by Tanya Wilde
Something was wrong.
“Hello, darling.” A woman murmured, sliding up to him and placing her hand on his chest. “Care to step outside for a breath of fresh air?” She batted her lashes, grinning coyly.
She was a lovely girl, tall, slender, and the type of woman who would shatter beneath a man if Roland’s instincts were still accurate. But he felt nothing, not even a small spark of interest, let alone the sudden urge to drag her off to the nearest dark corner. What the hell was the use of having a cock if the thing didn’t want to work?
“Not tonight, sweetheart.” The words left his mouth without thought.
Roland didn’t know who was more shocked, him or her. Her smile slipped, eyes widening before she lowered her lashes and sauntered away.
“Your loss,” she murmured over her shoulder.
Indeed.
This was the crux of his situation. The perfect opportunity presented itself, and he couldn’t even manage to muster some form of enthusiasm. A damn travesty.
For the next hour, Roland stalked every room of the party in hope of finding some woman who would catch his interest, but no luck. Never had shrill laughter and lewd glances annoyed him as much as they did tonight. He ought to just retire home and nurse his pride on a bottle of brandy. But to what end? It wouldn’t solve this problem—of that much, he was certain.
Still, what was left to do? Return home unsatisfied yet again?
A depressing notion.
He rounded a corner, then another and another. His avenue of escape was just within reach, so bloody close when a vision of supreme beauty stepped over the threshold.
Roland halted.
Silk clung to a fine, generous figure in a breathtaking swirl of skirts. Like a beacon, she fired up every instinct in his body. A bundle of mystery wrapped up in crimson. She was the most exquisite being he had ever set his eyes upon.
Just like that, the edginess that had plagued him this past month eased and his restlessness calmed.
Down below he stirred.
Then, as if the breeze itself desired to undress her, it loosened her hair ribbon. He watched it flutter to the ground before his eyes lifted back to her face. She didn’t notice, stepping forward again and seeming almost hesitant—as if she didn’t quite belong.
A few nearby gentlemen turned their heads her way, their eyes gleaming with interest.
A roar of protest welled up in his chest, and he started forward.
The relief he felt at the sudden burst of sensation through his body drove him into action. The urge to stake his claim rose in him, raw and primal. He would be damned if he allowed any other man to put their paws on her first, not when she appeared to be the answer he’d been searching for.
Roland reached her just as she glanced his way, their eyes locking.
Her clear, nearly shining blue eyes, which were framed by impossibly long lashes, arrested his gaze. Her mask was matching red with black trimming on the edges, giving her an even more exotic look.
The blood in his veins warmed.
Christ, but she was beautiful.
“Angel,” he breathed.
Her eyes widened in her delicate face. At him, or his endearment, it mattered not. Come to think of it, it was the first time he had called a woman anything else but sweetheart or sweet. There was a comfortable distance in those words. To call a lady angel, at least for him, meant she had to have thoroughly captured his interest.
This one is different.
Big sapphire eyes blinked back at him, almost in awe. “Good evening.”
Her voice was soft. Husky.
What those two words did to him.
Roland offered her a wicked smile.
Chapter 3
If there lived the slightest of doubts in Claire’s mind about her scandalous decision, the man standing before her dispelled it. He was tall, his posture was relaxed, and an easy, if not perhaps a bit too wolfish, smile spread upon his face. But wicked or not, that smile was frosting, and Claire wanted a taste. His eyes, on the other hand, were inscrutable. They belied his idle state, marking him as a wild predator, barely caged. They roamed her body, her curves, all of her, setting her skin aflame.
Incredible. Unforgettable. Those were the words that sprang to mind. Two other words also roamed in the back of her brain, though they were barely audible. Foolhardy. Reckless.
He was handsome and he wore the title of trouble well. Oh but that smile! Wicked and sensual. The promise of passion all combined in the perfect symmetry of his full lips.
Claire commanded her eyes to hold his green gaze as he somehow managed to capture her hand in his and press his dreamy lips against the inside of her wrist. Tiny prickles of awareness feathered through her fingers. It was too much. She forced her feet to move away, pulling her hand free of his.
His grin never wavered as he allowed her fingers to slip from his. He nodded slowly in acknowledgment but instead of fully accepting her withdrawal, his arm reached out and he rested his palm on the small of her back, guiding her away from interested onlookers, some who even appeared envious.
Grateful for her mask, and still wracked with nerves that she worked hard not to show, Claire released a slow breath as he ushered her into a smaller, empty room. As her eyes swept around the room in a quick glance—a small library—she heard the lock on the door click into place.
Claire blinked up at the man who had whisked her away in breathless anticipation. Goodness, but he was striking. Even through his mask, she could tell. Dark hair framed an angular jaw, and his mask failed to conceal the stubborn set of his chin, the air of self-importance that adorned him like a cloak.
Thank you, Madam Dexter.
His lips tilted upward at her inspection of him. “Do you like what you see?” he drawled.
Very much. But the scoundrel already knew that, she suspected. That, however, was the least of her worries. How ought she proceed? Did she kiss him? Did he kiss her? Or do they converse a bit first?
About what, her inner voice piped up.
They were strangers from different worlds. Perhaps she ought to let him guide the conversation, or kissing, or whatever was about to transpire.
The stretch of his lips widened.
Heat pooled in Claire’s belly.
This man made her feel way out of her depth. “Do you do this often?” she blurted out, much to her horror.
What a silly question!
Her gaze remained fixated on him, even as her cheeks flushed, simply because it was impossible to look away.
He appeared bemused by her question. “As often as rakes are wont to do.”
And rakes were wont to do this often, Claire presumed. Working for Madam Dexter, he in all likelihood had scores of women lined up for the night. She couldn’t help but wonder whether she was the first. Did it matter? She supposed not. And still, Claire inhaled deeply.
His scent was fresh and clean, not a whiff of a woman’s perfume.
Relief washed over her.
“This is my first time,” Claire confessed in a whisper. “I have never ventured into this sphere before now.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and comforting. “Nothing like a brandy to accompany a grand new adventure, wouldn’t you say?”
Claire nodded, watching him as he strolled over to a crystal decanter to pour two glasses of cognac.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Not wanting to seem unsophisticated, she sauntered over to him, eyes never leaving his as she took the glass and tossed the liquid down her throat. For courage, she told herself. And while Claire might be an innocent, she knew how to handle her spirits. Her friend, Sophie, enjoyed the stuff, and cheroots, though Claire preferred pastries, as was evident from her figure.
“You’re not a tavern wench, are you?” he murmured with mock suspicion, a teasing light shimmering in his eyes.
“I suppose you shall never know,” she murmured back, saluting him with her empty tumbler.
He laughed at that, and Claire
had the supreme pleasure of watching an entirely different expression cross his features. The tension lifted from her shoulders. Not because of the liquid, mind you, but his laughter had eased the tightness of her muscles. She enjoyed the soothing sound of his voice.
Their eyes locked.
There was that connection again. The air seemed charged between them.
“The only problem I have, Angel, is getting you out of that silk.”
Her breath hitched.
Dear lord, this man was good. He inspired in her every feeling, all sensations she had wished to capture tonight and had so conveyed to the proprietress. Madam Dexter had outdone herself. The Madam had also assured her that she could leave if her courage failed her, that Claire was always in control. So the question remained: did she follow through? Dare she?
Yes! Her inner voice shouted, pleaded.
She might never get this chance again. Or the nerve. Or this man, who was everything she could have hoped for. She would not sulk home. It was her birthday. She’d be damned if she retired for the night with her virginity intact. Boldly, Claire sauntered forward, and in a voice she hardly recognized, said, “Staring at me won’t make your problem go away.”
He tossed back his drink. “No, no, it won’t.”
The tumbler fell from his hand, and he lunged for her. Lunged! She would have squealed in fright had his lips not crashed down on hers, claiming her mouth in a hot, urgent kiss. Never had a man reacted to her thusly, so fired with enthusiasm it stole the air from her lungs. He tasted of brandy and tobacco. Manly. Strong fingers gripped her hips and lifted her onto the desk. It was not what she had expected, but neither was Claire about to complain. There was something about losing her maidenhood on a desk in an unknown residence that was thrilling, much more appealing than the proverbial marriage bed.
Hands tugged at her bodice, and Claire issued a groan when his lips left hers and his tongue skimmed the flesh of her neck, working his way downward. Another tug and cool air brushed against the mounds of her breasts. His mouth found the tightened skin of her nipples, his tongue swirling around them, teasing them.
A tremor skittered through Claire, heat burning low in her belly. The way he tasted her… “Lud, this is so wrong, don’t stop.”
“This is so right,” he murmured against her skin.
She bit her lip at the pleasure of his teeth grazing the sensitive tip, the heat of his mouth moving to her other breast. She felt his smile against her skin.
“Angel, your breasts are heaven.”
They were larger than most, yes, and men certainly ogled them often enough. But coming from this man, Claire preened inside, and for one small moment, she wished he hadn’t been paid to say that.
All thought scattered when his hands fumbled with her skirts while his tongue nipped and grazed, teasing her lazily, sending little sparks of pleasure through her body. Scarcely able to breathe, her lips parted in a soft whimper as his hand inched upward, until his fingers were at the outer edge of her opening. A low sound that resembled a growl rumbled from his chest. Then his finger slid inside her.
Claire moaned in response.
“Bloody hell, you’re so tight. The things I want to do to you.”
Please.
“Such as?” she breathed.
“This.”
He disappeared beneath her skirts, and Claire frowned down at him until she felt his mouth there.
“What are you doing?” she croaked out.
In answer, his tongue circled the folds of her sex. Sensations sparked through her body as his tongue furthered its exploration, the heavy pulse of her heartbeat drumming through her body. He did not stop, and soon a finger joined him, sliding in and out of her until she could no longer contain her moans and cried out as pleasure rocketed inside her. Neither did he give her time to descend from the sudden heights she had reached.
Moments later, Claire felt the tip of his member entering her, stretching her. It felt marvelous and full. Heat sizzled through her, and she swayed against him, demanding more. His hands tightened on her hips, and he thrust forward until he was buried to the hilt, her legs wrapping around him. Her cry only spurred him on, and he started to move inside her with a ragged groan.
For better or worse, she held onto him as his hand fisted in her hair and he dragged her mouth to his, driving himself to the same heights she had moments before reached, the pain of his breach transforming once again into dazzling pleasure as he rocked her world, again and again.
Chapter 4
Claire woke to stare into dreamy emerald eyes. A dreamlike finger pressed against her lips and her lashes drifted shut again. She hardly recalled a time when she had felt so exhausted or so serene. She could remain in this languorous state forever. Even as she thought it, the most sensual feeling passed through her body. Almost like lips kissing her skin, tongue devouring her breasts. A whimper of pleasure drew from her mouth. Flames lapped up her skin. She recalled the previous evening, how her mysterious gentleman had pressed his mouth against her flesh, imprinting himself on her memory like a brand. A smile touched her lips, and she stretched her limbs, feeling the sheet against her skin, the warmth of…something entering her there!
Claire bolted upright with a loud screech, attempting to scramble away from the foreign invasion. Strong, tanned hands gripped her legs, and again, she felt something touch her down there.
“What are you doing?” she practically shouted in alarm, upset by being woken in such a scandalous manner.
The man remained silent, continuing with his thrusting movements, causing her nerves to tingle with incredible sensation.
Oh!
Half-heartedly, Claire renewed her efforts to fight and a chuckle vibrated against…Good Heavens! That felt so good.
The man pulled back and threw her a crooked grin. “I’m pleasuring you, Angel.”
“Well, stop it at once!”
He shot her an unrepentant look. “Why would I do such a thing? You have such a delicious little—”
“Do not say the word!” she burst out, arching her back, indicating for him to continue. The tenderness between her thighs ached to feel his lips once more. It may not have been the wisest course of action to allow him to remain the night in her bed but after their encounter at the party, he had persuaded her there was much more than just what they shared there. And he had been right.
“Very well,” he drawled and continued once more with the flicking of his tongue.
Oooooh!
“And do not think to charge me for this, either,” she retorted, even though her head fell back against the pillow.
He stilled, his head snapping up at that. “I beg your pardon?”
Claire bucked her hips, urging him to continue. “Your mistress and I had an agreement. One act of sinful pleasure, that is all,” she murmured, her head lifting so that their eyes locked. Mild confusion entered his gaze and when no delight was forthcoming, the moment passed.
With a sigh, Claire scrambled from his hold.
Just as well.
One passionate act had already turned into an entire night.
He, on the other hand, had gone completely still and taking note of this sudden change of demeanor, Claire rambled on, afraid she had insulted him. “The agreement entailed only our encounter at the ball. Lord knows what the Madam will charge me when she learns you stayed the night.” She shot him a questioning look. “Are you going to tell her? Perhaps she will take pity on me; after all, it’s Christmas season, and my birthday.”
He just stared at her, unblinkingly.
Why had Claire ever thought it a good idea to invite him into her home? Well, in her somewhat arguable defense, after their first encounter, all rational reasoning had converted into fanciful impressions of what if she was never roused again by another man and this may be love.
She shook her head. Absurd.
At his continued silence, Claire turned to him, clutching the lilac sheet up to her neck. He sat in the center of her b
ed, his lips pulled into a flat line, tangled in the remaining covers and resting on his knees, glowering at her.
The picture of a disgruntled male.
What had she done? He was the one who had wormed more pleasures into the contract! Pleasures no one had agreed upon!
A thought struck her.
“Do you receive a commission for your time?” she asked. “Is that why you remained the night? No matter, I shall pay my dues to the Madam. It was, after all, a pleasant evening, do you not agree?” Claire rambled on, darting behind the dressing screen to quickly slip into a simple lavender frock. When she reappeared, he still had not attempted to cover himself, his hawkish eyes trailing her every action, his jaw clamped tight.
Another thought occurred to her. “Or are you waiting for some form of private benefaction? I never considered this part of the affairs. Just wait here and I shall retrieve my purse—”
“Angel,” he bit out, his voice laced with offense. “I do not want your damn money.”
Claire whirled on him, lips pinched. She was taken aback by the sudden bite in his words and the outrage in his heated eyes. But she tamped down her own indignation, even though she was feeling the charge right to the tips of her toes. “You do not have to call me that anymore,” she snapped and then paused. “Or I suppose you do since we never exchanged names.”
“You think I’m a whore?” he demanded.
Aye, he certainly sounded angry.
“Lower your voice, and whore is such an unpleasant word. Of course, I am not of the opinion you are such. You service women’s fantasies for Madam Dexter. There is no shame in that.”
He seemed mollified by her words. “For a fee,” he said slowly.
“Of course.”
Hard, steely eyes pegged her. “A whore then. You paid for a whore.”
Why did that only occur to him now? He was part of the transaction. And Madam Dexter had assured her the gentleman she selected would be aware of all Claire’s requirements. This man, he was handsome, certainly, but had more hair than wit.
