by Tracy Sumner
It was enough, this movement combined with his taste, scent, touch to send a tiny, explosive ripple through her. Skin aflame, limbs tingling, logic evaporating until she was left a powerless, writhing muddle.
“That’s a start,” he whispered against her lips and trailed his hand down her body. She felt the moisture on her thighs and thought to warn him, embarrassed and unsure, when he recaptured her lips and slid a finger deep inside her. Then he pressed his thumb to the spot she’d come to find, through her exploration, held the most pleasure. Oh. She dragged her hands down his body, scraping her nails over his skin. The slopes and ridges of his back, the rise of his buttocks. He was glorious, and she was going to record every inch of him while she let him turn her inside-out.
An apt pupil, she caught the rhythm of his finger, two when he added another, realizing they were acting out what would happen later. Soon, if his rushed breaths, the sweat slicking his skin to hers, the trembling arm braced by her shoulder, meant anything. Her head fell back, her back arching as she gasped, overcome by sensation, unable to maintain the kiss. In reply, he circled her waist, pulling her up and into him, devouring her.
“Come for me,” he whispered roughly against her cheek, his damp hair clinging to her skin, his body shifting as he sought to move closer. “Next time, I’ll use my mouth…make you shatter in seconds.” He sighed, long and low. “For now, this will have to do. I’ll come in seconds if I go there.”
The thought of his lips pressed to her core, of his release, sent her over the edge.
She could only lie back and disintegrate, weakly registering every thoughtful, resolute caress. Fingers stroking, thumb circling, teeth marking her shoulder, the nape of her neck, his exhalations harsh against her flushed skin. The weight of his body forcing hers into the mattress, a delicious, unexpected benefit.
Bliss. Waves and waves of it, stealing the air from her lungs and thought from her mind. “I can’t,” she panted with a shaky effort to push him away. “Too much.”
She felt his lips curve against her cheek, his fractured breath whispering past her ear. He uncurled her hand from where she gripped the counterpane and drew it down between their bodies. “Feel what you do to me.”
He was hard, incredibly so, which had shocked her earlier. And smooth, sleek, just like he was. A drop of liquid rested on the tip, and she smoothed it over his skin. “Perfect,” he murmured and captured her lips. Wrapping his hand around hers, he moved into position at her entrance, gradually, letting her feel their joining, control the speed, the depth. “This is what we feel like.”
“Yes,” she whispered raggedly, lifting her hips as he edged inside.
Then he began to thrust, slowly, allowing her to accept him. The pain was minimal, a sharp pinch that quickly faded, leaving only a feeling of abundance between her legs, an unfamiliar yet fascinating fullness inside her body. Pleasure simmering beneath her skin, Victoria locked her arms around Finn’s shoulders. Her hips bumped his as her hunger rose, their movements awkward until, with a sudden agreement, they found each other’s rhythm.
Then it was magic.
Angling her bent leg against his thigh, he slid deeper, sending a blistering tremor through her. She must have made a sound because he shifted, going again, harder, the dart of delight increasing.
There, that spot, yes. “Blue.”
He answered with another stroke, tip to base, and another until she had no words left to utter. His speed increased, his exertion pushing them up the bed. He switched between bottomless kisses she struggled to match and gasping, labored breaths released against her neck. His hands were restless, caressing her hip, her breast, her face.
At that moment, they were one.
For the first and perhaps the last time, she wasn’t alone.
It was then she noticed the squeak of the bed, louder even than the sound of their bodies moving together. Finn grasped one of the coiled metal slats and braced himself. Her eyes helplessly followed the flex and twist of his bicep—as if she needed additional incentive to catch fire and turn to ash. “This bed,” he said in a gravelly voice as he dashed a bead of sweat from his jaw, “is not meant for activity of this consequence.”
She stilled, her eyes racing to his. “Here, you’ve never…”
He shook his head, sending damp strands as dark as the sky beyond the bedchamber window skating across his brow. “I’ll slow down.” He rocked his hips against her, his lids fluttering. “We have hours.”
The pleasurable peak she was so close to reaching wouldn’t allow for hours. “I have another solution,” she said and gave him an unanticipated shove that sent them tumbling off the bed in a tangle of slick skin and bewildered awareness, the wrecked scrap of silk that had once been a sheet wrapped around them. She ended up on top, sprawled across him, hands still clutching his shoulders.
He knocked the sheet aside as she blew her hair from her face and met his bemused gaze. “Although I would honestly delight in having you ride me, seeing as you’re impatient…” Without another word, he had her on her back, reclaiming her with a hard thrust that stole her breath and sent a sizzle of ecstasy scorching through her body.
Closing her eyes, she gave herself to him completely, wondering if she’d survive this onslaught.
They regained their flawless rhythm within seconds. Skin flushed, bodies trembling, breathing stuttered, a well-coordinated, feverish dance. Colors burst behind her eyelids as a wave of pleasure rolled from her toes to her knees, pulsing higher with each stroke of his body. She writhed in his arms, biting his shoulder, his neck, to strangle her cries. She was marking his skin, she knew, but she was powerless, nothing but a pounding heart and the roar of blood through tight veins. He whispered something harsh and unintelligible, snaked his hand between their grinding hips, touched her once in that lovely, secret place and sent her to paradise.
She closed her eyes as wave after wave broke over her, her shudders turning to low cries as he kissed her. His body wracked by tremors, he surged a final time, then rolled away at the last moment, disengaging, protecting her when she wanted him there. Surrounding her.
With a hushed groan, he tucked her against him, her head finding an ideal nook on his shoulder. His heartbeat skittered beneath her ear, matching the wild pulse of hers. She wanted to capture him like one of Julian’s paintings, lovely and dazed and content. A lazy panther lounging by her side. She didn’t want to think about sharing this incredible intimacy with another man, one she didn’t love—while wondering if this man felt connected to her simply because he couldn’t read her thoughts.
“Quit thinking,” he murmured in a sleepy voice. “Because right now, my mind is as sharp as a melon. And I hate losing arguments.” He smiled softly, his dimple pinging to life. “Christ, that thing you did with your hips, most inventive and appreciated.”
Flattered to the tips of her toes, she rolled atop him, recalling his comment about riding. His lids fluttered, revealing a heated gaze filled with sudden interest. “I guess we can argue since my chances are good.” She shifted her body against his. “Or…”
“I’ll take ‘or’,” he said and grasped her hips, letting the passionate debate begin.
Chapter 15
A vivid nightmare wrestled him from sleep. One mixed with images of the past and the present. Of the danger surrounding Victoria should her existence come to light. Of his helplessness, his fear.
He woke fully to find the knife he kept beneath the mattress in his hand, and Victoria curled against him, her shallow exhalations skating deliciously across his chest, their fingers linked atop his stomach. Replacing the knife in its hiding place without jostling her, he lay back with a tormented sigh, his thoughts in absolute turmoil. Glancing to the window, he judged it to be just after midnight. Twenty-four hours. They’d spent twenty-four hours exploring each other bodies in ways he’d never hoped to explore. Free from the prison of recording his partner’s thoughts, it was as if he’d never tupped anyone, never given of himself—because
half of him, more than half, had always been fending off what were wholly awkward intrusions. Embarrassing intrusions. Unfulfilling intrusions.
Truthfully, he’d felt as virginal as she was going into this.
He palmed the hollow twinge in his chest, a rare burst of insecurity hitting him. Perhaps Victoria’s interest was only carnal—that’s what women wanted him for—when his interest in her was centered deep within, nothing he could shift or change or remove.
Devastation, just as he’d promised.
Love if he judged correctly.
Letting that awful declaration circle for a long breath, he then sent it from his mind like he did the errant thoughts that consumed him as he walked the city streets.
Settling Victoria on her side, he tucked the sheet around her shoulders and rose from the bed. Food. He needed food. Victoria needed food. They would share a midnight repast, his first experience of an ‘after’ with anyone, then he would return her to Julian’s townhouse before the servants were up at dawn. He’d sent a note to Humphrey—she’s safe—no doubt infuriating him and the always lovable Agnes, but there was no need to push the issue more than he already had.
Not when he’d gone and done the silliest thing imaginable. Fallen in love with a woman rightfully set to marry another man. A woman far above him in both gift and station.
Pulling on his trousers, he tiptoed down the steep back staircase to the kitchens, where he pilfered a round of bread, quarter wheel of cheese, three slices of ham, and a bottle of wine. He encountered no one employed at the Blue Moon on the journey. He had an exceptional manager in Benjamin Squires, a former rookery sharper who handled the day-to-day supervision with largesse and the occasional ruthlessness. He wasn’t sure if Benji even knew he was in the building, and for another hour or two, he wanted to keep it that way.
She was awake when he got back, standing solemnly before the window, the decimated counterpane gathered around her shoulders, her hair a molten river down her back. He loved her hair, had delighted in tangling his fingers in the silken strands while wrapping himself around her. Dropping his edible bounty on the bed, he noted that the sky over London’s rooftops was beginning to rotate from ebony to a bruised violet, meaning it was later than he’d calculated. Victoria knew he was there but didn’t turn, so he stepped up against her, unable to keep from touching her. When he didn’t need to make this evening more romantic, an occasion harder for either of them to forget.
But she made it harder, melting into him with a surrendering, flawless fit.
He propped his chin atop her head, breathing in her scent. Breathing in his scent on her. The night rolled in the open window, tasting of coal smoke and the river. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend they were older, pretend he’d been able to keep her, pretend they’d made it through this strife. Made it past their disconcerting gifts and his humble status. Made it past the betrothal he suspected she’d toss aside if he asked her to, and the incredibly fortuitous one Ashcroft was possibly set to make. Swallowing regret there was no use voicing, he pressed his lips to a love mark on her neck. She’d marked him as well, scratched his back, bitten his shoulder.
Nothing compared to the damage she’d done to his heart.
“Please tell me that’s food you dumped on the bed.” She turned in his arms, the counterpane fluttering to the floor.
He glanced down at her, stilled. She’d slipped his shirt on and fastened two of the buttons, leaving it to drape and part delicately over her slim frame. “Yes, food,” he said distractedly, wondering why he’d once preferred women with generous curves when the willowy nymph standing before him was simply perfect.
Grabbing his hand, she tugged him across the room, scrambled atop the bed, and lit into the food, attesting to her hunger and confirming she was wearing nothing beneath his shirt. She patted the spot next to her, chewing furiously. Leaning, he yanked the knife from beneath the mattress. With wide eyes, she watched as he jammed the blade in the cork, gave it a good twist, and wiggled it free.
“You like the rough side of me, don’t you?” He skimmed the blade down her arm in a teasing sweep, observed her responding shiver. “I’ll have to remember that.” Then he frowned, thinking, remember for what? This affair ended at dawn.
Propping against the headboard, she stretched out her long legs, smiled widely as his gaze took a sluggish path to her face. Just a few short hours ago, he’d started a deliberate journey at her ankles and worked his way up. It had been a very thorough trip.
“Are you ready to tell me?” She gestured with a hunk of cheese to the scar on his chest.
He climbed to the bed and rested back against the bedpost, facing her but apart, worried he’d not be able to tell her if she touched him. “There’s not much,” he said, his voice raw, invalidating the assertion. “We found a boy with a tremendous gift. A runner assisting ships docking at the wharf. Freddie told the wrong people what he could do, and I didn’t get there in time when a group of sailors decided to brutally test him.” He took a weary pull from the bottle and circled his gaze to the ceiling, not ready to accept the sympathy he’d find coloring her eyes. Not prepared to let her see the guilt that surely lay heavily in his. “You know, the rookery where Julian and Humphrey found me isn’t far away. Part of the reason my living here vexes them. Why return to a slum once you’ve managed to crawl out of it?”
“It’s a good question,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes. Let the sound of her breathing, a shift in a floorboard belowstairs, the rustle of silk against her skin settle in his mind. “I was an undisciplined hooligan with a nasty mouth, spewing threats I couldn’t possibly defend. Beatings were routine, even expected. Learning my lesson, as it were, was out of the question. Not when I couldn’t reconcile my despair, not while being dipped in everyone else’s. Walking through the market, down the alleys, the fateful stories, the private misery revealed to me. The cloistered thoughts rushing through my mind were consuming me. And then there were the men.” Tilting his head, he opened his eyes to find the pitying expression he’d hoped to avoid paling her cheeks. He shrugged though the pain was still intense after all this time. “It’s what happens to the beautiful boys.”
She swallowed, her throat clicking. A tear streaked unchecked down her face, and she scrubbed it away. “But they…Julian, he saved you.”
“They mostly saved me, yes.” He took another sip, the wine storming his empty stomach. “Never fear, Humphrey’s punishment when he found them was brutal. In all honesty, it made me realize what crimes I hadn’t been born to perform. A shock to the system about how unprepared I was to live my life in a rookery. Though I was a very skilled thief, a decent enough lockpicker, I was no killer, and to survive, with this gift, one needed to be. Or standing behind someone who was. Anyway, that was that. I was removed from the vicinity. Finley Michel, unknown grandson to a marquis, became Finn Alexander, beloved half-brother to Viscount Beauchamp.”
He flinched when she leaned in, seeking to comfort. One touch and he would shatter. “The only person to truly suffer was my sister. Belle lost everything while I gained. A family, wealth, even if I stepped down a few levels societally, unbeknownst to me.”
Victoria ran a knuckle beneath each eye but had the sharp insight not to approach him again. Then, with a drawn breath, she stilled, her brow pulling in thought. “Ashcroft is downstairs,” she said, smoothing her fingertips together as if they’d just gotten hot.
Finn took another drink, the wine beginning to slacken his awareness. “The troops have arrived. I suspected Humphrey would ferret us out at some point. Ashcroft is a bit of a surprise.”
Victoria scrambled to his end of the bed, her hands going to cradle his jaw, drawing his somber gaze to her frantic one. “I can’t do this with someone else. I won’t. You’re happy to bed every woman in this city but I—”
“Do you think this is like anything I’ve ever experienced?” He shoved to his feet, wine splashing down his arm and to the faded carpet. At her we
ak smile, he growled, “I don’t know why my anger always seems to goddamn amuse.”
She scooted to the edge of the mattress, her adorable body covered by almost nothing, sending his thoughts in a stupendously lascivious direction. “Because it’s real, Blue. Not that tedious mockery you show the ton.” She wiggled her elegant little toes and cast a shy glance his way. A tender look that melted his heart right where he stood. In a puddle with the bloody wine.
He found himself saying in desperation, “If Ashcroft offers, accept.” Ignoring her startled gasp, he stepped back, creating distance in the only way he knew how. “You would make a wonderful duchess and instantly decrease the odds of Mayfair going up in flames. It’s a win-win, as they like to say on the gaming floor two stories below. Earlier, I woke from a nightmare with a knife in my hand, Tori, which should tell you all you need to know about how far apart our worlds are.”
She shot to her feet and caught him in the shoulder, a glancing blow that nonetheless sent him stumbling. “Oh, you would love to fob me off on the Fireball Duke, wouldn’t you? Tie everything up in a tidy package, no remorse, no bother. Victoria placed in a proper, agreeable situation and everyone’s ecstatic!”
He smacked the wine bottle atop the sideboard and grasped her shoulders. “Actually, I wouldn’t.”
“It’s my choice who I give myself to. Not in marriage, perhaps, but in this.”
She didn’t realize. Much of anything.
That her family had more control over her future than she would have liked. That he’d never been able to play in bed. Be spontaneous. Be himself. Laugh, smile, tease, enjoy. She didn’t realize how awful it was going to be to watch her marry someone else. The Fireball Duke, the Grape, anyone but him. “I want you,” he growled and shook her to help the words sink in, “but you’re not mine. I want to spend the next year inside this room, inside you, discovering every hidden piece of you, body and mind. Talking and touching and baring my soul. But I’m not changing who I am, not taking the potential avenue of escape that’s been offered by claiming the Laurent name, grandson of a marquis, which would never be accepted anyway. The byblow of a viscount I’ll remain, untouchable for you. Let’s be clear on this point. I’d be untouchable no matter the circumstance.”
