Kisses to Steal

by Tilly Wallace

  "Nothing? Hmm. I can touch my toes, can you?" Quinn discarded another card and raised the amount in the pot.

  The game continued. Lesser men dropped out, but St John held his position. He seemed determined to best Quinn at something. Beads of sweat dribbled down the side of his face and he took to sweeping his skin with a handkerchief. As cards were dealt, Quinn struck them from his mental tally. Each card revealed increased the probability he could predict the next.

  With each turn, he grew in confidence. The time had come to go all in. St John's fingers trembled as he laid out his cards. Quinn took his time, placing each rectangle an exact distance from the next as he revealed his winning set.

  Applause erupted around the table and he basked for a moment. He had done it.

  "No," St John gasped. Realisation was slow to sink through his thick skull. A few sympathetic fellows patted him on the back and murmured commiserations. Quinn stared at the pile of money and a taunting promissory note. It was all he needed to put his plan into effect.

  St John slammed his fists on the table and leapt to his feet. The chair fell to the floor behind him. "No. You cannot take it all. I will be ruined. Honour demands you at least return the note, so I can retain the land."

  "Funny thing, honour. Perhaps you should have thought harder about it when the young Ianthe approached you all those years ago." Quinn looked up and met his opponent's wide gaze. "It would appear your lack of honour has caught up with you."

  Quinn raked in the notes and began piling them up.

  "You bastard!" St John fumbled in his pocket as the crowd gasped.

  Ewan laid a hand on the loser's arm. While it appeared a friendly gesture, his fingers pressed into the man's flesh and found the tendons and nerves underneath. With a fluid partial shift, he pressed wolf strength into the iron grip. "Think very carefully. You played voluntarily and lost. Do not compound your problems by doing something even more foolish than betting your entire inheritance."

  St John's face flushed bright red. His mouth opened and closed, and his chest heaved. "He has ruined me!"

  "I rather think you have done that to yourself," Ewan said, and let the man go with enough of a push to propel St John backward into the crowd.

  Quinn smiled and tucked the money into the pocket of his jacket. A blow struck for Ianthe against the man who had treated her so poorly. A small gesture, but one that made him grin. Life was not fair, but sometimes she presented you with the opportunity to even the odds, just a little.

  18

  Ianthe

  * * *

  At times, waves of helplessness engulfed Ianthe and just the act of drawing her next breath seemed impossible. When the ocean of despair lapped at her feet she sought escape in the little brown bottle and its bitter tonic. Quinn's presence had acted as both a panacea and the catalyst for a tidal wave of grief. She’d grown used to his presence and the gentle warmth that imbued his every action. She had barely glanced at the bottle on her dresser when each day was filled with Quinn. Only as their week drew to a close did the sadness drag her under. How would she face each day without him?

  One particular vision plagued her. Eternally in her mind the wolf and the shadow demon were locked in combat over the fallen horse. The demon was fast, whipping around behind the wolf to tear another sliver of flesh from the horse. Bit by bit the demon consumed the horse, no matter how fiercely the wolf fought.

  She understood it now. The scene represented Quinn and Hoth fighting over her. But who would win? The vision never changed nor progressed in time to its ultimate end. She had no glimpse as to who might emerge victorious, and did it even matter, since it appeared too late to save the horse?

  Thinking of the inevitable cold weeks to come acting as Septimus's mistress, she plunged into a frigid sea and couldn't break the surface. She pled a headache and, in her room, escape whispered from the small brown bottle on her dresser.

  She wanted to turn her back on society and offer herself to Quinn. Aster said wolves loved fiercer and deeper than ordinary men, but Ianthe struggled to believe it. Her experience of love said it was fleeting, and that the youth would eventually grow bored of an older courtesan. Then their regard for each other would sour and she would find herself even older and lonelier with fewer options. Better to never taste his exquisite dream than to choke on it one day.

  The next morning, she awoke with a sense of emptiness. Sarah frowned and muttered under her breath as she helped Ianthe dress. Her staff appeared to have changed allegiances. When Quinn first entered her home they treated him like a foul-smelling stray dog, pulled from the gutter. In a few short days, the soldier had wormed into everybody's affections, and he was now a much-loved member of the household that they refused to give up. They stared at her as though she were about to kick him out into the street in the middle of a snowstorm.

  "He cannot stay, Sarah. How will we meet our monthly expenses?" Life was rarely simple. Wishing he could stay did not make the decision either practical or possible. "You cannot live on the fruits of love."

  "You'd find a way between the two of you, if you'd just broach it to him. He's a clever lad. If nothing else, he's a wolf and should be a fine hunter able to provide for the table. And I bet he'd keep you warm at night." She jabbed the pins into Ianthe's hair a little more roughly than necessary.

  "Do you forget he is also a soldier, only in London on leave? He will soon re-join the Highland Wolves and they expect to be sent to Europe. What if I spurned my patrons here for Quinn, only for him to never return from the war?" Quite apart from the fact Ianthe had no desire to be a camp follower, what if she gave her heart to Quinn and he went and got himself killed? Love was too fraught an option that only ever ended in heartache.

  "All the more reason not to waste time. You should grab the days given to you and let the lad know you'll be waiting for him to return." Sarah dug her toes in and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Ianthe gave up. She couldn't argue with Sarah, not when the wall around her heart was disintegrating. It took all her willpower not to admit the depth of her feelings for the young man. She had to call upon her acting ability to force a smile upon her face and keep her thoughts light.

  Breakfast was a quiet affair; even Quinn seemed content to drift in the silence between them, although his gaze was more heated than usual when it rested on her. Ianthe stared at her toast and kept thinking that it was their last day, their last breakfast, and their last few hours. Everything would soon come to an end, unless she did something about it.

  But she was too much of a coward to give up what she knew on a chance of something more. The stakes in this game were too high to throw the dice lightly.

  She rose, muttered about her correspondence, and walked to the small library. Quinn followed and settled in his usual spot, sprawled like a wolfhound trying to pretend to be a lapdog. Ianthe dropped into the chair by the window and tackled the letters Perkins had left sitting on the desk. One by one, she opened them and read the contents. Then she stared at her ledger.

  With Constance's account settled she had one less worry on the debtor's side, but her income sources dwindled, especially now that Lady Dunne had cut off the payments from Phillip. If only she could find the funds to buy Galahad before the baron found someone crazy enough to take on the temperamental stallion. Septimus's offer lurked in the back of her mind. There were two other men who might have made suitable patrons, but Viscount Hoth had scared them off. It didn't pay to stand between him and something he wanted, if you had any debts to the powerful banker.

  If only she had the deeds to the house, she could sell it and raise enough for the stallion and a small plot of land far from London. But could she stomach what Septimus would demand in return? How much of her soul would he consume before he freed her? Where are you, Alice? I have so many questions.

  She sighed, scratched out a line of numbers, and started again. There was a way to make everything work; she just had to find it. Her life seemed like a house of cards; a
ll it would take was one sharp gust of wind and the whole lot would tumble. Today Quinn would leave her, and her heart constricted in her chest at the thought. What would she do without him? Another thing gnawed at her: He had not requested his last kiss yet, and the day ticked from morning to afternoon.

  As though summoned by her heated mind, Quinn rose from his seat and stood behind her chair. He leaned down until his cheek grazed hers, and placed a large hand over hers that held the quill. His breath caressed her ear as he whispered the words that made her breath hitch: "I would have my kiss now."

  A shiver of anticipation ran down her spine. Her hand trembled under his, and he removed the quill from between her loose fingers. He swung the chair around from the desk and moved in front of her. His breath was hot down her body as he slid to the floor and knelt at her feet, like a supplicant.

  "How will you kiss me from down there?" She touched a finger to her lips. "They are here, remember?" Already her heart pounded louder in her chest. This was their last day and it seemed as though everything built to this moment, their last kiss.

  A wicked smile spread over his handsome face. "Oh, I know those, but I've been planning this for some time."

  One large hand encircled her ankle and caressed her stocking-clad leg. Ianthe bit her lip as he traced circles around the delicate bone, as erotic a touch as she had ever experienced, and he lavished such attention on her foot that her leg trembled. Then he grabbed the hem of her gown and dragged the fabric up her legs. He stroked the back of her knees as he passed and a soft moan escaped her lips.

  Given the direction of his caresses, she had an inkling of his plan. "You cannot, Quinn. That is cheating."

  "I am sticking to our rules, but you should know by now that I always play to win. However, I assure you, this time you will be victorious." Even his tone, rough with desire, stroked over her skin.

  He pushed the layers of cotton up past her knees and trailed his hand over the top of her stocking. Quinn parted her legs and leaned in to brush his cheek against her inner thigh. "When did someone last give you pleasure, Ianthe? When did a man make you the sole focus of his attention?"

  She shook her head. "Never." The word whispered from between her lips. In her world a woman gave pleasure; she did not receive it. Any enjoyment was a rare, unintended consequence.

  His gaze darkened with desire and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him between her thighs. Heat pooled in her centre even before his head dropped. She closed her eyes, and with the first stroke of his tongue, she was lost. The world consisted of only Quinn and the cascade of pleasure running through her body. Her fingers curled into the arms of the chair and her back arched as she cried out. He placed one hand on her hip to steady her, or to catch her when she fell, she no longer knew which.

  He laved at her flesh with long strokes of his tongue, followed by soft nips that echoed her short cries. Quinn took his cues from her. Whimpers made him suck on her bud and a low moan made him harden his approach. She was so starved of attention that she crested a shallow wave early and sobbed in frustration. Too soon. It came too soon. How she ached for him to linger, for the experience to last just a little longer. After ten lonely years of neglect, how she yearned for someone to please her at last.

  She opened her eyes, expecting to see him rise and probably leave the room, her house, and her heart.

  Instead, he paused and kissed her inner thigh. His gaze was so intense she could only draw a shallow breath. "I have not finished yet. Indeed, we have only started."

  Then he began anew. He gave her no time to think, but swept her away on a tide of rising arousal.

  The walls around her heart collapsed and she kicked away the ruins. Ianthe desired him so fiercely it toppled her. He was the sun around which she revolved. Without him, she would wither and die. Almost of their own accord her fingers laced in his hair, holding his head in place. She needed to wring every drop from this encounter, even as her body screamed out to feel his skin next to hers. Her eyes closed and her head fell, as fire burned along her limbs. Now that her mind freed itself and she embraced his actions, she chased the waves of ecstasy he created.

  He licked and teased, his every caress throwing more fuel on her building fire. He moved his hands under her buttocks and slid her to the edge of the chair, his shoulders driving her thighs further apart, and she could only moan in pleasure. With one hand he exposed her to him, while his lips teased her flesh. Then his teeth playfully nipped at her before he inserted a finger. He stroked inside her with a steady rhythm, and when one finger was not enough, he slid in another. The gentle pressure built to something unrelenting. Her muscles tightened and her stomach contracted, as he threw her higher and higher until she felt she could stretch out her hands and gather the stars.

  She moved one hand from his head and pulled at her bodice. Her fingers pinched at her bosom, the sharp pang at her breast in contrast to Quinn's strokes deep in her body, but it still wasn't enough.

  "More," she whispered. "I need more."

  His teeth grazed her flesh as he crooked his fingers and rubbed against her inner wall. Ianthe could no longer withstand the assault. She cried out his name as release burst through her body and a tremble ran through her limbs.

  Quinn continued to run his tongue over her sensitive nerves as she drifted down. Each lick triggered a new ripple through her body as he drew the moment out. She struggled to draw air into her lungs, as if she could only exhale and not inhale. As the tide ebbed, her heart slowed, and she was finally able to draw a deep breath.

  Quinn dropped her skirts back around her legs, but stayed on his knees. Ianthe was surprised that he seemed as short of breath as she. Perhaps she had held his hair too hard and denied him air for too long?

  "Are you all right?" she ventured.

  He raised his head and she gasped at the depth of passion still burning in his eyes. "Yes. I just need a moment. It's rather tight quarters down here."

  She took a moment to understand his words, her mind still floating in the ocean of pleasure he had crafted just for her. "You enjoyed that?"

  A shudder ran through his body as he relaxed a little and laid his head in her lap. "Immensely. If you move too much I am in grave danger of staining the front of my trousers."

  It amazed her that he found as much pleasure in performing the act as she did in the receiving. In her years of servicing men, she had never found it arousing. At best it was mildly diverting. Was the difference that Quinn had made her his entire focus? When she relieved men, it took only a fraction of her mind to play the part. The rest of her was usually planning out the next day and instructions for the housekeeper. Or was it as simple as the fact that they truly desired one another? Even now a new ache took hold of her, one that demanded the slide of his naked skin over hers.

  She stroked her foot up the side of his thigh, and he sucked in a harsh breath. "I could relieve your discomfort."

  "No." He bit the word out. "You owe me nothing. This was about you, not me."

  Except she wanted to, and not just her body. Her heart wanted to reciprocate and show Quinn the emotions he stirred to life within her. He had breezed into her life and showed her how to live. She would never be the same again.

  They sat in quiet companionship and she stroked his thick hair. After the way she had clutched at it, at least now the strands had a reason for the crazy angles at which they stood out from his scalp.

  19

  Quinn

  * * *

  Quinn sat at Ianthe's feet as the scent of her filled his nostrils and the taste of her spilled down his throat. Her release glistened on his hand and he sucked his fingers clean, not wanting to waste any part of the experience. His arousal strained against the buckskin of his trousers and only the sharp pain when he breathed in kept him from spilling inside his smallclothes. Need tore through his body and he shook with the effort it took to restrain his instincts. The wolf hadn't even begun to have enough of her and it bayed for more. All he cou
ld imagine was tumbling her to the carpet, tearing the clothes from her body and having her naked under him, screaming his name as they drank their fill of one another.

  He buried his face in her lap and concentrated on one slow breath after another. Ianthe's fingers combed through his hair and the gentle action against his scalp soothed man and beast somewhat. The raging animal inside allowed itself to be calmed by her. Perhaps this was the magic she wielded over the fractious stallion. For once, Quinn could relate to how the equine felt when a high-stepping mare crossed his path and he was told no.

  Bit by tiny bit, the pain eased and he could draw a shuddering breath. Lord, he wanted her. His entire body screamed and burned, as though he had been thrust into a fire and then his skin abraded and torn away. With every fibre he kept himself from pulling her to the floor, driving into her flesh, and seeking cool release. He wanted to give her pleasure, instead of taking. Even if it killed him.

  The carriage clock over the mantle ticked and the grandfather clock in the hall struck three times. The desperate need in his body abated, like a tide that caressed the sand and then ebbed back out to the ocean.

  Quinn still didn't want to move. There was a quiet companionship as he sat at her feet, each of them drawing strength from the other. He had almost dozed off when there came a rap at the door. He sat up as Perkins pushed into the room. Tense muscles protested and he needed to shake himself loose.

  "Letter for Mr Muir." All credit to the man, he didn't even look startled to find Quinn's head in his mistress's lap and the lady herself looking decidedly well-pleasured. Although he must have been forewarned, as Ianthe was not quiet in her release and her cries would surely have reached beyond the parlour walls.