Finally

For an entire season, Lady Eleanor had been the picture of decorum, dancing every dance, smiling every correct smile, all while the Viscount St. Clair's grey eyes followed her from across every ballroom. He took her hand with perfect form, held her waist with impeccable distance, and never, not once, gave the ton a single whisper to feed on. But the night of the Hastings musicale, when the last guest had gone and the house fell silent, he found her in the music room and turned the key in the lock. He took her on the piano bench — her chemise rucked up, her stays loosened, her thighs wet against his buckskin breeches — and moved inside her with a slow, wrecked rhythm that spoke every word he had never been allowed to say aloud. She came gripping his shoulders, her teeth in his cravat to keep quiet, then again with her head thrown back against the ivory keys as he finally let go. Afterwards he pressed his damp forehead to hers, still buried deep, and whispered, 'Finally.'