The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  “I am a bit tired,” their mother said before leaning over to kiss Duncan’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a little while, darling. Florence, please get some sleep tonight. There are bags under your eyes.”

  Mamie snickered and added under her breath, “Yes, please stop sneaking out until all hours. Now, ask him.”

  Soon Florence was alone with her father, except for Justine still tinkering at the piano. Her father reached for a book on the table by his elbow and Florence tried not to be hurt that he’d rather read than talk to her. She tried to sound casual as she refilled her coffee cup. “Did you see the evening edition, Daddy?”

  “No. Why? Were you mentioned in the gossip columns again?”

  “Nothing like that.” She took a deep breath and forged ahead. “There was a mention about some problems in the Tenderloin. A casino there, I think.”

  He grunted in response, clearly not interested, then reached for his book and began thumbing through the pages.

  “The name was . . . the Bronze House. Yes, that was it. Have you ever visited it?”

  “No, I’ve never been one for gambling. You know that.” He looked up from his book. “Florence, why on earth are you asking me about the Bronze House?”

  “Curiosity. The newspaper said all the wealthiest men of the city frequented there. I thought maybe you’d visited or knew the owner, Clayton Madden.”

  “Well, I haven’t been there and I don’t know this Madden person. Moreover, you should steer clear of any young man who does. Those places are filled with the worst types. They are cesspools of degenerate behavior. I wish you would find a proper fellow, like Mamie’s Chauncey. He’s from a good, decent family—not like these slick rascals you seem to favor.”

  Fabulous. Another lecture when she was merely trying to dig for information. Irritation burned in her chest and she put her coffee cup down with a snap. “Chauncey is no prince, Daddy.”

  “And what does that mean, young lady?”

  Her sister’s almost-fiancé was a bore. Self-absorbed. Vapid. Florence wouldn’t be surprised to hear he carried on conversations with himself in an empty room. He knew nothing of hard work or survival. Everything had been handed to him since birth. He would make Mamie a terrible husband. “It means I don’t wish to marry a man like Chauncey.”

  “Then what type of man would you like to marry? I would really like to know, because if you think I’ll approve of a match between you and some two-bit ruffian, you are sorely mistaken.”

  She instantly wanted to protest that some two-bit ruffians were fifty times the man Chauncey could ever be—not that she and Clay would ever marry. But the idea that her father wouldn’t approve of it rankled. “Perhaps I’ll never marry. Perhaps I have no interest in coddling some overgrown toddler-man who expects me to do his every bidding.”

  “Yet, you prickled at marrying an older man, such as Mr. Connors.” He tossed his book on the table and stood. “I’ve stopped trying to understand you. You don’t want young, you don’t want old. You don’t want a man like Chauncey but you don’t want someone mature and responsible, either. Hear me now, Florence. You had best choose someone because you cannot live in this house indefinitely.” He strode out of the parlor without another word.

  She rubbed her eyes with her fingers. That had not gone as expected. But then, when did any conversation with her father begin and end reasonably?

  “He doesn’t mean that,” Justine said gently as she sat on the sofa next to Florence.

  Actually, Florence had forgotten her younger sister was in the room. She laid her head on Justine’s shoulder and sighed. “Yes, I rather think he does.”

  Her father’s patience was running out for unmarried daughters, which was why Florence had to get her own future secured—fast.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clay paused, his pencil hovering over the ledger. Numbers blurred in front of him as he waited, unmoving. There it was. Another faint thump sounded directly above him. That made no sense. No one was allowed up there. The entire third floor was Clay’s private space, his sanctuary inside the club.

  Yet, someone was definitely moving around upstairs.

  He threw down his pencil and pushed away from the desk. It wasn’t Jack. The club was full tonight and would remain so for another three or four hours. Until they closed, Jack would stay on the main floor, watching and managing, while Clay did the day’s books. That meant a maid or club employee had dared to wander into Clay’s domain.

  He nearly rubbed his hands together as he moved silently up the stairs. At least this would give him the opportunity to vent some of his frustration at someone. Three nights’ worth of frustration, to be exact.

  I will not think about her. I will not remember her tracing my face with her fingertip.

  No woman had ever touched his scars before. His face was not soft and boyish; it was fearsome and blunt. The sensation of her reverently touching his injury, her gaze full of appreciation rather than pity, had nearly caused his knees to buckle.

  But it needed to stop. He’d become too preoccupied with her. Had foolishly let her overshadow everything else in his life. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again, if she decided to return. Lessons and nothing more.

  At the door, he withdrew his key, silently placed it into the lock and turned gently. After a slight click, he entered his apartments. All appeared as it should, with his practical and worn furniture spread around. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness before continuing on.

  There weren’t many places to hide. The floor was composed of four large rooms, mostly open. He checked behind the sofa and in the small kitchen. That left the washroom and the bedroom. His hands fisted as he ghosted across the floor and into his most private space. Whoever had broken in would live to regret it.

  Silhouetted against the open window was a slight figure. Definitely a woman. Her back was to the room as she stared out into the night. Who in God’s name . . . ?

  He threw the switch and the overhead gasolier brightened. The woman gasped and turned.

  Florence.

  All the breath emptied from his lungs in a rush. She was here. In his bedroom. Looking so damn beautiful, like a perfect angel. How in blazes had she gotten up here?

  Then he remembered their conversation a few nights ago and felt the familiar anger tighten in his chest. He quashed any excitement over seeing her. She didn’t want him. She merely wanted his knowledge.

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “What are you doing?” It came out more harshly than he’d intended but he didn’t take it back or apologize.

  “Waiting on you.”

  “I was working in my office, which you must’ve realized, considering the club is still open. So why not come there instead?”

  “Because I didn’t come here for lessons.”

  He blinked, focusing intently on her face, as his brain tripped over those words. Hope flared but he smothered it. She’d made her position perfectly clear the last time they saw one another. And he wasn’t a man who begged or cajoled.

  So why was she here?

  Needing to see her better, he moved toward the window. “What have you come for, then?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not to me.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her cheeks tinged with color. He wished he knew why. “Are you embarrassed?”

  “I shouldn’t be,” she said with a small laugh. “It’s not as if I’m . . .” She sighed and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “This is so much easier for men.”

  “Not true. At the moment I’m confused and twisted inside out with possibility. You know how I feel about ambiguity.”

  She dropped her chin and stared right into his eyes. “I’m here to sleep with you.”

  Heat rushed through his veins and centered in his groin at the unexpected and entirely arousing declaration. She’d changed her mind about screwing him. Why?

  Don’t question your good fortune, man. Go on and ki
ss her before she reconsiders.

  No, he had to be certain. Clay did nothing without careful and methodical evaluation. He deserved an explanation, even if his body was suddenly as eager as a young teen. “What changed your mind about trusting me?”

  “I realized I do trust you. I’ve trusted you to teach me, to take me seriously. I’ve trusted you to keep me safe and protect my anonymity here. I’ve trusted you enough to kiss you and pleasure myself while you’re in the same room. I do trust you.”

  A crack opened in the stone that used to be his heart, and a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time welled up to warm him. Tenderness.

  He fought to shove it back down. Buttoned it up. This was not about feelings and emotion. She was here for danger and excitement, a colorful break from the monotony of her beige uptown existence. Not for a grand love affair with a criminal. He was not a long-term choice, merely a short-term diversion.

  So . . . danger and excitement. That he could do.

  “You want me to fuck you?”

  Her lips parted on a sharp inhale. Then her gaze darkened, almost glowing in the dim light. “Yes.”

  Ah, the power in that single word. He stepped toward her, closing the distance between them, his body alert and ready. A thief stalking his mark. Anticipation crawled through him as she watched, unmoving, color still high on her cheeks. When he was within reach, he cupped her face and bent his head. He dragged his nose alongside hers, breathing her in. Everything blurred, his vision filled with this gorgeous creature.

  “Sweet Florence, I am not one of your pampered and vacuous uptown men. I won’t give you timid or soft.” He sank his teeth into the skin of her neck, biting down gently. She whimpered and grabbed his arms to steady herself. He nearly smiled. Yes, he knew how this was going to go. “You want a bit of trouble, princess? Here I am. And I promise I’ll give it to you anytime you like.”

  He placed a kiss on the edge of her mouth, teasing them both, drawing out the anticipation. He was almost fully hard, his shaft pulsing as need rushed through him. The depth of his craving for this woman scared him, not that he’d ever admit it.

  Then she tilted her head and sealed her mouth to his, her lips moving eagerly, and he forgot how to think. There was only her. With kisses that were bold and thorough, her hands gripping him tight. She didn’t wait for him to coax a response from her; she was an equal, demanding a response from him with her clever lips and slick tongue.

  He loved it.

  The kiss deepened, their hands gliding and groping in haste. He wasted no time and kissed her hard, urgently, and all the desperation he’d stored the past few weeks resurfaced to burn him alive. His tongue caressed and worshipped, telling her without words how much he’d suffered in wanting her. Her mouth was wet, a glorious haven. He could sink into it and die a happy man.

  They stumbled a bit until her back landed against the wall, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed closer, his cock grinding into her corseted belly. It wasn’t enough. He needed her soft flesh, the friction of her channel gripping him. He needed her naked underneath him.

  He needed everything.

  Breaking off their kiss, he propped his hands on the wall above her head. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe. “I want to undress you.”

  “Good, because I want to undress you.” Her hands traced his shoulders and chest and she licked her lips. He worked to maintain his size and strength—intimidation was his currency, after all—yet he’d never been more grateful for that effort than right now. For some reason Florence wasn’t scared away by his size or his scars.

  Danger and excitement, remember?

  Already coatless, he began unbuttoning his vest while she watched. His fingers worked fast and soon the piece dropped to the floor. Then he lowered his suspenders, removed his shirt collar. Next, the shirt buttons. When enough had been unfastened, he yanked the fabric out of his waistband and whipped the shirt over his head. Her attention never wavered, her gaze heavy-lidded and intent, her body slumped against the wall.

  He kept going. After toeing off his leather shoes, he flicked open his trousers and pushed the cloth over his hips. He stepped out of the legs and kicked the garment aside along with his socks. That left him in a thin cotton undergarment, which hid absolutely nothing. Quite the opposite, actually. The fabric cupped his cock and balls indecently.

  She looked him up and down. He didn’t wait for a reaction, however. In another few seconds he had the undergarment off and stood naked in front of her. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her breasts pushed high into the neckline of her emerald-colored evening dress as she took in the sight of his bare body.

  This is who I am, he wanted to tell her. Scarred, big and imperfect. He was not one of those pampered swells with soft hands and an aversion to work. Clay was rough and unforgiving. He’d done little to be proud of in this life thus far. She’d be wise to leave and never come back.

  “Change your mind yet?” He held perfectly still and awaited her answer. He hadn’t felt this vulnerable since he got pinched at the age of sixteen for running an illegal dice game in the Bowery.

  “Absolutely not.” She lifted her hands to her hair and pulled on the combs securing her chignon. Silky blond tresses fell around her shoulders, a halo around her stunning face. “You’re glorious, Clay.”

  The compliment was a lance through his chest, destroying the thin thread he’d had on his self-control. He couldn’t wait a second longer to touch and taste her. He gripped her face and captured her mouth in a deep, powerful kiss. Her palms slid over his shoulders and down his chest, her touch light but unafraid, and so arousing he worried for his stamina. Their tongues battled and his cock throbbed between their bodies. Idiot. Why didn’t I undress her first?

  He reached for the ties of her skirt. She broke off from the kiss and moved his hand away. “It’ll go faster if I do it.”

  Nodding, he kissed her temple, then her cheek. He moved his lips over the curve of her jaw until he reached the smooth skin of her throat. She was soft and delicate, so different than her bold and daring personality. Her fingers brushed his stomach as she unfastened her bodice. When the fabric parted, he drove his hand inside to cup her breast, the mounds tantalizingly displayed by the corset. Florence twisted to shove the heavy material off her arms so he bent his head and kissed the tops of her breasts. He nibbled and sucked, drawing her flesh into his mouth as she worked on her skirts.

  “You’re not making this easy,” she panted.

  “You picked the wrong man for easy,” he said and focused on the tiny buttons of her corset cover. When that was removed, his fingers popped open the clasps on her corset, one by one. Soon, it joined the other pieces on the floor, along with her skirts and bustle, until she was left in her shift, drawers and stockings.

  Grasping the backs of her thighs, he lifted her. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he growled into her throat.

  She did, her arms and legs clinging to him, and his mouth found hers once more. Spinning, he carried her to the bed and laid her down, his body following atop hers, weight supported by his elbows. His hips landed in the cradle of her thighs, his shaft lined up directly atop her pubic bone. Unable to help himself, he rolled his pelvis. She threw her head back, eyes closed in surrender, and they both groaned.

  God, that sight. Fuck. He’d never be able to forget the image of her here, her blond hair spread out on his bedclothes, her pale skin flushed with arousal. He hoped the smell of her lingered here for years to come.

  She tilted her hips and the heat of her core met the skin of his cock. Oh, God, she was so wet and hot. If she kept that up he wouldn’t last ten minutes. If he was a religious man he would’ve started praying to stave off his climax.

  “Please, Clay,” she whispered and moved against him once more.

  He cursed. In all the times he’d imagined being with her—and there had been plenty—it had progressed as a slow seduction. Where he’d remained firmly in control. That was not
happening here. She wasn’t allowing him to go at his own pace, more demanding than his fantasy.

  Not that his body seemed to mind. Every sigh, every touch, drove him wilder. But he had to slow down. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be ready for him.

  “Wait, I should—”

  Another roll of her pelvis and the tip of his cock met her entrance. He paused, his muscles clenched in agony as he remained perfectly still. Oh, Christ. Oh, God. Oh, shit. Each cell in his body screamed for him to thrust, to drive, to stroke. No, he couldn’t. She’s experienced but not that experienced. Don’t hurt her.

  “Now, please.” She breathed the words into his throat just as her nails clawed into his buttocks. The sting was like a shock to his system, causing his hips to flex and his cock to slam into her sheath.

  She gasped—and not in a pleasurable way. He could hear the pain in the sound. Glancing down, he saw her eyes screwed shut, her face pale. Goddamn it.

  He pushed off her and withdrew, coming up on his knees. Her lids flew open. “What are you doing? Don’t stop now.”

  “Florence, it was causing you pain.”

  The confusion in her expression only deepened. “And?”

  He frowned. “And that’s bad.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m usually better at hiding the hurt until it goes away.”

  Hiding the hurt? Jesus. Hadn’t her other lovers bothered to prepare her? Did she assume sex to be painful?

  You didn’t prepare her, either, you selfish bastard.

  He stared at this magnificent woman, a lusty and audacious creature, and cursed any man who hadn’t properly pleasured her, including himself. Clay meant to rectify that right now.

  He slid his hands along her calves and drew down her stockings. Then he untied her drawers and slid them off. When he pushed her shift up her torso, she lifted off the mattress to help. At last, she was bare, spread out before him like a feast. Small, perfectly round breasts. Creamy skin. Slightly rounded stomach and flared hips. Her slit was glistening and swollen, begging for his mouth.