MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 21 - Twenty One: Cover-to-Cover

//CLARA//

The morning of the picnic, I stood in front of the mirror and assessed the situation like a campaign manager the day before election night.

The target audience was one possessive railroad magnate with jealousy issues. The objective was to make him suffer just enough to be entertaining, but not enough that he’d actually commit arson. My strategy? A gown of palest lavender that made my eyes look almost violet, with a neckline that walked the line between demure and I know exactly what you’re thinking and you’re right. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Hattie fastened the last button with trembling fingers. "You look beautiful, Miss Eleanor. Like a painting."

"I look like trouble," I corrected, examining my reflection. "The best kind."

The picnic itself was exactly as tedious as I’d anticipated. Bartholomew had clearly outsourced the planning to someone with actual taste, then taken full credit.

Bartholomew had chosen the lake at the edge of the estate. The spot was picturesque, close enough for propriety, but far enough for privacy. The blanket was expensive. The food was edible.

And Bartholomew spent the entire monologue—because it was a monologue, not a conversation—discussing his horses, his investments, his legacy, all of which apparently included me as a decorative accessory he’d purchased but hadn’t unboxed yet.

I smiled. I nodded. I laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. I was basically earning an Oscar for a role I never auditioned for.

And all the while, I felt him.

Casimir was watching. I knew it the way my generation knows when an ex is stalking your story—that primal awareness that you’re being observed, judged, and possibly screenshotted. Every time I leaned toward Bartholomew, every time I let my hand linger passing him a strawberry, I imagined Casimir’s jaw tightening somewhere in the shadows. Every laugh I gave to the wrong man felt like a grenade lobbed in his direction.

It was petty. It was dangerous.

When I finally returned to the manor, I bypassed the library entirely. I went straight to the stables.

He was there.

Of course he was there.

Casimir stood beside Snow and Amber, both already saddled and waiting. He didn’t turn when I entered, but I saw the tension in his shoulders ease by approximately forty-seven percent.

"I thought you might need to run," he said quietly.

"From him or from you?"

He turned then, and the look in his eyes sent heat skittering down my spine.

One corner of his mouth twitched. "Both, perhaps."

He helped me mount Amber, his hands lingering at my waist, and then we were off, thundering through the estate, past the treeline, and into the woods where no one could follow.

The clearing was the same one where we’d stopped after the race. The sun was lower now, painting everything in deepening purple. Casimir dismounted and reached for me before I could swing my leg over, lifting me down slowly, intentionally, letting me slide against his body.

I winced as the fabric bunched awkwardly beneath me.

"Next time, a warning would be nice. I’m not exactly dressed for cross-country equestrian adventures in this—"

I gestured vaguely at the rumpled lavender disaster. "This is a picnic dress. For sitting. Daintily. Not for whatever that was."

His mouth twitched. "Noted."

He kissed me, catching me off guard. For a moment, then all pretense abandoned. His hands fisted in my lavender skirts, fabric straining, and I pulled him closer, kissing him back with everything I had, and forgot what I was complaining about.

"You have no idea what it cost me to let you go with him today," he murmured against my lips. "Every smile. Every laugh. I sat in my study like a coward and watched you give him what should be mine."

"It was performance."

"I know." His hands framed my face. "And I wanted to kill him anyway. Wanted to salt the earth where he walked. Do you understand what you’ve done to me?"

"Show me," I whispered.

Something inside me shifted and settled and became absolutely certain. This man, this impossible, infuriating man, had just admitted he’d let me go—had told me to go—because protecting us mattered more than his pride. No strategy. No game. Just trust.

I kissed him deeper, hungrier this time. He groaned against my mouth and pulled me closer, and for a long moment, there was nothing but us.

His usual restraint—the careful control he always maintained like a damn fortress—was crumbling. I felt it in the way his hands shook as they traced my spine. I heard it in the ragged edge of his breathing. Last time, he’d been the one in control, worshipping me with precision and patience. Tonight, there was nothing left to hold, and the vulnerability in his eyes was its own kind of worship.

My hands found the buttons of his waistcoat. One by one, I worked them free, pushing the fabric aside. His shirt followed, and then I was pressing my palms against the bare skin of his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my touch.

"Clara." His voice was rough. "What are you—"

"Shut up."

His eyes widened slightly, but he shut up.

I kissed my way down his chest slowly, deliberately, savoring every inch of skin. His muscles tensed beneath my lips. His breath came faster. When I dropped to my knees in front of him, his hands caught my shoulders.

"Clara, you don’t have to—"

"I want to." I reached for his trousers. "I spent all afternoon listening to Bartholomew talk about his breeding program while imagining your hands on me. So unless you have a very good reason—"

He didn’t. His hands fell away from my shoulders, and I took that as permission.

I freed him from his trousers, and for a moment I just looked. He was beautiful—thick and hard and already leaking at the tip, the skin flushed and silken.

I wrapped my hand around him, feeling the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he pulsed against my palm. He made a sound that went straight through me, and I felt it echo somewhere deep in my core.

Then I leaned forward and took him in my mouth.

His reaction was immediate. His whole body jerked, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. One hand flew to my hair, not pushing but holding, fingers tangling in the carefully arranged curls Hattie had spent an hour on.

I took him deeper, learning him with my tongue. I found the spots that made his breath catch, the rhythm that made his hips twitch, the pressure that made his fingers tighten in my hair until my scalp burned. Every sound he made was a roadmap to his pleasure, and I followed it like I’d been born to read these maps.

He was saying my name. Over and over, like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word he remembered in any language.

"Clara—Clara—Fuck! I can’t—"

I looked up at him through my lashes, still taking him apart piece by piece. His head was thrown back, his throat working, his chest heaving. The great Casimir Guggenheim, railroad magnate and titan of industry, was completely and utterly undone by my mouth.

The power of it was intoxicating.

His hand tightened in my hair, tugging gently. "Stop—you need to stop—"

I didn’t stop. I doubled my efforts.

His hips started moving, small thrusts that matched the rhythm I set. His hand in my hair guided but didn’t force, and I let him set the pace, let him take what he needed. The sight of him nearly undid me. His head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips parted around gasps that sounded like my name.

He was raw. He was open. He was completely, utterly mine in this moment.

"Clara, I’m going to—if you don’t stop—"

I took him deeper, hollowed my cheeks, and he shattered.

He came with a broken cry, his hips surging up, his whole body shuddering through wave after wave of release. I stayed with him through all of it, swallowing, gentling my movements as he came down, pressing soft kisses to his sensitive skin. His hand in my hair went slack, then tightened again, pulling me gently away with a wet pop.

For a moment, neither of us moved. He was still catching his breath, his fingers still tangled in my hair, his eyes fixed on me like I was something holy. Then he pulled me to my feet, his hands gentle despite the tremor still running through them.

I stood up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and grinned.

He stared at me like I’d rewritten the laws of physics.

"That was not what I expected."

"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"

He pulled me closer. "The best kind. Where did you learn—"

"The Pearl."

He blinked, then laughed. "You read it."

"Cover to cover. Multiple times," my grin stretched. "Did you think I was joking? I took notes.

"Notes."

"Very detailed mental notes," I traced a finger down his chest, watching his muscles jump. "And I’m a very hands-on learner. Want to see what else I picked up?"

He kissed me again, hard and desperate, and full of something that felt a lot like worship. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at me in the dying light.

Then he spoke, finally. "I hope you know what you’ve done."

"Started a fire?"

"Lit a match and walked away." He kissed my forehead. "And I’d let it burn."