12 | a pitcher of Dorian grey goose

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Ophelia twisted in front of the mirror.

She smoothed down her green velvet skirt self-consciously. It was a fairly standard dress — spaghetti straps, a v-neckline, nipping in at the waist — but she still felt exposed. Particularly with her red hair gathered up in a knot.

Still.

Andrew had once stressed the importance of making an entrance to catch Digby's eye, so here she was. Making one.

Ophelia glanced at the clock. She had initially planned to wait fifteen minutes, but her anxiety levels were already spiking after five. She blew out a breath. Oh, screw it; she'd just go to dinner now, then.

She scurried down the stairs.

The dining room was already abuzz with laughter and glasses clinking. She could hear Andrew's booming voice drifting over the crowd, and she smiled. He was always telling a story, wasn't he? Always commandeering the space.

She threw open the door.

Seven heads snapped towards her. Millie wolf-whistled, and Ophelia flushed. Her eyes went to Digby first; he was openly staring at her, and she felt her whole body grow warm as his eyes ran from her toes to her face, lingering on her mouth.

"Dickens," he said hoarsely. "You look..." He shook his head. "Wow."

"Thanks."

"Andrew," Eleanora hissed. "Andrew, sit down."

Ophelia's eyes snapped to him next, and she froze.

Andrew had half-risen from his chair, his dark eyes fixed on Ophelia. There was a haunted look to them. An almost wildness. She had the sudden, terrifying sensation that they were the only two people in the dining room, attached by an invisible golden thread, and her heartbeat picked up.

"Andrew!" Eleanora tugged at his sleeve. "What on earth are you doing?"

He blinked, dazed. "I..."

"Sit down!"

He sat.

"Ophelia." Digby patted the empty chair next to him. "Come join us."

She did so, avoiding looking at Andrew. She could still feel his sharp gaze on her, and it made her skin feel hot and prickly. Digby poured her a glass of champagne, prattling on about the grouse shoot, but she couldn't pay attention.

Not with Andrew looking at her like that.

Dinner passed in a blur of honey-soaked pork chops, wilted greens and winter parsnips, butter-soaked peas, and fresh bread from the market. To Ophelia's irritation, Eleanora insisted on treating Andrew like a five-year-old child, spooning the food on to his plate.

"Here you go, darling," Eleanora murmured. "I expect you must be exhausted from the shoot." She reached for the peas. "And it really is—"

"Oh," Ophelia cut in. "But Andrew hates peas."

She would have thought this was obvious, particularly given how Andrew was staring at the green vegetables as if they had personally murdered his family. Eleanora froze, the silver spoon hovering over his plate.

"No, he doesn't."

She frowned. "Yes."

"No." Eleanora rounded on Andrew. "You like peas, don't you, darling?"

"I..." Andrew fiddled with his tie. "Like is an awfully strong word."

Eleanora's mouth was a thin white line. Ophelia couldn't help but feel a rush of triumph as she smirked at the other girl. She knew it was ridiculous to be arguing over peas, obviously, but still. Take that, sweetheart.

She decided to push it.

Just a little.

Ophelia waited until dinner had been replaced with fresh fruit and little honeyed cakes, and then she smiled at Digby sweetly.

"Will you get me a cake, please?"

"Of course."

She didn't miss the way Digby's gaze dipped down to her chest. Andrew's expression was black as a thundercloud, and he was gripping his knife in a way that suggested he may use it. Eleanora wasn't much better.

"I never eat dessert," she announced. "Far too many calories."

"What a shame," Ophelia said dryly. "But how nice for the rest of us, since we'll get to enjoy your cake, Eleanora."

Digby's jacket brushed her bare skin as he placed the honeyed cake on her small white plate. Ignoring her dessert fork, Ophelia picked up the cake, biting into it. Eleanora's irritation morphed into horror.

"You're eating it with your hands?"

"Of course." Ophelia smiled sweetly. "We don't have forks in Canada, you see."

She met Andrew's dark eyes. Slowly, Ophelia raised her fingers to her lips. She could feel a strange adrenaline filling her — the same kind that came before she played the winning hand in cards — and she didn't look away as she licked her fingers, sucking the honey off of them.

"Nothing better than cake," Ophelia said innocently.

Andrew swallowed hard.

They moved to the parlor after dinner.

To nobody's surprise, Millie insisted on charades, and it wasn't long before they were all gathered around the fireplace, sipping on a pitcher of vodka and soda as they acted out words and phrases. James currently stood at the front, doing a sort of bizarre jumping motion.

"Bunny!" Millie cried.

Her husband shook his head, raising two fingers.

"Oh." Millie's face fell. "It's two words?" James nodded, and she pursed her lips. "Energizer bunny?"

"For god's sake, Mils," James sighed. "I'm not a rabbit."

"You can't talk!" Henry protested. "Everyone knows that's against the rules." He crossed one ankle over his leg. "Anyways, James is obviously a grasshopper; that's why he keeps pointing to the lawn."

Millie frowned. "But that's one word."

"Is it?" James collapsed on to a sofa, looking relieved. "Nobody told me that." He winced, massaging his ankle. "Good god, jumping up and down takes it out of you, doesn't it? I have no idea how our children do it, darling."

Millie sighed. "We're just old now, James."

"Too true."

Ophelia jumped slightly as a hand landed on her leg. Digby smiled lazily at her, his warm hand enveloping her kneecap. "You really do look beautiful tonight," he murmured. "I mean, it Dickens. You're pretty as a painting."

She smiled. "And you're drunk."

"I thought it when I was sober, though," Digby informed her, slurring slightly. "Besides, we're all a little drunk."

That, Ophelia reflected, was definitely true; the parlor had a sort of warm, hazy glow to it, and the crackling of the fire made her eyelids feel heavy. Outside the cozy room, the December wind howled, beating fruitlessly at the shutters.

Digby's hand climbed up her thigh.

Bizarrely, Ophelia felt the urge to look at Andrew. He was watching the pair of them with hooded eyes, swirling his vodka around and around the glass. Eleanora was standing behind his seat, resting a hand on his shoulder as she chatted to him about something, but it was obvious that Andrew wasn't paying attention.

Digby's fingers splayed across her thigh, and Andrew grimaced.

"Why doesn't Ophelia go next?" he asked loudly.

All conversation stopped. Jess had even paused mid-air, her hand dangling comically over the cheeseboard. Digby frowned.

"I think she's fine where she is, mate."

"She hasn't gone yet."

"For god's sake," Digby said, sounding exasperated. "Why do you care? You're not even on our team, Scott."

Andrew didn't bother responding; he was already fishing around in an ornate box. Ophelia watched, stunned, as he stomped across the room, shoving a slip of white paper forcefully into her hands.

"Go on, then," he growled. "Read the clue."

Ophelia swallowed. "Right."

She stood up, moving to the fireplace. The warmth of it tickled the back of her thighs, and she glanced down at the piece of paper. Apple pie.

She sighed. Henry's suggestion, clearly.

"Okay," she said. "You ready, Digby?"

He winked. "For you? Always."

Rupert chuckled, and Jess elbowed him in the side. Ophelia nibbled her lip. Oh, god; how the hell did one act out apple pie? She couldn't exactly just mime eating something. That could be anything.

Inspiration struck.

She held up two fingers, and Digby leaned back on the sofa.

"Two words."

Ophelia nodded, then indicated that this was the first word. She indicated a tree outside, and then mimed a fruit hanging from it. She plucked the invisible fruit, taking a bite, and then pulled a horrified face.

"Food poisoning?"

She shook her head, using her arms to create a snake slithering through the grass. Digby snapped his fingers.

"Oh, those worms? The parasitic kind in your stomach?"

Ophelia shook her head again, growing more frustrated.

"Indigestion? Vomiting?"

Andrew sighed. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Digby; it's an apple."

His eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Well, it's obvious," Andrew drawled. "She's acting out Genesis. Eve biting the forbidden apple." He leaned casually back in his chair. "Ophelia always thinks in stories; I thought you would know that, by now."

There was a horrible, awkward pause.

Digby glared at Andrew, who looked smug. Ophelia shifted her weight awkwardly, suddenly wishing that Argyll Estate came with a secret trapdoor. Preferably right under her feet, so she could disappear right now.

"You know what?" she said brightly. "I think that's enough charades, for now."

She threw the slip of paper in the fire. She was about to sink back into her chair when Digby's strong arms shot out, gripping her waist. Ophelia let out a yelp, half tumbling into his lap, and his dark eyes shone with mirth.

"Sorry," Digby murmured. "Couldn't resist."

She didn't miss the superior look that he shot at Andrew. Neither, apparently, did Eleanora, because the other girl scowled. Jess — who was watching the proceedings with ill disguised anxiety — cleared her throat.

"Right," she said. "Who wants a cup of tea before bed?"

Ophelia sat at the vanity.

She reached up to yank several pins out of her hair, and her red locks tumbled down her back, framing her face. She loved this part of the night; Louise had never had the patience for it, but Ophelia found something soothing about the routine. Relaxing.

Unlike the rest of the evening.

She stared at herself in the mirror. The waxy candlelight made her skin look almost unnaturally pale, but her cheeks were still flushed from alcohol.

Alcohol, and Andrew.

Ophelia yanked the final pin out of place. No. She could no longer deny that he had a sort of... effect on her. Her pulse seemed to develop a mind of its own when he was around, charging ahead with no regard for her personal health.

Not that it mattered.

Andrew was planning to marry Eleanora; he had told her so, himself.

She picked up a silver brush, combing through her hair methodically. No. She couldn't tell Andrew how she felt — that much was clear. They might have kissed once, but it obviously didn't mean anything to him.

He kissed loads of women, according to her cousin Sophia.

She was just the latest one.

There was a knock at the door. Ophelia half-turned in surprise — who on earth was coming to see her this late? — and the door sprung open.

Revealing Andrew.

He slammed the door shut behind him, and Ophelia swallowed. His blond hair was rumpled, his tie askew. The last time they had been alone together in a bedroom, he had kissed her with a sort of reverential worship. An almost sweetness.

There was nothing sweet in his eyes now.

"Andrew," she said hoarsely. "What are you doing?"

He stalked towards her. "Admit it."

"Admit what?"

She gasped as Andrew pinned her against the wooden bedpost. His eyes were dangerously black, the pupil blown out, and he looked wild. Wild enough to terrify her.

"Say it," he growled. "You were teasing me tonight."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, really?" He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. "Licking honey off your fingers? You do that at every dinner?"

"I like honey," she said breathlessly.

He kissed her neck. "And sitting on Digby's lap?"

"That was his idea."

Andrew was right, though; she had been teasing him. It was unfair of her, but she couldn't help the thrill of it. The power rush that came with watching Andrew's jaw clench, the dizzying anticipation of watching what he would do next. It was intoxicating.

He pulled back, looking at her with smouldering eyes. "You drive me insane, Ophelia. Certifiably mad." His eyes flicked to her mouth. "How do you do that?"

She shook her head wordlessly.

"Good," Andrew sighed. "I don't know, either."

He crushed his mouth to hers. There was a rawness in his kiss — an almost desperation — as if he was terrified that she would push him away. Ophelia wrapped her arms automatically around his neck, pulling his body flush with her own, and Andrew groaned.

"You're killing me," he panted.

Ophelia knew the feeling.

"Wait." She drew back. "What about Eleanora?"

His eyes were dazed. "What about her?"

"Aren't you with her?"

"No. I couldn't..." His breathing came in pants. "Whenever I thought about being with her, Ophelia, I couldn't get you out of my head."

That was all Ophelia needed to hear.

She slid her hands under his shirt, skimming the hard muscles of his stomach. Andrew made a choking noise, and he pushed down the sleeves of her dress roughly, his lips dropping to her collarbone.

"I hate this dress," he growled.

"You told me to wear it."

"I know." Andrew ripped through several of the fastenings. "But then I saw how Digby was looking at you tonight, and I just..."

"What?"

His fists clenched. "Don't ever wear this dress again, okay? At least, not in front of him." A slight pause. "Or anyone that's not me."

Ophelia's head felt dizzy as they tumbled on to the bed. She fisted her hands in his hair. They were growing dangerously close to something, but she wasn't sure what. All she knew was that there would be no going back. No pretending anymore.

He pushed her dress aside impatiently, peppering her skin with bruising kisses. Almost as if he was trying to claim her. Or punish her. She didn't really care which one it was, so long as he didn't stop.

She undressed him next, snapping off buttons and pushing aside layers of cotton. He was nipping at her sensitive skin, sending heat through her body. It was a sort of divine torture. She wasn't sure how much more she could take.

Finally — mercifully — Andrew pinned her to the bed. There was only bare skin between them now, and she could feel how much he wanted her. He looked down at her with black eyes, a mixture of pain and thin restraint.

"Yes?"

She hesitated. It was only for a fraction of a section, but Andrew caught it. He stiffened.

"Ophelia?"

"It's just, I've never..." She flushed, and she could feel it spill down her neck, warming her chest. "I've never done this before."

He froze. "You haven't?"

"No."

Andrew swallowed. He didn't seem surprised, however, and she wondered if a part of him had suspected. Had maybe hoped that he was wrong, though.

"Then we can't," he croaked. "I can't, Ophelia."

The disappointment was crushing. He made to roll off her, and she dug her hands into his back. Rose and spicy cologne mixed between them, deliciously suffocating.

"I want to."

"I can't do that to you."

"Andrew," she whispered. "Please." She cupped his face. "I want it to be you."

He shuddered. She could feel his resolve crumbling all around them, dissolving into dust and breath. His eyes were haunted.

"Don't ask me again," he warned her. "Not if you don't mean it. I won't say no this time, Ophelia. I'm not a good enough man."

Her heart swelled. He wanted to do this, she realized dizzily. He wanted her. Just as much as she wanted him.

"Yes," she whispered. "Andrew, yes."

Relief flashed across his face, followed by something else. A dark sort of desire.

"Tell me stop if I hurt you," he murmured.

She could feel herself shaking as their bodies moved together, unraveling like a spool of yarn. Andrew was murmuring her name over and over, like a feverish prayer, and someone gasped. Her, maybe. And then finally, in his arms, she came undone.

A/N: Eeek! What a ~spicy~ chapter ;)

I wasn't planning to make this book more 14A than the rest of the "Toronto Girls" series, but then this scene just sort of happened, and well, here we are (*insert smiling but nervously sweating emoji*).

HOWEVER we're only halfway through the book, and things are looking too good to be true for Andrew and Ophelia... any guesses for what's to come?

Affectionately,

J.K.

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