacket on, his lady in red, guiding Rocky back to him as if she'd done it endless times already, coaxing him like he's never seen before.
His beacon of light, burning bright in a land of darkness, bringing him back to life everytime.
"What on earth were you thinking, then?" he rasps, his chest heaving as he crowds her closer, the tips of his boots almost touching her shoes.
"That he was afraid, and alone," she whispers, and he swears he could hear the just like me pour out of her mouth. "And that... that if it had been Gertrude, you would have run for her. Because..."
Her eyes fill with tears, the moonlight catching the sudden, bright sheen of them, falling heavy on her red cheeks.
His darling, darling girl.
He hates himself for the way his thumb instinctively cleans the tears away, brushing his pad against the soft skin until she releases a pretty sigh. He hates that he can see the exact moment she realized she’s given herself away, that she's far more courageous than he is, this little slip of a girl, far more powerful than he is.
Rupert guides her two, three, four steps backward until the back of her knees hit the edge of the mattress and Taggie sinks onto the edge, knees pressed together under her gown, her hands curled tightly into her lap as she looks at him through the silver gloom.
He drops onto his knees on the floor in front of her and rests his large, calloused hands on the mattress on either side of her thighs, trapping her without touching her, leaning his weight forward.
From down here, the view of her is devastating, the moonlight catches the line of her throat, the barely visible curves of her collarbones, and the damp, flushed skin of her cheeks where the tears had just been. Rupert has to tilt his head back to look into her eyes, exposing his own face completely to her judgment. He looks like a man at an altar, his broad shoulders hunched as he stares up at this girl who haunts his heart, his mind, his days and dreams.
"I'm sorry," Taggie says, her voice breaking into a tiny, fragile sob as she looks down at him, "I'm keeping you up. I'm sure you and Cameron have... lots to do tomorrow."
"It doesn't matter," he murmurs, slicing through her apology before she can even finish the thought. "You're far more important."
Taggie lets out a soft, shaky breath that fans across his forehead, her gaze tracking the hard line of his jaw as her lower lip quivers, a fresh wave of silver light catching the new tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
"Oh," she murmurs, her hand finally lifting from her lap, her fingers hovering just inches from his damp hair, trembling with a longing she has tried so hard to hide.
Her blue eyes flicker, losing their focus for a fraction of a second as her gaze slips from his eyes and sinks to his mouth. It is a tiny, involuntary drop, but the sudden, sharp hitch in her breathing gives her away completely. Her lower lip parts, just a millimeter, trembling in the pale light as she realizes she’s exposed herself, her eyes darting back up to his in a quiet, breathless panic.
Despite his initial claims on Taggie were far less noble than they are now, he'd been struck by her eyes first, ever since he met her on his land.
Sure, she had been a pretty thing, with lovely legs and fiery hair and a breathy voice that made his cock rock hard in a matter of seconds, but her eyes had been burned in the back of his mind before she'd even opened her mouth.
And sometimes, you can tell just by the eyes. A lot to be said for a pair of kind, honest eyes like hers.
His own gaze drops to her lips, slick from her tears, flushed a deep, bruised rose from the cold wind, and slightly parted as she breathes, he can see a hint of teeth brushing the red of her mouth.
"Darling," he murmurs, begging on his knees like he should've done a long time ago.
“Yes?” she whispers back, breathless.
Rupert's hand rises from the mattress to cup the side of her neck, his large palm warm against her throat as his thumb envelopes her jaw to tilt her face perfectly into the moonlight.
He leans in just an inch more, closing the space until their faces are mere breaths apart. He doesn't touch her lips yet, breaths mingling in the freezing air between them, hot plumes of air rushing out in shallow gasps. With every exhale, his warm breath fans across her parted lips, and he inhales the rich, intoxicating scent of her, tasting the phantom sweetness of her on the back of his tongue before he’s even touched her.
Taggie’s eyelashes flutter, a shudder running through her small frame as his mouth hovers right on hers. She leans into the heat of his hand, her own breath catching in her throat, eyes closing when his free hand inches closer to her thigh, curling itself into the fabric of her nightgown. When his lips finally press into hers, the very first thing that floods his senses is a wave of relief so sharp and heavy it makes his head spin behind his tightly closed eyes.
A raw, completely ugly sound is wrenched from the back of his throat, a groan of absolute defeat that he can't smother. He doesn't even want to hide it anymore, he is just a starving man being fed, entirely unraveled by the heat of her lips.
As if she were thinking the same thing, Taggie lets out her own shaky, broken sob of a sigh, a soft, helpless sound of undoing that she tries to catch but loses in favour of him, swallowing her noises down as he props himself between her legs and tugs her tighter to him.
Taggie lets out another shaky sigh right into his mouth, unable to resist whatever spell he is casting over her and her arms fly up, wrapping gently around his neck and tangling into the curled hair at the nape of his neck.
"Closer," she gasps against his lips, tugging at his shoulders, her fingers clawing at the wool of his sweater as if she wants to rip it right off him. "Come closer."
The Taggie he met a year ago would've never pronounced such words, begging for him so nicely and tenderly, words hushed and pressed against his cheek. The Taggie he kissed four months ago would've never tugged on his hair, expecting him to do as she pleases. He rather likes it, he rather wants her to demand whatever she needs from him.
Rupert pushes her back flat onto the mattress, crowding over her until she is entirely swallowed up beneath him. He crawls directly between her legs, gently parting them til the fabric of the nightie bunches up to show the creamy skin of her fleshy thighs, and he has to restrain himself from ducking immediately under and locking his mouth to what he's sure it is a delectable, sweet cunt.
"Close enough?" he pants against her skin, his voice ruined as his mouth slides from her lips to trace a frantic path down the hot, damp line of her throat.
Taggie arches off the bed to meet him, a tiny whimper escaping her as she pulls him down by the shoulders of his sweater. Her legs tangle around his thighs, locking him close, completely unbothered by the rough wool or the heavy, overwhelming weight of him crushing her into the sheets.
She is wide open to him, entirely defenseless and entirely consumed by the same wild, unvarnished fire that is tearing him apart from the inside out. His cock presses against her stomach, his trousers entirely too tight for how hard she's made him, every muscle in his lower body coiling taut as he deliberately grinds his weight down against her, needy and unraveled by how perfectly she welcomes him.
Rupert nips the skin of her collarbone, tugging the collar of her borrowed sweater down so he can reach further, but it's not enough, it's never going to be enough.
He hitches himself up slightly, his large hands hooking into the hem of her heavy, borrowed sweater and pulls it up and over her head, tossing it blindly onto the floor. Without it, she is left in just her nighie, and the sight of her nearly stops his heart. It is a simple, virginal thing, pure white, delicate and clean just like her, with tiny rows of lace tracking along the the modest neckline.
In the pale moonlight filtering through the window, she looks almost ethereal, like a holy entity trapped beneath his heavy, entirely unholy body. The stark bright of the fabric glows against the warm, flushed cream of her skin, casting her in a soft, angelic light that makes him feel profoundly undeserving.
His eyes trace the swell of her breasts beneath the thin material, the fabric straining gently with every shallow breath she takes.
"Oh, Tag, darling," he breathes, his hand trembling as he reaches out, his rough, calloused knuckles brushing reverently down her cheek. "Look at you. You look like an angel."
Taggie smiles a little as she reaches up, her hands finding the sides of his face to pull him back down to her. She kisses him again, and again til he knows perfectly the shape of her mouth, the taste of her tongue and when she pulls back just a little, head rolling restlessly on the pillow, she mumbles a few breathless words directly against his mouth.
The sound is so soft, so thoroughly swallowed by the wind outside and the rushing of his own blood, that he doesn't catch it. Rupert blinks down at her, his chest heaving as he hovers over her, his thumb gently smoothing over her flushed cheekbone.
"What, darling?" he asks, brushing her fringe back on her forehead.
"I said, you too," she whispers, her eyes wide as she shifts beneath him, her hands sliding down from his face to flatten against the heavy knit on his chest, giving a meaningful little nod at his sweater.
"Aren't you sweet?" he murmurs, obeying her command without a single shred of hesitation. He rears back on his knees just enough to hook his large hands into the hem of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid, impatient motion before tossing it beside them.
When he leans back down over her, Taggie’s hands immediately find his bare chest, her palms flattening against the wide, firm expanse of his skin, her fingers tangling eagerly in the dark hair curling there. She leans up, her lips tracing a frantic, adoring path across his collarbone, her small teeth nipping lightly at his clavicle before she buries her face into the curve of his neck.
Rupert groans, completely undone by her touch and while she clings to his neck, he sneaks a hand downward, his large palm sliding beneath the hem of her nightie and traveling up the warm, smooth expanse of her ribs.
She's soft everywhere, a true marvel, like he knew she would be, smooth skin gliding like silk under his touch til he reaches her tits. She has small ones, her pretty little breast fitting so perfectly into his palm that his thick fingers cover it entirely, and as his thumb brushes over the tight, sensitive nipple, a sharp whimper tears from her chest.
His poor, starved little duck.
He smothers the rest of her cry instantly, slamming his mouth back over hers and drowning her voice in a wet kiss. He drinks the noise directly from her lips, his pulse hammering a frantic warning in his ears as he holds her completely trapped beneath his weight.
"Shh," he murmurs right against her lips, his voice a thick whisper that trembles with the effort of his own barely contained restraint.
"Quiet, duckie. You have to be quiet."
Taggie swallows hard, her eyes completely blown out as she stares up at him, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps against his palms, her hips still squirming restlessly and rubbing against him underneath the heavy quilt.
Rupert hitches his hips forward and drags the length of his cock against her center, he can feel the blistering, melting heat of her radiating right into his skin, every slide of his cock against the drenched cotton of her knickers feels like a sweet, torturous dream, his stomach already tightening as he aches for a release he can't give in yet, not until he's seen Taggie's face contort in blind pleasure, not until he knows what sounds she makes when she comes by his hands, his mouth, his cock.
"’s nice," Taggie mumbles against his chin, her voice broken and completely dazed, eyes half-lidded and tracking his silhouette in the shadows as he slides down her body, his large hands reaching beneath the hem of the nightgown to hook into the elastic of her damp knickers.
He drags them down her legs and before she can even think of bringing her knees back together, Rupert’s hands are traveling back up her body, firmly gathering her nightie up, bunching it over the smooth curve of her hips and pinning it against her stomach, baring her lower half completely to the cool night air and his own starving gaze.
He sits back on his heels between her thighs, his chest heaving as he looks down at her.
In the pale moonlight, she is a breathtaking sight. Her thighs are plush and creamy, parted wide for him, her cunt a pretty, delicate pink, pearly and almost shiny in its slick, a soft, inviting petal-fold of flesh that looks so devastatingly tender and tiny he's afraid to spoil her, to taint her with his rough hands, to break her with his blunt cock. Although, the temptation of breaking her in has never been greater in his heart, coaxing her open like an oyster so he can drink all the juice til he's satisfied.
"I knew you'd have the prettiest cunt, angel. You're pretty everywhere, did you know that?" Rupert sighs, caressing the back of her thighs.
Taggie shifts restlessly under the weight of his stare, a rosy blush creeping up her neck as the cool air hits her damp skin. She looks up at him through her lashes, her voice small and trembling as she whines his name under her breath.
Come back, come back here.
Rupert drops back down over her, burying his face in the crook of her neck because he physically can’t say no to Taggie, and he knows this absolute lack of restraint around her is going to be a massive problem, a ruinous habit he has no desire to fix.
"Taggie, darling," he murmurs against her lips, his breath hot against her skin as his hand slides down her belly. He drags his fingers slowly through her opening, parting her delicate pink folds and coating his thumb in her slick.
He watches her face as he presses the tips of his fingers against her, testing her, slowly easing in to see just how much of him she can fit. Taggie lets out a soft, trembling sigh, her hips rising gently to meet him as she stretches to take him in.
He pushes two fingers deep inside her with a slow stroke, filling her tight, wet warmth until he's buried deep, and Taggie whines under her breath, her eyes fluttering shut as her body molds around his hand, melting into the heavy, delicious stretch.
"Be good, darling, you're so wet," Rupert whispers, his voice thick with a hunger he can barely contain. He scissors his fingers inside the dripping vise, drawing out until she whimpers at the loss, then sliding back in to find that deep, sensitive sweet spot. The bedroom fills with the soft, wet sound of his hand working her, a rhythm that makes her fingers tangle desperately in his hair.
"It's always like this," she breathes, her head tossing back against the pillow as a wave of intense pleasure ripples through her.
"Always?" he asks, his thumb coming down to press firmly against her swollen clit, watching with half lidded eyes her belly tightening up as he fingers her in the earnest. Oh, he needs to be selfless, just like she is, to work her till she can't take anymore, she's everything and deserves everything and he needs to show it to her, to prove it to her.
"Everytime I'm with you," she gasps out, her spine arching slightly off the mattress as she rolls her hips against his palm, begging for more of his weight.
"Everytime?" he asks, holding her gaze in the dark, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear of pleasure from her cheek.
"Everytime," she whispers, her voice small but entirely certain. She reaches up, her fingers trembling as she traces the sharp line of his jaw. "Every single time I'm near you."
"My darling girl," he murmurs, the words slipping out like a devotion he can't keep hidden anymore. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of her eye, his heart hammering violently against her chest, completely undone by how easily she commands him.
Her lower lip juts out in a small, genuine pout as she looks away from him, her fingers stalling against his neck.
"Do you say these things to Cameron, too?" she asks abruptly, as though she can't stop herself from letting it out. She looks back up through her lashes, her eyes wet and searching. "Is she an angel, too?"
I love you. There's nobody else. I barely say anything to Cameron these days. Do you love me? How much do you love me?
"You are my angel," he settles in the end, "Only you, Taggie."
"Only me?" she whispers.
"Only you," he vows, "It's always been you."
"Show me," she breathes, her hands dropping from his shoulders to the waist of his trousers. Her fingers are frantic, trembling as she fumbles blindly with the buttons and he catches her wrists gently to stop her fussing.
"I'll show you everything you want, darling." he mumbles, laying a warm kiss on the apple of her cheek.
He unbuttons his trousers and shoves them down his thighs alongside his pants, freeing the painful length of his cock. He shifts back over her instantly, sinking his weight down until the thick, blunt head of his shaft adheres right against her wet, burning opening.
Taggie lets out a soft cry against his neck, hands roaming everywhere she can reach.
He groans into her skin, shifting his hips slightly to drag the broad, slick tip of his cock right down the center of her opening, deliberately teasing her. Taggie rolls her eyes up into her head at the agonizingly slow friction, a desperate whine catching in her throat as she tries to arch up and force him to fill her.
"You're so tiny, angel," Rupert rasps, his hand sliding down to cup her hip, holding her still as he feels how narrow she is against him. "Such a tiny little cunt, let me open you up, mh? Need to have a taste, darling."
"No," she gasps, her fingers tightening in his hair, "Later."
"Later?" he asks, hovering over her dazed face. He is completely captivated by her, filled with a simmering need that makes it almost impossible to stay still.
"Later," Taggie repeats, her sweet gaze unwavering despite the soft, rosy flush consuming her skin. He can feel the heat radiating off her, can see how badly she wants him to look at her, to see every bit of what she’s doing to him.
"And now?" Rupert murmurs. He strokes the tender skin of her inner thigh with his thumb, a gentle, possessive touch.
In response, Taggie spreads her legs a little wider, completely uncovering herself to him and inviting his full weight down into the cradle of her thighs. He groans as she reaches up, cupping the back of his neck to pull him down into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. It is a wet, breathless pouring of all her frantic need straight into him, and it tastes so much like pure devotion that it nearly breaks his heart.
He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe his affection against her damp lips, entirely undone by how completely she is giving herself to him.
"Everything you want, Taggie," he groans softly. He shifts his hips forward, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance, seeking the heart of her cunt. "Everything."
He slides in slowly, the tight, burning heat of her swallowing him whole, threatening to make him lose it before he's even halfway inside. She is so incredibly small, her cunt clamping down hard around the thick weight of him. Oh, Tag, look how tight you are, darling, spread wide, angel, you can do it.
She's struggling, his poor little girl, he keeps his hand buried between them, his thumb driving steady, merciless circles into her soaked clit until she's melting in his arms. Taggie lets out a broken cry against his mouth, her arms locking fiercely around his neck as she clings to him for dear life, wrapping herself tight around his waist as she takes every single inch he gives her.
When his weight settles fully between her thighs and he finally, finally sinks in to the hilt, he buries his face deep into the crook of her neck, the pleasure so blinding he thinks he's going to pass out. Every muscle in his body relaxes into her heat, the ache her finally giving way to the sheer bliss of being exactly where he belongs.
Rupert holds himself perfectly still inside her for a long moment (one minute, one hour, he couldn't tell anymore), letting them both adjust to the fullness of their bodies joined together and oh, he could die right here.
His hands find her face, his large palms cupping the back of her neck and brushes his lips softly against her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, murmuring sweet, incoherent praises against her damp skin as her tight, wet walls squeeze him in. Taggie wails, her fingers digging tracks into his shoulders as she relaxes completely beneath him, gently circling his hips with her legs.
Rupert lifts his hand to press his palm gently over her mouth, blocking out the sound. "Shh, darling," he murmurs. He leans down until his lips are brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice dropping into a teasing whisper. "You don't want to wake mommy and daddy, do you?"
The reminder of exactly where they are—under the very same roof as her parents, breaking every rule they’ve ever been given—makes Taggie’s eyes go wide and dark in the moonlight. She pulls his hand away from her mouth just enough to look up at him, her chest heaving as a hot, fresh wave of color rushes up her cheeks.
"God, you're vile," she moans against his jaw, her fingers digging mercilessly into his shoulders, arching up, tilting her pelvis to lock him even deeper inside her. She's a natural, his angel, a real wonder, the kind he'll never gets used to witness with his own eyes.
He shifts his weight, his hands grabbing her hips to tilt her against him so he can finally fuck her the way he's dreamt too many times to count, his long strokes pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in to the absolute hilt, still struggling to believe they fit so perfectly together, like pieces of a puzzle who finally found the way to each other again.
Taggie lets out a sharp whine, her eyes rolling back as her body takes the full, heavy brunt of him, another loud cry threatens to tear from her throat, but before it can slip past her lips, Rupert clamps his hand back over her mouth, his palm catching the hot, breathless sound.
She mimics him instantly, her own small hand flying up to press against his lips as a groan rips from his chest, their fingers tangling over each other's faces.
When the urge to scream subsides into a barely manageable whimper, he replaces his hand with his mouth, catching her in a deep kiss that tastes of the salt of her tears and the sweet tea they shared before, her tongue so soft against his he turns into mush in her arms.
"Rupert—" she chokes out when she breaks the kiss to breathe. She glances down between their sweating bodies, nodding toward the nightgown still bunched up around her ribs. "Don't you... don't you want to take it off?"
He needs to see her naked, to memorise in his mind the shape of her tits, the colour of her soft nipples, the slope of her belly, needs to turn her around and see that perfect bottom he's stroked himself to one too many times, he needs everything but he's learning the art of waiting, especially when the wait is sweet like this, gifting him with a Taggie clad in white like an angel, a saint, like—
Like a bride.
"No, darling," he pants out, "I rather like it."
Taggie frowns softly, her brow furrowing through the haze of her pleasure as she tries to hold his gaze. "You do?"
"Mmm," he groans, burying his face in her hair as he picks up the pace, his lower half moving in a fast rhythm that makes her toes curl against his back. "Yes... I think we'll keep it right here. Just like this." Rupert pulls back and slams into her again, the depth of it stealing her breath entirely as he whispers magainst her lips. "Just what you'd wear if I were to come home to my little wife, mh?"
Taggie lights up like a thousand candles, her head tossing back against the pillow as her inner muscles clamp down around him in tight waves as she nods her head, yes, yes, yours.
He can feel it instantly, the sudden, blistering heat of her cunt tightening, the way her breath catches in her throat as she begins to tip over the edge.
Rupert slows his hips right down, burying his cock to the absolute hilt and holding himself still inside her, letting her stretch around him until she's whimpering from the lack of movement.
He leans down, pressing his lips right against the shell of her ear, "And I'd fuck you in our bed like this," he murmurs softly, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "My gorgeous wife, wearing white for her husband."
Her hips twist blindly beneath his, her mouth opening to cry out as she begs for him again, the words melting on her tongue. Rupert slides his hand up and firmly covers her mouth, his palm sealing her lips as he presses her head back into the pillow, savouring Taggie's first orgasm around his cock, holding her down as she trembles in his arms, teeth sinking in the meat of his palm.
He's completely gone, hopeless and lost in Taggie's face, in the little scrunch of her eyebrows, in her glassy eyes, in the tousled auburn hair falling over her forehead, his own Venus.
He locks his arms around her, crushing her small frame against his chest as his body jerks with the force of his climax, spilling himself entirely inside her. Every muscle in his back goes rigid, his head burying into her hair as he experiences a pleasure so acute, so total, it feels like his entire soul is being dragged right out of him and left inside her. He'd been so worried about ruining Taggie that he hadn't considered that she would be the ruin of him.
As the ebb of his release finally begins to slow, Rupert relaxes his weight over her, trembling and utterly spent. He gently slips his palm away from her mouth, his fingers lingering on her jaw as he lets out a long breath against her skin.
Taggie lets her head sink back into the pillow, her chest still heaving, and weakly, she drags her hand up her face, slender fingers brushing the tangled auburn hair away from her forehead. He lifts his head, looking down at her with a sort of reverence he's never known before, and when he comes looking for a kiss, his lips parting as he leans down to seek her out, Taggie accepts him completely, sighing contented when he gently slips his cock out of her.
She arches her neck slightly to meet him, her mouth opening softly under his in a tender caress and when he finally manages to pull back, Rupert feels completely unmoored, staring down at her through the shadows in a state of bewilderment he's only ever felt when he was still young and green and discovering the pleasures of life.
"Hello," he says, gently. Taggie smiles sleepily, swallowing one of her little chuckles he can't get enough of.
"Hi," she says, voice soft and gentle like her kisses.
Rupert slowly rolls onto his back, pulling her along with him until she’s lying half on top of him, her head resting securely on his chest. He wraps his large hands around her bare arms, rubbing them gently to chase away the chill of the room.
"Are you cold?" he asks.
"No. You're like a furnace," she mumbles, her eyes already drifting shut as she listens to the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
"Told you we didn't need a fire." he says, vaguely amused.
"Oh, shut up."
He drags her fully under the heavy duvet, fussing over her like a father—tucking the thick edges securely around her shoulders, chasing away the stray drafts of the room until she is completely cocooned against him.
"Rupert?" she whispers into the dark.
"Yeah?"
"I can't believe I did that," she mumbles, her voice thick with the most endearing rush of shame. "With my parents just down the hall."
"And in your sister's bed," he adds quietly.
Taggie tenses against his chest, a soft, horrified intake of breath hitting his collarbone. "Oh, God."
An adorable yawn cuts off whatever further mortification she’s trying to swallow down, her small jaw stretching against his skin. Rupert slides a large hand up to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling gently in her hair to soothe the tension out of her shoulders, pulling her right back down into the hollow of his neck.
"Go to sleep, duckie," he murmurs, his large hand continuing its slow sweep down her back, sealing her body against his warmth.
"Will you be here in the morning?" she mumbles against his throat, her words slurring together as she hovers on the very edge of consciousness. "Sleep with me like... like a husband would do?"
The thought of Taggie belonging to him forever, of waking up to her auburn hair tangled across his pillows every single day, of having the absolute right to protect her, to provide for her, to boss her around when she needs it and keep her warm, pervades him of a terrifying need he now knows he'll never be able to ease, not when it comes to Taggie.
He wants to know the exact taste of her mouth when she wakes up tangled in his sheets, the sleepy, possessive way she’ll reach for him before her eyes even open, and the heady scent of her skin warming the mattress day after day.
He wants the legal, undisputed right to drag her right back into bed on a rainy Tuesday morning just because he can't bear to let her go. He wants to be the one who strips her out of her damp, muddy clothes after a long day in the woods, the one who handles the leaky roof while she fusses over him, and the one who watches her body change, growing ripe and heavy with his children.
"Yes, angel," he nods, rocking her like a baby. "Like your husband."
"I like that," she sighs against his throat, lax arms circling his waist, tracing the skin there with her small fingers.
"Yeah," he whispers into the crown of her head, the storm outside a mere gust of wind compared to the gale his heart is harbouring, "Me too."