by Zoë Archer
“I only need … a moment.” He was huge within her, stretching her to her utmost. Thank heavens she was soaking wet, for she doubted she would’ve been able to accommodate him otherwise. She breathed deep, willing her body to relax. In a moment, the pain ebbed, and she was left with only sensation, wonderful sensation.
“Better?” he asked.
“Best,” she murmured.
“Good, because I’ve got to do this.” He thrust up, and she cried out again, this time from pure pleasure. “And this.” He moved once more, filling her completely.
She clung to his shoulders as she rode him, his hips meeting hers, his cock exquisite within her. His thrusts were measured but fierce, and she gasped with each one.
Looking down, she watched his cock plunging in and out of her. Yes. Everywhere, heat. Sensation. She ground her clit against him as he continued to fuck her relentlessly. White-hot, her climax tore through her. He clapped his hand over her mouth, muffling her cries.
When the last filaments of her orgasm faded, she found herself flipped onto her back, her knees up and feet on the mattress. Jack knelt on the ground, his hands continuing to grip her hips. She gazed up at him through pleasure-glazed eyes. Sweat glossed his body. Brutal desire hollowed his cheeks, and his expression was fierce. A beast ready to claim its mate.
More than lust shone in his eyes. A kind of searching, a need. And when he thrust into her, that need blazed even higher.
She gripped the mattress for support as he drove in and out of her. The room was filled with the sounds of flesh against flesh, and their commingled cries. Light gleamed on his muscles as they flexed with effort. Primal. True and real.
With a groan midway between anguish and ecstasy, he suddenly pulled out of her. Hot seed shot from him, coating her belly. He threw his head back as his climax raged on.
At last, he released his grasp of her hips—there would be bruises, but she didn’t care—and planted his hands on either side of her head, his body bowing over hers. Their kiss was molten, deep. She wanted to lose herself in this moment, every inch of her thrumming with satiation.
But he pulled away. She could barely stir as she watched him pad across the room to search for and retrieve a towel from a cabinet. He returned, and sat beside her as he gently, thoroughly, cleaned her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, “for having sense to…” She glanced down at her stomach meaningfully.
A corner of his mouth turned up. “Only sensible thing I’ve done, when it has to do with you.”
When he’d cleaned her, he put the towel aside and gathered her up in his arms. The bed was too small for him, but he managed to twist and turn himself so that they lay cradled together, his front to her back. His lips ran back and forth over her neck, his hand curved at her waist. After the heated activity only minutes earlier, they were quiet now, listening to the predawn birds stirring in the trees outside.
She wondered if, when the sun came up, her landlady would ask her to leave. No mistaking what she and Jack had been doing. Well, she could find someplace else to live. A small price to pay for what had been the most extraordinary experience of her life.
And Nemesis? Would they ask her to leave, too? That would be a bitter cost. Nemesis meant everything to her. She couldn’t leave them. She had to continue with their work.
Yet she couldn’t regret what she’d done, what she and Jack had done together. She didn’t know what it meant, or what the future might bring, but for now, she could allow herself this moment of repletion. She had unleashed her true self, without fear. It had been … remarkable. Jack was remarkable.
Yet the mission was ongoing. She had no idea if it would succeed or not. And if, by luck and determination, they were successful in their plans, then Nemesis would have no further use for Jack, and he would have to go. It would be far too dangerous for him to remain in England. And she’d never leave.
“Wish I could stay,” he said drowsily.
“I wish you could, too.” But it was impossible. Everything about the two of them together was impossible.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tired, sated, his brain fogged with weariness and thoughts of Eva, Jack climbed in the window to his room. Dawn was minutes away, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for a year.
He tensed the minute he got inside his room.
Simon leaned against the wall, watching the window, arms folded over his chest.
“Whatever you got to say,” Jack muttered, peeling off his coat, “say it quick. I ain’t in the mood for lectures.” He threw his coat and waistcoat onto a chair and did the same with his shirt. He had a mad impulse to press his shirt to his face. It might carry Eva’s scent, and he wanted to pull it deep into his lungs.
Instead, he made himself move to his washstand and pour water into a basin, which he splashed on his face.
“No lecture.” The toff’s voice was dangerously quiet. In the mirror, Jack saw Simon’s gaze roam over his back as if looking for the best place to stick a knife. “A warning.”
Turning around, Jack dried his face on a cloth. “Threatening me ain’t very smart, gov.”
“I don’t make threats,” Simon answered, still in that deadly soft voice. “When I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it. So mark me, Dalton,” he continued, pushing away from the wall, “if you hurt Eva in any way, I will kill you.”
Though the nob didn’t have Jack’s size, it was clear Simon knew how to scrap. Only a real fighter stood the way Simon did now, body and hands loose but ready. His sharp blue eyes revealed a fighter’s confidence. Jack could beat Simon, but the toff would give him a hell of a brawl.
Fury boiled through him at the idea that he might hurt Eva. “Think she can’t take care of herself?”
“I know she can. I’ve known her far longer than you have, and I’ll still know her after you’ve gone.”
Jack didn’t want to think about that, about when the work against Rockley was over and what it meant for him. He could only live in each moment as it happened.
“That’s your plan, then,” he sneered. “Move in after I leave and help nurse her broken heart. Offer a shoulder to cry on, then offer her a lot more.” The thought of Eva with Simon—or her with anyone else—made Jack want to break every piece of furniture within ten miles, then smash down the walls of every building.
To the toff’s credit, he looked appalled. “Christ, no. Eva’s my friend. I’m not looking for a way to get under her skirts.”
“You did.”
“Years ago. I don’t think of her in that way any longer.”
The cage of anger loosened slightly around Jack’s chest. He sat on the edge of his bed and tugged off his boots, letting them fall heavily to the floor. “Then tell me what the hell this is about.”
Simon pointed at him. “This is about you not hurting Eva. Not making her promises you can’t keep.”
Jack knocked Simon’s hand aside. “No one’s promised anyone anything.” How could he? He’d nothing to offer, nothing to vow. All he had was vengeance, and when that was fulfilled—if it was fulfilled—he’d have nil. Not even his name, since he was believed to be dead. Of course he’d leave when the mission was over. He had to. He couldn’t expect anything else.
But Simon, goddamn Simon, had planted seeds in his head. About things that could never happen.
Eva—his. And him being hers. Not just for a few weeks of pleasure, though God knew how incredible that pleasure was. But for months, years. Maybe longer.
His heart beat heavy beneath his ribs, thinking of this. But when the mission was done, and if he still lived, he’d have to move on. Staying would be too dangerous, even if the coppers thought he was dead. There was always a chance someone might recognize him, and he’d be on the run again.
“She understands what’s what,” he said, more for his own benefit than Simon’s. “It’s all temporary.”
Simon exhaled. “As long as that’s recognized by both of you. Once the mission is over, you’re not useful to Nemesi
s anymore. You leave, and she can move on without regret. Without you.”
“Believe me, gov,” Jack said, “no one knows that more than me.”
* * *
In Bethnal Green, happiness wasn’t handed out like pints of ale. You had to find it—or make it—for yourself. It was either that, or live in a constant state of rage and misery.
When Jack awoke, he let himself lie in bed for a few moments, his gaze roaming around this cramped little room that had become, for a short while, his home. Simon’s warnings still rang in his ears, and their reminder that he could only have Eva for a short while longer. The thought sent a sharp pain through his chest. He rubbed the heel of his hand between his ribs, but the pain wouldn’t recede.
He made himself focus on what good he did have, same as he’d done back on the streets of Bethnal Green.
Last night … His body stirred and his pulse hitched just thinking about it, about Eva, and how she’d finally let free her wildness, her heat. With him. That had been best of all, knowing that she’d shared that secret part of herself only with him. They might not have as long together as he would’ve wanted, but he’d take everything he could get and be glad of it.
And they finally had the evidence against Rockley they needed. Revenge was like vinegar on his tongue. Close. So damn close. He’d been waiting five years. Within a handful of days, he’d see Rockley topple. What would happen afterward, he didn’t know, but he wouldn’t think about it now. Now was for savoring the anticipation of that bastard’s ruin. It might not be as satisfying as killing him, but maybe Nemesis was right and having Rockley live in shame and disgrace could be better. He could sit and stew and let regret tear the flesh from his bones, the way Jack had done in prison.
Was this happiness? No. Jack never knew that feeling. But it was as close to it as he could get.
He rose from bed, and got ready for the day. Judging by the ash-colored light, it was already late afternoon. He smiled—his life had always been lived at night. Only when he got to Dunmoor did that change, rising with the dawn, working all day, and collapsing onto his cot soon after sunset. But he was claiming himself back.
He hurried downstairs, hoping that the rest of Nemesis had gathered so they could talk about the next steps with Rockley. They’d have a plan. They always had a plan.
His steps halted when he found Eva already in the parlor, standing beside the fireplace. He barely noticed Simon and Marco sitting at the table. She didn’t blush or look away, but met his gaze boldly, with unmistakable heat.
It was like invisible hands grabbed him, pulling him toward her. He needed her mouth, the feel of her hands, the warm scent that clung to her neck.
Marco coughed. Loudly. A reminder that Jack and Eva weren’t alone. Goddamn it.
Though he didn’t care what either Marco or Simon thought, Jack couldn’t go to Eva, not even to stand beside her. He’d have to touch her, and one touch would lead to more, and more. Instead, he grabbed a chair, swung it around and straddled it, his arms braced across the back.
“The next steps need to be planned carefully,” Simon announced. “We’re close now. Too close to get sloppy.”
“He’ll have been told that the evidence was stolen,” Eva said. “The madam identified Jack, too. Rockley will know Jack isn’t dead.”
Marco asked, “Won’t he go to the police with that?”
Jack snorted. “And tell them I was spotted busting up a whorehouse where he keeps damning papers? No—he’ll keep his muzzle shut.”
“If he feels the walls caving in around him,” Simon pointed out, “he’ll lash out, try to protect himself.”
“We have to move first before he can.” Eva frowned in thought as she looked into the fire. “It’s time to—”
Everyone silenced as footsteps sounded on the staircase outside. It could have been Lazarus or Harriet, but Jack didn’t recognize the tread. He stood.
Eva opened the door, revealing Byrne. The chemist stood on the landing, his forehead all creased with worry, and held out a slip of paper to her. “This came for you. Not you specifically, miss,” he added, “but I was told to give it to the folks upstairs.”
“Told by whom?” she asked.
“The boy that delivered it. He ran off before I could ask who sent it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Byrne.” She took the note.
“What’s it about?”
She shook her head. “Policy, Mr. Byrne.”
Contrite, the chemist smiled. “Right. Less I know, the safer I am.” He gave a little bow and then trundled back down the stairs.
After Eva closed the door, she unfolded the note. Jack, Marco, and Simon all watched her as she scanned it. A troubled look crossed her face. “It’s from Miss Jones. ‘It is vitally important that you come immediately,’” she read aloud. Glancing up, she added, “The handwriting’s hers, but it’s shaky.”
“She wants us to go to her home?” Marco wondered. “She and her father have always met with us here.”
“Something must be wrong.” Simon got to his feet and put on his hat. “Eva and I will see what’s the matter.”
“I should go, too,” Jack said.
“He did help by talking with her last time,” Eva noted.
Instead of arguing against Jack’s presence, Simon just nodded.
Maybe Jack had earned the toff’s confidence after all.
But it was the look of trust in Eva’s eyes that Jack truly prized.
* * *
Pretty suburban neighborhoods like Hammersmith always made Jack’s skin crawl. It was all so bloody normal, so orderly and neat. Even now, as he, Eva, and Simon walked toward the house of Miss Jones and her family, they passed men returning from their work in the city. The sun hung low on the horizon, and all the good, respectable men of business hurried home for supper. Through the lit, lace-covered windows, Jack watched as women greeted their husbands, taking their hats and coats, offering dutiful kisses on the cheek. Children in clean, starched pinafores clung to their fathers’ legs until they were shooed away by their mothers. The men retired to front parlors, where they read newspapers and smoked pipes.
These were the people who decorated advertisements pushing health tonics, soap, cocoa. Perfect little kingdoms in perfect semidetached houses, and far from anything he’d known.
“Do you envy them?” Eva asked as they passed one house, with its brightly lit front window showing the people inside like actors on a stage.
“There ain’t no thought in it,” he said. “They’re all doing what they think they’re supposed to, but what’s the fun of it? Where are the guts?”
“Perhaps they don’t want fun or guts. Perhaps all they want is security, certitude.”
“Only one thing’s certain,” he said. “We’re all going to wind up in the ground. Way I figure it, that leaves us free to do what we want. Not shut ourselves away in tidy boxes.”
“Radical notion,” she answered. “You might be a revolutionary.”
“Don’t go picking out my crate and setting me up on Speakers’ Corner,” he warned. “I’m just trying to survive, not change the world.” The world could take care of itself. He had his own skin to look after.
But as he, Eva, and Simon walked down a tree-lined street, heading toward Miss Jones’s house, a kick of worry beat beneath his pulse. Worry for the young lady. Eva had said that the girl’s handwriting looked shaky, which meant she’d written her note in a state of distress. Rockley might have threatened her again, or done worse. Jack knew that Eva could take care of herself, but most females hadn’t been given much to defend themselves. They were at the mercy of men and the law, neither of which seemed to care much about the fate of women.
But that’s why Nemesis existed.
Miss Jones’s house was one of the smaller buildings on her block. Unlike most of the other houses, only a few lights burned in the windows. Simon knocked on the door, and after a minute, the girl herself answered the door. Pinched lines showed on either side of her mo
uth. She looked as if she’d aged ten years in just a few days. Her face was pale, and she twisted a handkerchief in her hands. She definitely didn’t look happy to see any of them on her front step.
“Come in, please,” she said, holding the door open. “I’ve sent our maid out, so we’re alone.”
They all stepped into the entryway as Eva asked, “Where are your parents?”
“Also out.”
“Tell us what this is about,” Jack said.
Miss Jones turned and moved down the hallway. “I’ve got some tea ready in the kitchen.”
Jack, Eva, and Simon all shared a look after she disappeared through a door.
“Don’t like it,” Jack muttered.
Eva frowned. “She’s acting oddly, that’s true.”
“Odd behavior or no,” Simon noted, “she’s our client. If Rockley’s threatening her further, we need to help.”
“Will you come?” Miss Jones asked, reappearing in the doorway.
Feeling restless and ill at ease, Jack followed the others as they filed into a medium-sized kitchen. Racks of pans lined the walls, and an iron stove took up one side of the room. A round table stood in one corner, surrounded by chairs, and beside the table was another door that looked like it led to a pantry.
Miss Jones waved toward the table. “Please sit.”
Jack glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s the tea?”
“I beg your pardon?” the girl asked, looking even more pale despite the heat of the stove.
“You said you’d made tea.” Eva nodded at a kettle, still hung up on its hook. “It’s not even on the fire.”
Miss Jones’s face seemed to crumple. She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. “I’m sorry!”
Jack heard them before they came into the room—men. He spun to face the door just as three huge bruisers wielding clubs came barreling through. Two more blokes charged from the pantry, one of them holding a lead pipe and the other sporting a pair of brass knuckles.
It was as though someone had rung the bell to start the match—everything became instinct. He grabbed a heavy long-handled pan from its rack and swung it at the three men. From the corner of his eye, he saw Simon tussling with the bloke holding the pipe, ducking to avoid the swinging blows and throwing punches of his own. Eva had a chair in her hands and jabbed its legs at the chap with the brass knuckles, holding him back.
