It was close to dawn and she couldn't sleep.

Nicola leaned against the sill of her window, next to her orchids she treasured so much, and watched the night sky twinkle with a blanket of fading stars. Soon, maybe within the next hour or so, the inky blankness would be replaced with the slowly pinkening tinges of day as the world awakened.

The sherry hadn't helped to alleviate her restlessness this evening and they had arrived late to Northwick from London, retiring to their respective rooms immediately. Of Jason, there had been no sign as he had not arrived with them, and Nicola wondered if he were even here, at Northwick, or if he had stayed on in London for whatever reason.

The man, as always, consumed her thoughts. More so now. It plagued her, the rush of his kiss and the memory of his hands, his mouth. She shivered even now, and she felt greedy for it, for wanting him again, for wanting more.

According to Lady Blackwood in the carriage ride back to Northwick, the evening had been a success. It was reassuring to Nicola somewhat that for now at least that her future at the estate, with the Blackwood's, was settled, but Wilhelmina was a constant niggling threat at the back of her mind. She doubted very much the woman would ignore the deliberate actions of her family for very long... and when she did decide to strike, and in what way, Nicola knew she would do anything for the people who had stood by her side tonight, even if that meant she needed to accept the ultimatum.

Sighing, she realised she was not going to be able to sleep that evening and her eyes found the painting from Jason she had propped up against the window, beside the orchids. It was so beautiful, so honed with detail, the lightness of her skin in the foreground contrasted against the inky darkness of the background. She wondered if he was in his chambers, if he had left her a note tonight, if he was awake...

Could she be this wicked? He had called her wild countless times, encouraged it even, but if she went to his chambers now in the hopes she would find him, would that be a line she or he was willing to cross?

Apparently she was willing to find out because her arms were snatching the dressing gown from her armoire before she even realised what she was about, and then she was tripping lightly out her room, through to the entranceway, checking briefly if there was a note- there was not- and continuing to the other side of the manor house, towards Jason's chambers.

She knocked softly but there was no response, and when she carefully opened the door to peer inside, even through the darkness she could tell it was empty, his bed unmade. She didn't dwell long enough to peruse the interior, too dark to see much anyway to assuage her curiosity and check if he kept her box of letters somewhere out in the open, but that wasn't her purpose, not tonight. She continued down the passage, passed a few more doors- guest rooms- until she reached the one she knew was his private study. This, too, was empty and dark.

Nicola sighed softly, considering that maybe he had not returned to his estate that night after all, and the disappointment that flooded her was almost debilitating as she thumped her back in resignation against the wall. The door opposite the study caught her eye- more specifically the dim light from under the small gap against the floor.

It was incentive enough and her spirits lifted dramatically, suddenly awash with that curious mixture of anticipation and nerves at the prospect of seeing him again. She opened the door quietly and padded inside chamber.

It was a small, almost barren, parlour room with a single, paned expanse of window against the opposite wall. Here there was an easel and a long table, covered with a myriad of vials and varying sizes of different wooden paintbrushes. A somewhat worn and tired-looking chaise longue was pushed almost negligently to one side of the chamber.

Jason had his back to her, his arms folded and the muscles across his shoulders taut as he surveyed something outside that window. The white shirt was loosely tucked into his dark trousers, the material hugging his thighs and rear so marvellously Nicola bit her lip to quell the surge of appreciation rising within her. He wasn't wearing his boots and there was something profoundly attractive seeing him in this light, so casual and unrefined, her heart ached.

"Are you lost again, mouse?" he teased, not turning to her, but then Nicola realised he could see her through the reflection of the dark windows before him. When he caught her surprised gaze in the glass, his lips curled.

She looked, Nicola realised as she briskly met her own reflection, a bit wild. Her hair was in disarray, falling around her face in thick russet waves and down her back. She folded her arms under her breasts and cocked her head to the side, considering him silently. "Actually, no."

"Is that so?" He turned, that smile deepening as he let his eyes drift over her, to the tips of her toes peaking out from under her gown. "Are you wearing anything under that robe, Nicki?"

"I am not as bold as you," she admonished, stepping further into the room and sliding the door closed silently behind her.

He noticed the meaningful way she bolted the door and his eyebrow quirked, silently informing her he doubted her last statement. "That is disappointing."

"I am wearing your shirt."

A savage need came over his face and he dropped his arms to his sides, his body reverberating with an urgency. "Show me."

The simple act of untying the ribbons at her throat and opening the gown seemed too erotic, almost disrobing for him as she lowered the material over her shoulders, letting it slide down her body and pool around her ankles.

His eyes tracked the movement with a molten silver heat. Suddenly he turned back to the table and procured a low wooden stool from underneath it, setting it in the middle of the small room. "Tell me, Nicki," he murmured, coming to her then, "why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you."

He took her hands, leading her over to the stool, gently nudging her to sit. She did. "More specifically." His brows rose expectantly, waiting for her response, and she swallowed her nervousness, the anticipation and eddies of excitement overriding anything else.

"I want you," she told him candidly.

The grin that grooved and dimpled his cheeks was so boyishly handsome she wondered if she would ever tire of admiring it. "I like that answer," he told her, leaning over her and brushing his lips against hers. She stiffened with a sigh, leaning into him, his hands tilting her chin up to meet him, spanning her throat with tangible gentleness. He drifted lower, stroking her shoulders, teasing her lips open by running his tongue along them, and when she parted for him, and he delved inside, those hands suddenly yanked at the material of her shirt- his shirt- the tearing of the fabric loud to her ears.

Nicola gasped as he retreated to stare down at her, a pleased look on his face. She looked over herself, the shirt hanging open between her breasts. He had only partly torn the material, wide enough to allow one side to start drooping over her shoulder. She caught it, holding it to her bosom before it completely exposed her.

"Leave it," he purred, and she glanced up at him, a question on her lips. "I want to see you like this, envision it for later... sketch you, paint you... like this. If you allow me..."

This man... she nodded up at him, noting the relief on his face, the soft smile for her, and, her hands trembling slightly, she lowered her arms so that the fabric fell open, slipping further down her shoulder. The tips of her nipples caught the torn edges of his shirt before sliding off to fall and pool at her waist.

He clenched his eyes shut, his jaw flexing. "This might kill me, Nicki, but I shall die a happy man." His voice was hoarse, broken, then he opened his eyes again and a tight smile lifted the corners of his lips. He bent close, dropping his hands to the tops of her thighs. "I need your legs open, like this." He parted them for her, the shirt tails falling between her legs and resting softly on the wood of the stool beneath her. "And your hands..." He grasped them in his own, his long fingers curling around her wrists, guiding them to the edge of the stool. "Hold the stool," he instructed, "and lean forward a little. Good." Next, he tugged one side of the shirt up over a shoulder, covering one breast but left the other side hanging off her other shoulder. Then he stood back and examined her.

He ran a hand through his hair, the same hand covering his mouth as if he couldn't quite take in enough of the vision before him. The tortured look in his eyes made her smile crookedly. "I am going to die," he told her, moving to the chaise longue. He fell back into it, never removing his eyes from her figure, and he lounged back indolently.

"If it is so difficult for you, my lord, then why do it?" she teased, shocked at her ability to do so while half her chest was exposed to him. It was the most illicitly exposed act of her life, par how she had lay open for him earlier at the ball, and she could converse with him, flirt with him, so easily.

"I can't not do it, Nicki," he muttered. "If it isn't you, it would be something else. The need to create, to express and to release." He crooked a brow at her, his gaze lingering hotly on her for a moment. Her nipples were taut and aching under his perusal. "Lately, it's always you."

She understood that better than he possibly knew, the need for a release, the need to express. Art was his release, his pleasure- those letters had been hers. As she sat on that stool, exactly how he positioned her, his eyes riveted on every contour of her face, her hair, her shoulders. He lingered longer on certain areas, frowning in hungry concentration on her lips, her breasts... Being on display for him, his eyes constantly on her body with a studious tenacity, was doing things to her, hot and slick needy things to her. It made her felt desired, wanted, and in return confident... and wild.

"I thought your lips plagued me," he speculated softly, "but I fear your breasts may be the end of life as I know it completely."

She squirmed on the stool, sure that she would melt soon enough if he continued for much longer. "Poor vexed little marquis," she teased. "Your life must be wondrously difficult, painting and envisioning willing and half-naked ladies all the time."

She shifted again, her fingers curling at the edge of the stool, neediness and desire pooling with an unrelenting demand. "Stay still," he ordered in a hard voice.

But what she saw on his face was so intensely burning and ravenous, she felt a trickle of insurgence, and disobeyed, allowing her hand to leave the stool as she lay it on her waist. His eyes followed the movement, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Encouraged, she shifted her fingers higher, reaching the swell of her breast and cupping herself, pushing the globe higher, alive with the sensation of committing this indulgently seductive act for him.

His groan was fierce and he lobbed a cushion at her from under him. "You need to stop that or I'll not be able to resist you a moment longer, and there is barely time left before I need to send you back to your room."

She pouted, sliding her hand lower, shocked that she could be so bold as to dip her fingers between her legs, parting wider before his gaze. He froze.

The predatory, possessive darkness entered his expression, and he unfolded his body from the chaise longue, advancing upon her, stalking her. "Are we finished?" she asked, unable to look away from him, not wanting too either.

"No."

"What are you-" She made a shrill sound of surprise when he reached her, bent over and hoisted her in his arms, wrapping her legs around his hips. Her arms twined around his neck, holding on.

"I have had enough temptation," he murmured, his gaze locked on her lips, "to last me a lifetime and fill my canvases for years to come." He carried her the short distance to the table of vials and paintbrushes and various other art materials.

"Will you show me?" she whispered, her fingers finding the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "When you paint me?"

He dropped her against the table, the glass vials tinkling and shaking, some toppling over against her thighs, and planted his hands to either side of her legs, stepping between them and pressing his body against hers. She seethed a hot breath, curling her fingers into his hair. "Later," he agreed, his eyes searching, probing. "And now, Nicki? What do you want me to show you?"

The answer was simple and quintessential, she didn't hesitate when she said, "Everything." He spread her thighs wider, his fingers curling beneath her and dragging her harder up against him, while his mouth crushed against hers, parting her lips, consuming her as his tongue probed and explored with repetitive insistence.

The shirt shifted and suddenly he ripped it down the middle, completing what he had started on the stool, and the material fell off her skin seamlessly. Vials went skittering as he yanked the material off, something cool and liquid pooling beneath her legs and bottom. Jason didn't seem to care about any of it, a hungry sound leaving him as he surveyed her, naked and quivering, and then he shrugged out of his shirt, tossing it to the side.

She caught a glimpse of those muscles rippling, his unfathomable beauty, before he crushed her to his chest, globing her breasts against his feverish skin. She couldn't get close enough to him and groaned in frustration, in need, as his mouth took hers again, his hips rolling into the place between her legs, the fabric an abrasive, unwelcome barrier between them. Nicola felt uncontrollably heady, wild, and latched her legs around his thighs, raking her nails over the bulges of muscles in his arms, the ridges of his flanks, clawing at the waist of his trousers.

Jason laughed darkly against her mouth. "Vixen," he murmured, jerked her to him again, off the table entirely. "Wild," he kissed her deeply, dropping to his knees on the floor while she straddled his waist, "beautiful," his tongue plunged into her deeply, lowering her back against the carpet, "Nicki." The last was a reverent sigh as he settled over her, running his hands up her body, cupping her breasts. He moaned when he did, breaking his kiss and dipping his dark head to the top of one breast. She watched, transfixed, as his mouth opened wide, her nipple quivering and hard in anticipation of the onslaught, then his lips closed around the tip, drawing in deeply while his tongue circled and teased and tormented her. It was blistering, the need that sparked through her at his caress, and Jason did not hurry. He groaned in pleasure, savouring her as if she were a flavoursome delicacy, his eyes squeezing shut in rapture, before he moved on to the other breast to exact the same exquisite punishment. His hand shifted over her, squeezing her hips and slipping between her legs. For the second time that night, his expert fingers found her centre and proceeded to inflict her with a long, deep stroke, from the top of her folds to the bottom, poising there until she parted her thighs, lifting her hips hungrily, blindly, wanting him to fill her.

Obligingly, he slid a finger deep inside her and she mewled, bowing against him with a deep and urgent hunger, and when he retracted his hand, a second finger joined the first, stretching her, exploring her, while his thumb pressed against the sensitive, hardened epicentre that caused her to shudder, her fingers digging into his back.

He repeated the movement until she could hardly breath, only wild rasping little pants as her breasts heaved against his mouth. Jason rumbled with pleasure, with approval, and he moved, rearing up on his knees between her legs.

He was magnificent, she thought blearily, and he shirked free of his trousers. Was she supposed to look at that part of him directly? She wondered, because she could hardly look anywhere else. She must have seemed forward, brazen even, as her eyes drank him in, the potently male picture he made. Jason's grin was wolfish as he wrapped his fist around the base of his erection, stroking himself leisurely. "Do you want to touch me, Nicki?" he murmured, noticing the cause of her enraptured gaze.

Her eyes flew up to his, her skin flushed. She nodded mutely and he reached down, taking her hand and wrapping her fingers around him, squeezing tightly. He filled her hand, silken and hot and strangely hard. It was so unfamiliar, Nicola was momentarily fascinated by the newness of him, flexing her fingers around his girth experimentally. The muscles in his abdomen clenched and his hips jutted forward slightly, a choked sound escaping him. "Am I..." she swallowed, her breath catching. "Is this alright?"

Jason made a sound, a bit of a laugh, a bit of a moan. He covered her hand with his. "Yes, God, yes." He showed her how to stroke him, moving her hand along the length of him slowly, squeezing around the swollen tip, and moving back down, then he released her hand and she completed the action independently. He was holding himself frozen, his eyes clenched shut, while she continued her curious exploration. She must seem so inexperienced to him, yet his body was hard and straining with each caress of her fingers, as if he was restraining himself valiantly.

Nicola considered something with all the hypothesis of a scholar coming to a well-observed theory or conclusion. Up till this point, her experience in the bedroom and with the acts of lovemaking were from experience with him. Jason had been her first kiss, her first everything, and she learnt to return his kiss the way he kissed her, and it had appeared to pleasure him as it had her. It would go then, that she could place her lips on the same places he had placed his so, while his eyes remained clenched above her and her fingers shyly stroked up and down his length, Nicola leaned forward and, perhaps artlessly, licked his tip.

His reaction was volcanic.