by Zoë Archer
Heat cut through him at what her words implied. We’re going to be up late tonight.
“Not so early that a cup of bracing tea can’t cure any lingering lethargy.” But Simon had plans, many plans, between now and sunrise. If everything went as he envisioned, they’d be so exhausted, they would need to be rolled into the offices on wheelbarrows.
Farewells were exchanged with the guests and their hosts, with Stokeham and Tufton giving his hand an extra-hearty shake. Tomorrow, they believed, he’d be leading them directly toward boundless, underhanded profit.
He and Alyce descended the stairs into the foyer, where a footman appeared with their hat, coat, and wrap. Neither he nor Alyce spoke. The air around them crackled, and they didn’t look at each other, nor did she take his arm, as if knowing that once they spoke, looked, touched, there’d be no stopping them.
The footman signaled for a cab. A hackney rolled to a stop, and, his touch as light as possible, Simon helped Alyce inside. “Cormorant Hotel,” he growled up at the driver. “There’s an extra quid in it if you get us there in ten minutes.”
If anyone later reported to the local law that a cabman had been driving with reckless speed through the streets of Plymouth, Simon didn’t care. All that mattered was that seven minutes later, he and Alyce were going up the steps to their hotel room, and he felt as if he were climbing a stair that led straight to a long-denied paradise.
* * *
She liked that he fumbled with the key. It took him several tries, his hands faintly shaking, before he unlocked the door and ushered her inside their room. He’d picked locks and slipped easily through danger, calm as the night sky. But now, here, with her, he shook, and that made her even more unsteady.
Still, neither of them said anything as he turned up a lamp. He left the flame low. The room felt small and warm as two cupped hands.
She draped her wrap over the back of a chair, watching him as he paced to the drawn curtains, then back. He shoved his hands into his pockets and finally looked at her. A burning gaze. But he stood in the middle of the room, while she lingered by the table in the corner, and made no move to close the distance between them.
Need and eagerness shuddered through her. But she took a kind of pleasure from them, in this stretching out of tension. Maybe the outcome was inevitable. Maybe it wasn’t. Just this once, she’d let herself enjoy uncertainty.
But it truly wasn’t uncertain. Not really. Not the way he licked his lips when he looked at her, and her breasts already felt tight and heavy, and the lamplight traced the line of his hard cock pulling at the fabric of his trousers.
“It isn’t settled yet.” His voice was a rasp. “Not until the documents are signed. Even then, there’s more.”
“What’s ever settled?” She took a swaying step toward him. “What do we ever have, except now?”
Standing inches in front of him, she slowly peeled off her long gloves. It was a process—loosening the fingers, the part that covered her hand, and then pulling deliberately at the tight leather. She couldn’t go fast if she wanted to, but why would she want to, when he watched her keenly, as if each movement, each little bit of skin revealed, was the most important thing in the world?
One glove came off, and she dropped it to the ground. She repeated the process with the other glove. Her arms and hands were bare. She felt herself glow—from the light and the need radiating out from him.
She slid her hands down his starched shirtfront. It rasped against her sensitive palms. But she kept them there, pressed against his chest. Beneath the shirtfront and the shirt itself, he was hot and solid, and his heart was like an engine as it raced under her hands.
“Tonight,” he growled. “At Harrold’s, you were … perfect. A warrior.”
“I talked like a featherbrain, not a warrior.”
“A brilliant disguise. Only the best can pull it off—hide who they truly are. You did. All I could think about was that wicked, clever mind of yours.”
“Just my mind?” She’d never smiled like this in her life, as if she were the essence of seduction.
“The wicked, clever rest of you, too. Especially your hands. And your mouth.”
She was pierced all over with darts of need. “Tonight, I kept thinking about how polished you were, a handsome, smooth talker. In that drawing room, in the dining room. Those elegant places. And I thought about your cock in my hand, hard and thick.”
He growled.
“Now we’re here,” she continued. “Alone.”
He didn’t need the prompting. He cupped her head with his hands and brought their mouths together. Ravenous, explosive. Their kiss ricocheted through her body. He surged against her, and she met his force, straining to him.
Everything she’d tried not to feel for the past hours, days, weeks, she let herself feel now. What she felt most of all was him, his own power and want. Need for her. His tongue slicked into her mouth and she sucked on it, tearing a groan from him.
He kept one hand around the back of her head, but the other he ran all over her: neck, arms, waist, and up again, to curve against her breast.
“You fancy folk and your fancy clothes,” she muttered. “I can’t feel anything.”
After pulling off his own gloves, his hands quickly went to work, undoing the many fastenings and lacings of her gown. She didn’t know how he did it—she’d watched the maid at work earlier and it had seemed some kind of agonizing, deliberate ritual—but in moments, her elaborate gown was gone, thrown aside with a rustle of silk. He wasn’t finished, however. One by one, her layers disappeared. His fingers flew over the hooks of her corset, and she felt giddy with the rush of air—or that might have been him making her head spin like a top.
And then she was just in her chemise, drawers, and stockings.
“You’ve practiced getting women out of their clothes,” she said with a breathless laugh.
His smile was wickedness itself. “All leading to this moment.” He pulled her against him once more, and there, there he was, his hands shaping her buttocks, skimming up her sides, caressing her breasts. He rubbed her tight nipples through the sheer muslin of her chemise.
She’d never been this uncovered for anyone—but she wasn’t afraid. She wanted more.
Sensation flooded her. She felt all of her body, as if every nerve came alive at the same time. Without the barrier of her clothes, she felt him—the fine wool of his evening suit, his taut, long body, the thickness of his erection pressed into her belly. It was still a shock, to feel that part of him, even if she’d had him in her hand only hours earlier. Proof that he was real. A man. With her now.
They kissed with swelling hunger, until, rumbling, he broke the kiss. “It’s your turn.”
Her mind was fogged while her body was alert. “For what?”
He led her to the chaise, sitting her on the edge. Sitting gave her a perfect view of his straining cock.
He pushed her hands away when she reached for the buttons of his trousers. “Not yet. You first.”
She didn’t have time to ask him what he meant before he knelt before her. A look of utter concentration crossed his face as he undid her garters. His hands glided over her legs as he removed each stocking, and he made a growl of approval. Up to now, only her own hands had taken off her stockings. Each step was a new intimacy.
“I love your legs. Sleek.” One of his fingertips traced a muscle along her inner thigh. “Strong.”
She couldn’t care that she didn’t look like a fine London lady, white and soft. Her muscles meant she worked, and worked hard, and she prized each one. Judging by the stark need in his face, he did, too.
He tugged off her drawers. She peeled off her chemise. And there she sat on the chaise, completely naked. Another threshold crossed—her first time fully nude in front of a man. Everything was so much better because it was Simon here with her for all these new experiences. She wouldn’t want anyone else.
His hands pressed on his thighs as he continued to kneel in f
ront of her. He stared at her, his gaze hotter than any refinery. “I just want to look. I want to touch. I want everything.”
The intensity in his face and voice almost frightened her—but they did send another wave of arousal crashing over her. “We’ve got all night.”
“Isn’t enough.” He leaned forward, kissing her deeply. “But we’re going to start somewhere.” The kiss continued. One of his hands stroked up her thigh, higher, higher, until—she gasped into his mouth as his fingers dipped between her legs.
The only fingers that had touched her there had been her own. He caressed her there, lightly at first, and then delving deeper, with an instinct for how she wanted to be touched. As if he were in her mind, in her body. She arched and writhed. His fingers had to be dripping, and she was shamelessly glad that he could make her feel so much. When his finger rubbed against her bud, a sound unlike any other she’d ever made clawed up from her throat. She’d touched herself there before, but it hadn’t been nearly as agonizingly sweet.
“God, Alyce,” he groaned. “Sweet Alyce.”
“Not sweet.” How was she able to speak? “Never have been.”
“You’re wrong. I’ll prove it.”
He spread her thighs apart and ducked his head. Her eyes widened. Was he really…? Did people do that?
They did. She grabbed the back of the chaise, fighting back a scream, when he put his mouth on her. His hands stayed firm, holding her down, as he licked her with long, potent strokes. He toyed with her, commanded her, worshipped her. His tongue circled her bud, and he sucked it gently between his lips. One of his fingers slowly eased inside her, then began to glide in and out. She’d put her own fingers into herself before, but his were thicker, stretching her.
He still wore his fancy evening clothes. She wore not a single stitch. Though he bent low over her, she could make out the high, sharp planes of his cheekbones, the elegance of his gentleman’s face. And she could see the exquisite pleasure on that face, the complete concentration and devotion to his task.
She felt the smooth upholstery beneath her naked body and the wooden back of the chaise she gripped. She felt his mouth, his finger. Felt what seemed like a lifetime of want and struggle and desire building, building. She never would’ve thought people gave each other pleasure this way—but, God, did Simon pleasure her.
The climax took her. It was freedom and a cage, tightening over her, releasing her. A pleasured scream tore from deep inside. Her body arched completely up from the chaise. But still he held her, gripping her. He was ruthless with his mouth. He wouldn’t let her go. Not until she’d come again. And once more.
Finally, she collapsed back to the chaise. All of her bones had dissolved. She couldn’t do much beyond watch him as he unsteadily stood and threw off his clothing. Revealing himself bit by bit.
A new surge of energy filled her as she saw him for the first time. Not just the suggestion of muscle beneath his shirt, but the planes and contours of his chest, his arms and shoulders. The barest gleam of golden hair glimmered on his chest. He was lean and tight, sinewy. Each muscle sharply defined in the lamplight, from the ridges of his stomach to the lines arrowing down from his hips toward his groin. More fine golden hair trailed down the flat of his stomach. Scars formed shadows on his body—one across his ribs, another on his shoulder, a line on his calf. He was a soldier. A warrior. Had fought and survived to stand before her now.
He stepped out of his trousers and drawers, then kicked them aside.
His thighs were hard and just as keenly muscled as the rest of him, his calves strong but not thick. He had long feet, and they looked primal and male as he stood on the Oriental carpet. But her gaze didn’t linger on his feet. No, her attention fixed on his cock. She’d seen it—touched and caressed it—earlier today. But she hungered at the sight of him, thick and curved, the head dark, shining, with a little bead of liquid at the slit.
He bent and lifted her up in his arms. She felt dizzy, freed from the force that tied her to the earth. As if she and Simon could fly out the window and soar into the night sky.
After pulling back the covers, he laid her down upon the bed.
“You’ll join me now, won’t you?” She smiled, stroking her hand along the cool sheets.
His answer was to slide into bed and pull her to him. The length of his body burned hers, the small tremors that shook him echoing within her. When they kissed, and she tasted herself on his lips, desire roared back to life. She wrapped her leg around his. He gripped her tightly. His forehead lowered to hers, their breath mixing hotly.
“Alyce,” he rumbled.
“Simon.”
He rolled her onto her back, easing her thighs open. He was dark and golden above her, severe and beautiful as a saint, but there was nothing saintly in his eyes. Their gazes locked. She felt the tip of him at her entrance. Yet he held himself still.
“Yes,” she said.
His eyes briefly closed, as if giving thanks, then they opened again. Slowly, so slowly, he slid into her. She was stretched, filled. Rosy pain spread, petal by petal.
He watched her face every moment, his own tight. “Hurting you.”
“It’s good.” She wasn’t capable of lying, not at this moment, with him inside her and the world changed forever. Yes, it hurt, but the hurt was good, and she held it close. Like a prize.
When he’d sunk himself fully within her, he stilled. Breathed in and out harshly. “Ah, God.” His whole body shuddered and sweat gleamed over him. Holding himself back—for her.
“More, Simon.” She squeezed her thighs around his hips. She wouldn’t be refused.
He drew back, sliding out gently, then pushed forward again. More pain, followed by unexpected pleasure. She melted around him, and the pain lessened.
He felt the change in her. His hips thrust with more strength, more speed. His eyes closed. He growled. She reveled in his pleasure, moving past the hurt and feeling only him, everywhere inside her.
Then he made an agonized sound, and pulled quickly from her body. His own body bowed, his head thrown back, and liquid spilled in hot streams onto her belly. It seemed a blissful torture.
With a groan, he collapsed beside her. One arm he flung over his head. But his other hand found hers, and their fingers laced together.
“Goddamn it,” he said, his voice edged with self-blame. “Your first time, and I was a sodding brute.”
“You weren’t.”
“The pain—”
“And the pleasure.” She turned her head toward him. “I’d thought, wondered … but I never knew. How good it could be.” It would never be this good again, not after he left. But she couldn’t let herself think of that now. “I’ve also heard,” she added, smiling, “that it gets even better the more you do it.”
He grinned. “Very true.”
He rose up from the bed, and disappointment pierced her when he let go of her hand. But then he went into the bathroom and returned with a dampened washcloth. Carefully, tenderly, he cleaned her, and showed no embarrassment when he cleaned himself. Thin streaks of blood appeared on the cloth as he wiped himself off.
They stared at each other. But she had no regrets. This had been her choosing. No promises had been demanded, and none had been given. She expected nothing but this night.
So she plucked the cloth from his hand and set it aside. Set it all aside. Tonight was hers, and for just these few hours, she could pretend that he was hers.
* * *
They dozed, wrapped together. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but when she woke, the lamps were out and moonlight and shadows bathed the room. He stirred behind her, nuzzling the back of her neck, his hands drifting over her body. He stroked her breasts and she pressed herself into his touch. She thought once she’d had her release, she’d be sated, but with his languid caresses, hunger suddenly swelled.
She felt loose-limbed, soft. When one of his broad hands moved down her stomach, then lower, to caress her folds, her need built even h
igher. She lifted her arms and hooked them behind his neck, leaving herself stretched and open. As he touched her, she moaned, writhing, wanting. His cock was hard and hot against her back. He pulled her legs apart.
Slowly, he sank into her. Pain again, at first, less than last time, and it dimmed and pleasure grew. He continued to thrust deep, and as he did, his fingers circled and rubbed her sensitive bud. All the while, he whispered into her ear. Soft, coaxing words. Telling her how beautiful she was, how they were made for this, for each other, and he wanted to be inside of her forever. The climax hit her with the force of a thunderclap. His own followed right after, with him pulling out and spilling upon the sheets as he rumbled her name.
They quietly panted together in the aftermath. She ought to be exhausted. Her body echoed with lovely soreness and tiredness. The day had been long and tumultuous, exciting and frightening. But with Simon’s sweat-dampened, naked body cupping hers, and her mind spinning, she was awake as if it were noon. Time was slipping away, grain by grain. She wanted whatever she could grab hold of.
Eventually, she asked, “Are they all like that? Rich people?”
He stretched and rolled onto his back, pulling her along, so she lay partially atop him, her hand splayed across the tight span of his chest. She thought he might dismiss her question, tell her it was far too late to talk about these things and to just go to sleep.
But he didn’t. “Those men—Harrold, Stokeham, Tufton—they’ve built their wealth because they don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves. I’ve known dozens, hundreds of businessmen who’ve grown fortunes without treating other people like animals. Or worse than animals.” He exhaled slowly. “But the fact that Nemesis exists is proof enough—there are plenty of bastards in the world who’ll crush the spines of anyone beneath them. To make money. To feel better about themselves.”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen acts of incredible kindness and cruel brutality.”
“There’s got to be a meaning to it, a pattern.” She stroked her fingers through the fine hair on his chest, memorizing the feeling.
