But no one warned her it was going to feel like this.
As Thomas touched her, explored her with tender fingers and urgent lips, she felt her body unfurling beneath his hands. Her shoulders relaxed; the tension between her eyes and along her spine loosened.
Thoughts of her family, her fears for them, scattered like shadows from a struck match. Here it was only Sophia and Thomas and the gasped breaths between them.
Here there was no war to wage, no marriage to make. The rules were what she made them. Here she was flesh and blood and heart, nothing else, nothing to pretend or force.
She suddenly felt light, alive. Honest. As if the walls of her pretending and forcing and worry had fallen, at least for a little while, to her feet.
The release was intoxicating. Coupled with the port—or, perhaps, in spite of it—Sophia felt as if her feet might leave the ground.
Hope’s hands adored her, slow caresses as they moved down from her face to her shoulders. She inhaled when his hands slowly, oh, slowly traveled the length of her ribs, his thumb grazing her breast before dipping to her belly, tugging her further against him as he held her by the hips.
His lips were on the neckline of her gown. Sophia arched back, digging her hands into the inviting mass of his dark curls. She let out a long, hot breath, willing herself to remember this moment.
It would never be like this again. It couldn’t.
Thomas raised his head, straightening so that he loomed over her, his eyes ablaze. He dragged his hands back up over her hips, hooking his thumbs beneath her ribs.
“Hold on to me,” he growled. Without waiting for a reply he lifted her, a familiar, guttural tear sounding between them as her skirts—what little was left of them, anyway—were rent into a dozen pieces. He pressed her back against the wall beside the fireplace, holding her with one arm while coaxing her legs about his hips with the other.
Lightning shot through her at the feel of Thomas nestled between her legs. She felt open and vulnerable.
She felt like more.
Pulling his face close, she covered her mouth with his, and he moaned again, this one so deep and strong she felt the vibration of his chest in her own. She followed his example and moved her lips to his cheek, his chin, the place where jaw sloped to ear and neck.
She sensed the tension coiling inside him; vaguely she wondered if she was hurting him, if she should stop—
Sliding his hands along the backs of her thighs, he gathered her backside in his palms and lifted her away from the wall. She gasped as he took one, two unhurried strides across the room, setting her at last on the edge of his enormous, gleaming desk.
Sophia looked up at him, wondering what could possibly come next. There was a wicked gleam in his eye she’d never seen before. Thomas, it seemed, knew exactly what came next.
He leaned in, and she closed her eyes and surrendered to the rush of his lips against her. He ran his hands down her bare legs, the scrape of skin against skin sending a shiver up her spine; he pulled back his hands, allowed them to linger on her hips a moment before trailing them up her sides, over her breasts. She released his mouth, sucking in a breath at the exquisite sensation that rushed through her as he buried the fingers of his right hand into the neckline of her bodice.
With his teeth he nipped at her bottom lip. And then he was tugging at her bodice, pulling it up and over her skin, baring her breast to his touch.
Sophia gasped. “Thomas! Thomas—”
He put his first finger to her lips, pulling open her mouth as he met her eyes and lowered his head, kept lowering it.
She watched in breathless wonder as he took the hardened knot of her nipple into his mouth, sucking in a breath at the pleasure that pulsed between her legs.
As if under a spell her body arched further against him, her fingers tangling in his hair, encouraging him as he licked, then teased, scraping his teeth against her nipple with excruciating finesse.
In her veins she felt her blood rising, pooling between her legs. It felt good to have Thomas pressed against her there; good, and not nearly enough.
He went to work on the other side of her bodice, coaxing her breast free. While he moved his lips to this unexplored skin, he worked the other with his fingers, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. She threw back her head, biting her lip against crying out. The more he touched and pulled, the more unbearable it became.
When she lifted her head, her gaze landed for a moment on Botticelli’s Venus, watching the scene impassively from across the room. How did she appear so calm, Sophia wondered, after Mars had done this to her moments before?
There was no shame or regret in Venus’s eyes; only knowledge, a breathlessness in the pose of her head as if she would nod her assent. Go on, go on, explore so that you might know.
Hope’s finger traced a line of fire along the inside of Sophia’s bottom lip. In her mounting frustration she bit the tip of his finger, crying out as he returned the favor on her nipple.
She was pulling at his hair now, the silken curls catching on her fingers. Thomas released his mouth, feathering kisses across her breast. He lowered his hand to her hip, meeting her eyes.
Sophia should shake her head, push him away, end the encounter as a lady of good manners ought. Through the pounding of the port and of her desire, she knew this could only end badly. She was only as good as her virginity, at least in the eyes of those who mattered.
But here, now, blessed by Venus and drunk on wine, that lady of good manners felt as far away as the moon. Here and now under Hope’s spell she was only Sophia, filled for the first time with the will to follow her own desires, rather than everyone else’s.
Yes, she breathed, and ran her thumb along the ridge of Thomas’s brow.
He did not waste any time. Grasping her hips in his hands, thumbs grazing the inside of her thighs, he got down on his knees. She watched with bated breath as he reached up with one hand, placing it squarely over her heart.
“Lie down.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He gently pushed back her torso, guiding her down, and bent her knees so that her feet rested on the edge of the desk.
“Is this,” she panted, “the sort of work you usually do at your desk?”
From his perch between her legs he scoffed. “Oh, this, and every now and again the odd bit of paperwork.”
Sophia laughed, his humor alleviating her shyness at opening herself to him so freely, so wholly.
He tugged her skirts aside, revealing the length of her legs. One at a time he removed her slippers, then her stockings and the ribboned garters that held them in place. His touch was light, deliberate, a thrilling foil to the hard expanse of the desk pressing up against her spine.
Thus having untangled Sophia from the intricacies of her footwear, Thomas moved farther up her legs, over her thighs and hips to her belly. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her drawers, and, grinning at Sophia’s gasp, ripped them off, dropping them to the floor beside her slippers and stockings.
She was completely naked. Well, save for the scraps of gauze wrapped about her middle that were all that was left of her costume.
Not only that. Hope’s face was mere inches from that most private place between her legs, the place she’d been taught to simultaneously ignore and worship as the source of all her worth.
He pressed on the inside of her thighs, inching her legs wider. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought that he didn’t like what he saw.
“Sophia.” The word was kind but spoken firmly. “Open your eyes. I want you to see how beautiful I think you are.”
Her eyes flew open. “Beautiful?” She lifted her head as if to look herself. “Really?”
His hands crept closer to her center, his thumbs grazing her dark, slick curls. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “You�
�ve not the slightest clue, Sophia.”
Between her legs she felt a tug, at once painful and intensely pleasurable.
And then, just when she thought it couldn’t get any better, that she might explode or die or swoon or all three, Thomas touched her.
It was his first finger, brushing lightly the very tip of her sex—the place that she quickly discovered was the center of all this delicious, maddening sensation.
She cried out, the agony of her pleasure at his touch overwhelming. He splayed his other hand palm-down over her belly, willing her to be still as he touched, and kept touching. The hand slid forward, caressing her breast, plucking at her nipple. A sharp stab of pleasure shot through her. She was on fire, every inch of her burning; her hips now worked against him, pressing harder, wanting more.
“Easy, Sophia,” he purred. “Easy.”
His finger slid from the top of her sex down to its middle where it gently, slowly, began to ease its way inside her.
She shot upright, eyes wide.
“No.” Thomas pushed her back down. “Soon, soon. Patience, darling.”
Patience. How was she supposed to have patience when he tortured her like this?
Pressure mounted around his finger as it delved deeper yet. His other hand slid back down her belly to rest where her legs met; and then with his thumb he began stroking that place again, the place that hurt and thrummed and sang the most.
In and out, he was inside her, over her, in her, all at once. A hard, tight sensation rolled through her, so poignant she gritted her teeth against it.
And then he was lowering his head, brushing his lips to the inside of one thigh, then the other, moving closer, closer, so very close . . .
Her eyes fluttered shut at the featherlight touch of his mouth on her sex. A new wave of pleasure coursed through her, potent but different somehow; it was forbidden, erotic, the idea of it alone enough to make her moan aloud.
His lips, his tongue, were moving faster now, circling again and again that bit of flesh. His teeth nicked her, gently pulling, caressing to the point of pain.
She watched his head moving between her legs, earnestly, slowly, her fingers once again finding purchase in his silken curls, now damp with sweat. He groaned against her; her desire spiked at the vibration of his lips, the vibration of her own.
The rising tide of heat inside her—it was impossible to escape.
It was coming now, whatever it was that came next; she felt the muscles in her legs tense, her shoulders flatten against the desk. She took a shallow breath in, closing her eyes as she searched in vain for something, anything to hold on to.
Her eyes flew open as the rush came, a tumbling, pounding thing. She cried out as pulse after pulse of sensation rounded through her, the ripples of pleasure slowly fading into a satisfaction so immense she felt limp beneath its weight.
Sophia sputtered for breath, pushing aside wisps of hair from her slick forehead with shaking fingers.
Dear God. Even La Reinette’s stories hadn’t prepared her for that.
Thomas’s eyes appeared over the ridge of her sex, blue and serious; his mouth came next, not quite a smile; his lips glistened with her arousal. He waited for her verdict.
When her gaze met his, a warm happiness rolled through her. She longed to reach out, to touch him and hold him to her. But while his eyes were serious they were wild, too; she recognized the rising tide in him, those excruciating last moments before the crash.
She did not trust her touch. His hands and his lips were knowledgeable and fast. Hers would be clumsy. Where to even begin? Perhaps it was best to defer to Thomas. He would know what to do next.
And so she grinned, palms held fast to the desk. “Yes.” She breathed. “Yes!”
He returned her grin. His eyes gleamed wickedly; and then he was sinking down again, moving toward her.
Sophia started at the feel of his fingers on her sex. She fought the urge to squirm; but as his hands began to move in earnest, she relaxed, the spark of her desire ignited again.
There was more? But how? Could she possibly do that again—
Just as she felt herself swelling against him, Hope suddenly froze, his thumb poised just below the jointure of all this delicious sensation.
Sophia did not dare to breathe, listening instead to the racket that reverberated just beyond the office door. Grunts, heavy footsteps, a shout or two for good measure.
Christ in heaven. Not this again.
Their gazes locked, eyes wide as the racket drew nearer.
In the space of a single heartbeat Hope was on his feet, gathering her slippers and stockings and undergarments in the crook of his elbow. With an efficient tug at the scraps of her costume he covered her breasts, her legs, wincing as that curious hardness between his hips brushed against her.
“I’m terribly sorry, Sophia.” His voice was hushed. He met her eyes, holding out his free hand. “Seems we’ve become fast favorites of thugs and thieves and the like. I wonder who it could be this time.”
Sophia blinked, virtually blinded by the haze of desire that hung between them. With no small effort she swung her legs over the back of the desk and with Hope’s help ducked into the alcove occupied by his tall-backed leather chair.
“Please, please do as I say for once and stay here,” Thomas said, handing her the misshapen bulk of her unmentionables. “There’s a pistol in the top drawer there.” He paused. “Though, on second thought, you may want to leave the shooting to me.”
If Sophia’s thoughts weren’t still storm-tossed she would’ve stuck out her tongue at his jest. Her heart worked furiously as alternating waves of disappointment and relief and fear crashed through her.
Disappointment that she and Thomas could not finish what they had started. It seemed with every new sensation his body wrought she always yearned for more, and more yet. What heavenly part of him came after his fingers and his mouth?
Relief that she did not, in fact, experience said part. She was not entirely ruined. Not yet.
And fear—well, fear for the obvious reasons. Thugs, thieves, the revelation of her carefully guarded secrets.
Secrets that now included a rather heady, half-naked interlude on Mr. Thomas Hope’s desk.
“Sophia.”
She met his eyes once more. Licking his port-stained lips, Thomas’s face momentarily softened, his eyes very full as he struggled to find the right words. “Sophia, I—”
She jumped at the slam of the door. Thomas darted upright; she saw him yank at the crotch of his breeches before stepping in front of the desk.
A familiar voice rang out across the chamber.
Thirteen
“We found them.” Lake shoved a short, broad-shouldered figure into the room, the man’s face blackened with soot. “Acrobats from a traveling troupe playing at Vauxhall. Ran ’em down in a tavern in Cheapside.”
Hope carefully arranged the knot of his hands in front of his legs and tried to think of anything, anything but Sophia.
“And you’re sure these are the men who attacked my house?”
Lake stepped forward, waving his pistol at the perpetrator’s enormously calloused hands, his thick, corded neck. He pulled back the sleeves of the man’s shirt, revealing the bulge of his forearms that were nicked with dozens of small, oozing cuts.
“I’ve never been wrong.” Lake winked. Hope bit the inside of his cheek to keep from throttling him. “We’ve a few of his friends waiting outside.”
“Good.” Hope turned and made for the sideboard. All the better to hide the rather alarming condition of his breeches, a condition he could not subdue no matter how hard he tried. “We cannot interrogate them here; no one at the bank can know of this, not yet. Though I’m sure the gossip will be rife by morning. Take them to my house and wake the kitchens. I’m going to need coffee. A lot of coffee.”
&
nbsp; “Consider it done. I assume you’ve all the accouterments available there—pliers, hot pokers, an axe?”
Hope tried not to smile at the acrobat’s high-pitched squeak of terror.
“No pliers, I’m afraid, but Cook does keep a rather interesting collection of paring knives. Might we experiment with those?”
“Oh, yes, let’s do.” Lake shoved the man back into the hall outside the office where the rest of his officers waited.
“Well?” he said after a moment, waiting for Hope at the door.
Hope waved him away. “I’ll meet you back at my house. I’ve a few. Ah. Matters to which to attend here first.” He pretended to busy himself at the sideboard. For the first time in his life—well, no, that wasn’t true, exactly—suffice it to say he could not remember the last time he went green at the very sight of liquor.
Of course today would be that day.
As if on cue, the clock on the mantel struck five o’clock. Hope glanced out the window to see darkness fading to gray dawn.
The night—this night, spent in the half-naked company of Miss Sophia Blaise—was over.
But his troubles. They were just beginning.
Hope looked over his shoulder to see Mr. Lake backtracking into the room, moving too noiselessly, and with far too much finesse, than his injury should allow. His eyes took in Hope’s coat, laid out before the crackling fire, lingering a moment too long on the Botticelli above the mantel. At last his gaze landed on the massive expanse of Hope’s desk.
“I say.” Lake furrowed his brow and bent over to retrieve something from the floor. “What’s this?”
Hope watched in horror as Lake dangled a satin garter between his thumb and forefinger.
The banker reached out and snatched the garter before Lake could get a better look. “It’s mine.”
“It’s yours? What the devil do you mean to do with it, Miss Hope? Use it to tie up those beauteous curls of yours?”
Hope cleared his throat as he shoved the garter into his waistcoat. “Jealous, are you, of my flowing locks?”
The Millionaire Rogue Page 13
