She shivered when he nipped her tendon and licked away the small hurt. His hands braced her hips, the touch branding even through the layer of her robe. She was tempted to let him do the rest as he'd always done ... but not as tempted as she was by another notion. When he loosened the tie to her dressing gown, she clamped her hand over his.
"No. This time," she said, "I want to please you."
His nostrils flared, his eyes blazing sapphires. "By Jove, you already do. I've been deprived of you for weeks. Any more of your teasing, little nymph, and I'll go off like a firecracker."
She liked that notion.
"I suppose you'll have to try to hold on, then." As if she'd let him. "Now be a good husband and lean back against the headboard."
Though his eyes narrowed, she could see the flush of lust on his high cheekbones. "Are you ordering me about, you saucy wench?"
"Just this once." Gazing at him with all the love she felt, she said, "Please?"
"You're not a nymph, you're a siren. Impossible to deny," he muttered.
He did as she asked, his corded arms propping up against the wood and his thighs splayed in a wickedly masculine pose. She took a moment to admire him: a god in the flesh, his powerful chest heaving with desire, his eyes dark with need. And he was all hers.
On her knees, she moved into the lee of his legs, and leaning forward, pressed a kiss to his bristly jaw. She licked her way down, over the bump of his throat, which leapt beneath her lips. She tasted him, salty and masculine, and became even hungrier. Ravenous for him. Reaching one nipple, she circled the flat disc her tongue; hearing his harsh breath, she suckled him. Gave him a gentle bite.
"Christ, woman, do you want to drive me mad?"
She licked his other nipple, peered up at him. "Do you think I can?"
He groaned when she peppered his hard abdomen with kisses. "Hell, Charity, you can do whatever you put your mind to. You're the most strong-willed chit I've ever met."
Smiling, she found the buttons of his trousers. She released the fall and gave a deft downward tug on his smalls. His cock sprang into her hands like a racehorse leaving the gate. The virile pole quivered, its tip damp and glistening. Dreamily, she bent and rubbed her cheek against him. Iron wrapped in heated silk.
"Sweeting," he said, his voice strained, "what are you doing?"
She looked up at him, and his adoring gaze gave her the confidence to do anything.
"Exploring," she said. "I thought I'd try being less sensible and more impetuous. For instance, what do you think of this?"
She eased his skin back, placed a soft kiss on the vulnerable dome.
He bit out a curse. "Perfect—if your intent is to torture me."
As if to confirm this fact, a tear welled up in the eye of his cockhead. The pearly bead looked so lovely that she licked it. The salty, virile taste of him made her hum.
"Delicious," she murmured.
"Plenty more where that came from." Despite the raspy humor in his voice, he cupped her cheeks, his rough palms tender against her skin. "Love, I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with."
"Alright," she agreed.
She fitted her mouth over the tip, sucking gently.
"Holy fuck."
His primal response thrilled her. His back bowed, his hips thrusting upward with animal force. Instinct guided her to relax her jaw so that she could accommodate more of his potent shaft. She loved the feel of him filling her mouth. Of him filling her anywhere. Warmth flooded her pussy as she tried to cram more of him past her lips. Her hands caressed what she could not fit.
He groaned her name, his fingers threading through her curls, guiding her in a bobbing motion. "Hell, that's good. So bloody deep. Sweeting, you're killing me ..."
Could she truly slay her god with pleasure?
She'd certainly try.
Breathing through her nose, she allowed her throat to grow even more lax, and he slid in farther. He shouted out when his tip nudged a barrier so deep that she came up gasping for air. But she went down again, breathless from the challenge of it, the indescribable intimacy of pleasuring her husband in this wicked fashion.
She was attuned to everything that seemed to heighten his bliss. His eyes shut when she touched his bollocks, squeezing the velvety weights gently as she sucked. He let out a string of curses when she got him so deep that the hairs of his groin tickled her nose. His pleasure fed her own. Heat sparkled over her skin, and her core was melting, trickling between her legs. She was desperate for more of him, wanted to touch him everywhere, needed to have every last inch of him to herself ...
He pulled her from his cock, the wet pop tearing a guttural sound from his chest. Before she could protest, he hauled her onto his lap, and her spine arched at the slow, stretching penetration. Her head fell back, her lashes fluttering as his cock drilled up into her drenched passage.
"Look at me," he ordered.
Her gaze flew to his, and she was enveloped in smoldering midnight.
"I want to see your beautiful eyes while I take you." His hands framed her hips, steering her motion. "While you ride my cock, my sweet wife."
Placing steadying hands on his shoulders, she rose up on her knees and then sank down, moaning as she impaled herself on his throbbing manhood. His touch, his earthy commands— everything he did made her blood run hotter. Take me deeper. She did and his cock grazed her pearl with each pass, sending a jolt of pleasure down her legs. Harder. He yanked her down, skin slapping skin, and she ground against him, a desperate ride, as wild for him as he was for her.
When he captured her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, she cried out. White stars exploded before her eyes, and her body clenched as cataclysmic tremors overtook her. He pumped into her spasming flesh, groaning, and just as she floated upward from the earth-rendering climax, his fingers dug into her bottom.
"Everything I've ever wanted," he breathed. "I love you, Charity."
Her heart burst just as he did, his seed shooting so hotly into her womb that her world shook once more. Words flew from her lips, caught fire in his kiss. They burned together, the little death forging them into one body, their love binding them into one soul.
FORTY-TWO
The next afternoon, Charity sat hand in hand with Paul. They were in the drawing room of the Hunts' townhouse, where the Hunts, Hartefords, and Mrs. Fines had gathered. The Kents had sent their regrets: their daughter was abed with a head cold, and they'd stayed at home to nurse her.
"First off, I want to thank you all for taking care of Charity in my absence," Paul said.
"Someone had to." His mother aimed a stern look at him over her spectacles. "Now that you're a married man, you have responsibilities. You can't go harrying off to this fight or that."
Charity went still, uncertain at how her husband would respond to the criticism. He squeezed her hand.
"I know, Mama," he said calmly.
Hunt made a clearing sound in his throat. "But you'll still be competing in the final fight three days from now, won't you, Fines? Got a few wagers on that one." When Percy nudged him with her elbow, he raised his brows as if to say, What did I do?
Charity spoke up. "Of course he'll be fighting. He's made it this far and can't stop now."
"Are you sure you don't mind, my dear?" Mrs. Fines said.
"Not at all." Charity brushed away her husband's ever unruly forelock and smiled into his eyes. "I rather like the idea of being married to the best prizefighter in all of England."
"Do you now?" Paul murmured. "In that case, I shall have to win. Seeing as I'd do anything for you, sweeting."
Feminine sighs rose up in the room as he leaned in to kiss her.
"Far be it for me to interrupt the lovebirds," came Harteford's dry voice, "but I believe we have a debt to discuss?"
"Yes, of course." Blushing, Charity tried to focus her whirling senses. The thought of looming disaster dispelled some of her giddiness. "First off, sales at Sparkler's have improved tremendously, than
ks to all of you. I want you to know that you have my deepest gratitude."
"Unfortunately, it was too little too late," Paul said bluntly. "Sparkler's has been in trouble for years. Despite your help and my wife's extraordinary business savoir-faire, we're still short."
Paul had spent the morning poring over the store's ledgers, and she'd watched as his expression grew grimmer with each page. She, herself, was finally beginning to accept reality. Thirty thousand pounds was too vast a sum to accumulate in a month—or even years.
Her chest tightened. There was no way they could meet Garrity's deadline in two weeks. Which meant ... she was going to lose Sparkler's.
Her father's legacy.
"How far off the mark are you?" Hunt asked.
"Sparkler had five thousand saved, and Charity's sales have added another thousand to that. I've got another few from holdings and prize money, but even with that we've only a third of what's owed," Paul said matter-of-factly.
Glances chased around the room.
Harteford spoke first. "Hunt and I have talked, and we want to do what we can. We can offer at least some part—"
"I can't accept it," Charity said firmly.
"Not even a loan?" Percy asked.
"I won't be able to pay it back. I can't allow you to throw good money after bad," Charity said. "Besides, Mr. Garrity was quite clear that he wants all or nothing: anything less than thirty thousand will be unacceptable to him."
"Mayhap I can get him to change his mind," Paul said. "I'm meeting him tonight."
"Is it safe, Paul? To negotiate with such a man?" Mrs. Fines' brow furrowed.
"I'll have his back," Hunt said.
"As will I," Harteford said.
Charity placed a hand on Paul's arm. "You'll be careful, won't you?"
"I'm going to make this right for you, sweeting." Determination glittered in his eyes. "Trust me, there's nothing to fear. I've dealt with cutthroats before."
Mr. Hunt snorted.
*****
Garrity's lair turned out to be a surprisingly well-appointed building only several blocks from Sparkler's. Located a stone's throw from the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange, it was ideally situated for a money lender. Paul guessed that the elegant Palladian structure might have once belonged to a family of the ton; with the flourishing of commerce in the area, the fashionable world had departed in droves to avoid the taint of trade.
"Doing well for himself, I gather," Nicholas commented as they mounted the front steps.
"At a rate of sixty percent, are you surprised?" Hunt said. "Clearly, we're in the wrong business."
Paul rang the bell. When the door opened, he handed the butler his card.
"Good evening, sir. Mr. Garrity has been expecting you." The servant cast an appraising eye over Paul's companions. "He did not mention guests."
"The Marquess of Harteford and Mr. Hunt are my friends," Paul said, "and we don't relish being made to cool our heels on the front steps."
The butler bowed low. "Of course. Follow me, if you please."
The three were ushered through a paneled foyer and into a hallway papered in silk. Midway down, the butler stopped at an open door and announced them. Paul went in first. The study was outfitted to impress. Portraits of the aristocracy—including, if he wasn't mistaken, several by Georgian society painter Benjamin West—graced the walls. To Paul, they seemed like trophies of war: pounds of painted flesh collected as payment.
The study smacked of wealth and a certain smug opulence. Much like the man who uncoiled from a studded wingchair to greet them. Garrity was dressed in formal black, his ruby cravat pin glinting like a drop of blood.
"You're on time, Mr. Fines," he said.
His host's tone was as chilling as Paul remembered. Ignoring the bait, he said, "You'll recollect meeting Lord Harteford and Mr. Hunt?"
"They were present at our last encounter." Garrity's mouth thinned. "Distasteful business."
"No less so than what we have to discuss this evening," Paul said.
"On the contrary, this I'll enjoy." Garrity waved them to the seats next to the roaring fire. "Reaping the fruits of my labor, so to speak."
"You'll have your harvest," Paul said, "but I wish to discuss the schedule of delivery."
"I gave your wife the schedule. A generous one, I might add. You have a fortnight remaining to come up with my money."
"That's not enough time, and you know it." From his jacket pocket, Paul removed the thick bundle of banknotes Charity had given him—everything that she and Uriah had saved. He placed the money on the coffee table between him and Garrity. "That's six thousand pounds to start. In a few days, I'll add more."
Garrity didn't even look at the money. "Thirty thousand, Fines. That's what I'm owed, and that's what I'll accept."
"I can't get you thirty thousand quid in two weeks. Either we negotiate payment installments or we discuss a reduction of—"
"I don't negotiate, Mr. Fines."
"Why the bloody hell not?" Hunt cut in. "Never met a money lender who didn't want to get paid. You give Fines a chance, and you'll get your blunt back, every last penny. He's a man of his word."
Paul's brows rose at the compliment. His brother-in-law sounded almost ... sincere.
"If you don't, you get a failing business and a mediocre property that don't near add up to thirty thousand quid. Why would you be willing to take that loss?" Hunt's tawny eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Perhaps Mr. Garrity is motivated by something other than money," Harteford said.
Something flickered in Garrity's onyx eyes. Rage.
The realization struck Paul. "This is because of Charity. Because she married me instead of you?"
"She was mine." Frost edged Garrity's words. "I selected her from a field of candidates. I invested time and energy into developing a relationship with Uriah Sparkler. We had a bargain, he and I—and you ruined it."
If Garrity had expressed any sorrow over losing Charity, Paul might have pitied for him. Because Paul knew what a jewel she was—and shuddered to think that he might have lost her. What he saw in the money lender was not sentiment, however, but pride.
A child enraged by the loss of a coveted toy.
"By developing a relationship, you mean snaring Sparkler in your money lending scheme," Paul shot back. "You targeted him, didn't you? Wanted him indebted so that you could strike your nefarious bargain."
Garrity's knuckles were white against the arm of his chair. "He needed funds, and I provided it. He was lucky because no other lender would have done it." Seeming to catch himself, he leaned back, his grip relaxing. "Thus, I am owed, and I will collect my due."
Anger seared Paul's chest. "Charity was never a piece of collateral to be bartered."
"Everything is collateral." Garrity's smile made his expression even more sinister. "If you realized that, instead of being a sentimental fool, you'd be a far better negotiator. And that is why you're here—to discuss terms?"
Don't rile him further. For Charity's sake, you need to save the shop.
Paul gave a terse nod.
"I don't discuss my business in public." Garrity flicked a glance at the other men.
"Fines?" Harteford quirked a brow.
"Wait for me in the carriage," Paul said. "I'll be there shortly."
The two left, and Paul and Garrity faced each other across the coffee table.
"We're alone as you wished. Now what will it take for you to reconsider the terms of repayment?" Paul said evenly.
"You are persistent. Not surprising, given what I've heard about you. Fight like that, too, don't you—fists flying, never backing down."
Paul's eyes narrowed. He didn't understand the smugness in Garrity's tone but had a certainty he soon would. "What's your point?"
"I've been following your matches."
"Meaning what? You're a fan?" Paul said sardonically.
Garrity made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I wouldn't say that. But like any gentleman, I en
joy my wagers—and, more specifically, winning. You've added to my pockets."
"Glad to be of service. Would you care to return the favor and subtract that amount from Sparkler's bill?"
"I never mix business with pleasure." The reptilian gleam in Garrity's eyes raised the hairs on Paul's nape. "Unless, of course, it's a guarantee that the former will lead to the latter."
"I'm not following."
"The Championship round takes place three days from now, doesn't it?"
The question was rhetorical. Clearly, Garrity had his sights on the match; the question was what did the money lender want?
Shoulders tensing, Paul said, "What about it?"
"I'm considering placing a wager on the outcome. Being conservative by nature, I'd like to pick a winner. One that is foolproof, so to speak."
"I'll do my damnedest to win," Paul said, his brow furrowing, "but I can't guarantee that—"
"Of course not. No one can guarantee a win." Garrity flicked a speck from his sleeve. "It is, however, possible to guarantee a loss, is it not?"
The meaning belted Paul in the stomach. "You want me to deliberately lose the fight?"
"It's not as simple as that. I want you not only to lose, but to do it,"—Garrity leaned forward in his chair—"in a spectacular fashion."
"The hell you say." Paul was on his feet before he knew it, glaring down at the snake. "What kind of a gentleman do you take me for?"
Garrity smiled thinly. "A desperate one."
"Not desperate enough to besmirch my honor, my name as a gentleman and a fighter." Paul's chest burned with outrage.
"Perhaps I misunderstood, then. I thought you wanted to save your wife's little shop." Garrity reclined in his chair. "Or perhaps your dreams are more important than hers?"
The bastard's words struck painfully close to home. Paul's anger morphed into a conflict more potent than any he'd experienced before. Was that what he was doing ... putting himself before Charity? Being selfish yet again?
It was true that prizefighting had given him purpose, an identity, and a sense of his own worth. It had paved his way to redemption. All along, he'd believed that winning that final match would give him the future he wanted.
Her Prodigal Passion Page 27
