Wicked Surrender

by Jade Lee

  She had no answer to that except an acid hole in her stomach. How could he imagine that carte blanche was a measure of respect or affection? And the arrogance of thinking he knew her at all! Just because he saw her every so often in the Green Room!

  “Please, Mr. Tully, just go away. I cannot speak civilly with anyone right now.”

  She felt him hesitate. His breath hitched and he leaned toward her. She saw it in her peripheral vision. She tensed, readying to lift her elbow into his gut should he come any closer. But he didn’t. Good sense must have prevailed because all he did was slide his card into her hand where she had flattened it against her door.

  “I am a most considerate and gentle lover,” he urged as he began to back away.

  She wanted to crumple his card into a ball and throw it at his face. But to do so would bring him right back to plead his case. So she smiled at him and made a show of tucking it into her sleeve. The very sleeve he had nearly torn off her arm.

  He grinned at her and left with a wave. Only after she heard his feet hit the landing below did she push the key into her lock. But when she turned it, she realized with some surprise that it hadn’t been locked. It didn’t matter. The sooner she got inside her room, the better.

  So she pushed inside, crumpling Mr. Tully’s card as she went. She closed the door, carefully locked it, then with a sudden fit of temper, she hurled the wad of paper as hard as possible at the corner where her chamber pot sat.

  It never made it to the corner. A shadow reached up and caught it halfway there.

  “Don’t scream,” said a man’s voice. “It’s just me.”

  Brandon. She turned away with disgust. “And what makes you think I won’t scream when it’s you?”

  He stepped over to her bedside table and lit the candle there. The light bathed his face in a warm glow that did not help his features at all. He still looked harsh, mysterious, and not at all her friend.

  She huffed as she dropped down into the nearest chair. “My head hurts too much to scream.” She pulled out a long knife from beneath the book that rested within reach on the windowsill. “I’ll just stab you instead.”

  He arched a brow at her, but then his eyes returned to her crumpled card as he straightened it and angled it to the light. “Mr. Samuel Tully,” he read. “Impertinent pup.”

  “You could have helped me out there, you know.”

  “I was at the door, ready if you required it.” He turned, recrumpled the card, and neatly tossed it into the empty chamber pot. “But he was impertinent, not dangerous.”

  She closed her eyes and let her pounding head drop against the wall. It gave her a warm feeling to know that he had been ready to come to her aid. It was ridiculous, of course. She didn’t want him to be her protector. She certainly didn’t want him lurking in her bedroom. But it was reassuring nonetheless.

  “Please go away, Viscount Blackstone. I have had all the offers of carte blanche I can manage today. But do feel free to shift your allegiance to Delilah or any of the other girls.”

  A hair pin slipped out from her bun. Then another. She started in surprise, shocked and appalled that he had crossed the room and was touching her hair while she was none the wiser. She raised the knife that she held, but he blocked it effortlessly. He didn’t take the thing from her, but he kept her arm down and well away from him as his other hand deftly removed pin after pin. Her hair slipped out of its bun and the relief on her head was immeasurable.

  “Pray do not gut me,” he said softly. Then he released her arm to burrow both hands into her scalp. His fingers were strong, applying just the right pressure as he rubbed tiny circles all over her scalp. His hands started at her temples, but quickly flowed up to her crown, then spread downward toward her shoulders. She closed her eyes in relief. It felt wonderful.

  She sighed in delight, all the fight going out of her. Her head relaxed fully into his large hands, and her eyes once again drifted shut. And then, wonder of wonders, his fingers slid lower on her scalp, flowing to the nape of her neck and lifting slightly such that her neck and shoulders began to stretch.

  She hadn’t even realized how tight her neck and jaw were until his touch allowed her to let it all give way. He didn’t speak, thank heaven. She listened for his breath or his heartbeat or anything else of him but the press of his fingertips. She heard nothing but the muted noise from the Green Room and main playhouse floor. Clearly there was still a crowd down there. Her sudden political status might give her the headache, but it was doing wonders for the playhouse revenue.

  She took her first full breath since this morning. And then she took another. Wonderful!

  His lips touched hers first. Her mouth was slightly open in appreciation. Some part of her knew that he would not give her pleasure without asking for more. She’d known from the first moment he touched her head that he would be kissing her soon. A slow caress of lips, a mingling of breath, and a teasing nibble at the edge of her mouth.

  She gave no response. He didn’t need one. Like the caress of her scalp, this was done for her pleasure. She was relaxing in a sea of sensation for all that it was only on her mouth and the back of her head. Then, when he would have deepened the kiss, she lifted the knife.

  She didn’t even need to raise it high enough to get his ribs. It was just a tiny contraction of her wrist and he froze.

  “I can take that from you, you know,” he said softly.

  “Are we back to force then?” she returned without even opening her eyes.

  He sighed and gently eased her head back against the wall. She opened her eyes, mourning the loss of his caress. Her headache did feel much better.

  He stood above her, a large shadow outlined from behind by the candlelight. But she needed no light to know the harsh angles of his face, the broad set to his shoulders, or the dark edge to his spirit.

  “Tell me you don’t desire me, Scher. I know you do.”

  She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that they roved over her body. Did he see that her breasts were heavy and her nipples tight? Did he know that her thighs were relaxed, and her belly had gone liquid? Her every breath brought a slow tingle to that place between her legs.

  She had never let him touch her there. They had shared countless kisses. He had fondled her breasts as well, rubbing her nipples through her gown until she was breathless with want. She remembered how large his hands were, how perfect in their seduction.

  How had she managed to refuse him before? One night before Kit proposed, she and Brandon had done such things in the hallway. His kisses had been like black smoke, dark and drugging to her senses. He had loosened her gown and was pushing it down off her shoulders. Then Delilah came up the stairs, chatting with Seth the whole way. Something about how her costume was too tight.

  So Scher had pushed Brandon away with an urgent whisper. She hadn’t thought he would leave, but he finally gave in to her ardent shove. He had taken a moment though to lean in and whisper to her. “Tomorrow night, Scher, nothing will stop me.”

  That’s what he had said. But then Kit had proposed the next night and everything changed.

  “Damn Kit,” he said now, though the words had no heat.

  “Damn you for being so free with my bedchamber.” He was standing over her like some demonic force, and yet, she had no fear. Just a warm heat down deep inside her belly. “Damn you for being so arrogant as to think I would fall into your arms just because you are a skilled lover.”

  He shifted and she opened her eyes. He now stood enough in the candlelight so that she could see his confusion. Had she shocked him? She nearly laughed.

  “You think I don’t know?” she asked, incredulous. “Of course I know you could take my body to places I have only dreamed. One caress in the hallway, and my loins were on fire for hours. Oh, Brandon, the nights I have laid in that bed and thought of what we could be doing.”

  She gestured with her knife as a show of force. But inside, she knew that she was perilously close to throwing the blade
away and allowing him to pleasure her in ways that she could only imagine. In her whole life, she had had only one lover—the cad who had taken her virginity. What would it harm her if she allowed one other, just for one night?

  “You have tempted me beyond reason from the moment I first saw you,” she confessed. “You make me question everything I ever wanted. Even marriage.”

  She saw her words hit him in the way his body swayed. His eyes seemed to burn as he stared at her, and when he spoke, his words were raspy and hoarse. “Scher, love, put down the knife!”

  She raised it a little higher. “Has no one ever rejected you before, Lord Blackstone? No one felt desire for you and yet stayed virtuous?”

  “Scores of women have turned their back on me, Scher. But none who claimed desire. None who knew . . .”

  “What?” she pressed when his voice faded away. “That you are legendary in bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “A careful and considerate lover?” she mocked, deliberately echoing Mr. Tully’s claim.

  His voice dropped to a tone that seemed to tremble through her skin and into her blood. “There are texts in India devoted to bed play. I studied them. I even spoke once with a master, trying to learn more.”

  She arched a brow, intrigued despite herself. “A master who instructs in bed sport?”

  “A mistress, actually.”

  She allowed herself a small smile. “Of course.”

  He moved swiftly, dropping to his knees before her. His arms settled on the rests of her chair, and his face was level with hers. He was close enough that she could smell the mint. Close enough that the smallest movement of her knife and she would cut off his nose.

  “Can’t you see? You and Kit will never work. He is a boy, Scher. A good boy, to be sure, but you require a man.” He dropped a hand to the floor then slid it under her skirt. “Think about what I can give you.”

  His grip tightened on her ankle. It wasn’t painful. In truth it felt good the way he moved his fingers up her leg, squeezing into her calf, then brushing soft strokes upward before doing it again.

  “Did you learn that in India?” she asked.

  “Yes. I also learned that there are points on a woman’s legs that are especially sensitive.” He shifted again, pulling his other hand down to untie the ribbons of her slippers. In the space between one breath and the next, her feet were bare and he was tugging at her toes.

  She expected it to tickle. Her feet were extraordinarily sensitive, but his touch had just the right firmness as he kneaded her feet, slowly spreading the bones apart from the ball of her foot outward.

  “There is a spot here,” he said, as he pushed into her arch. She gasped. There was pain there, and yet the longer he held the point, the better it felt. Pain shivered into pleasure, especially as he began a slow circle caress. “There is a connection between foot and breast. I don’t need to be stroking your nipples for them to become tight with desire.”

  Her mouth opened in surprise. She hadn’t been thinking at all about her breasts, but at his words, her nipples contracted. And yes indeed, the moment he pressed a different part of her foot, she felt it as if he were at her breasts, stroking her there. She held her breath, her mind spinning with yearning. She didn’t think she’d ever been more aroused in her life, and he was just touching her feet.

  “There is more,” he said as he moved his way to her ankles. One hand surrounded each ankle, and his fingers probed the soft flesh above her heel then farther up beneath her calves. “The Indians can make a woman scream in ecstasy without touching more than this. Just her feet and her ankles.”

  She would laugh at any other person who made such a claim. But right then, she felt his caress all the way to her core.

  “Let me touch you, Scher. It won’t mean anything. I won’t tell anyone. It will simply be a restorative for you. There is such pleasure to be had, Scher, and of all people, of all days, you deserve this now.”

  She took a deep breath, allowing herself the fantasy. She had no doubt he could deliver on his promise. Her blood was simmering, her groin wet and tingling. Her thighs were already opening, and the desire was so strong! One more caress. One more moment of bliss. It would be so easy.

  She swallowed. “Move one inch higher, my lord, and I will put this knife through your eye.”

  His head pulled back, but that was all that stilled. His hands still continued their magical caress on her calves.

  “Release me, my lord,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  She flicked her wrist. It was a quick movement, and she obviously caught him by surprise. Her knife sliced through his shirt sleeve. One glance at the tip showed that it gleamed red with his blood. Not a lot and barely the tip, but she had made her point.

  He drew back with a curse, glaring down at the fine white linen. A red stain darkened the lower edge of the cut. She waited a moment, watching closely to see if she had gone too far. Would it bleed too much? Would he beat her in fury?

  Taut moments passed as they both stared at his wound. But beyond the initial mark, the bloodstain did not spread. And when he turned back to look at her, she thought she read surprise and even respect in his face.

  “I have never met a woman such as you,” he said softly.

  Was that a compliment? Or a curse? “Do not come to my bedchamber again, Lord Blackstone.”

  He grabbed her knife hand and pressed his thumb into her wrist. She didn’t even see him move, but he was there, his hand incredibly large and horribly strong. His thumb dug into her such that her fingers went slack. She tried to kick him, but he blocked her legs with his knees, pinning her feet to the chair. And then the knife clattered to the floor.

  “I am going to seduce you now, Scheherazade,” he said. “I am going to spread your legs and put my mouth to your woman parts. And I am going to pleasure you until you scream my name.”

  Chapter 9

  Brandon shifted his hands, feeling the silky texture of her calves. Like all of her, it was soft on the outside, but one push and her strength was revealed. Scher was strong, both physically and mentally. And finally, he thought as he pushed up her skirt, finally he would get to touch her as he wanted.

  “Did your Indian mistress teach you that?” she asked, her voice colder than he expected.

  “I learned it in India, yes,” he answered.

  “She told you to force women? That they want to be overpowered?” She leaned forward and gripped his wrists beneath her skirt, holding him still.

  He looked up, startled by the harsh tones in her voice. He expected many reactions from Scher. He had not thought she would be so . . . dismissive. Clearly he needed to go even slower with her.

  He pulled back with a small frown. “I learned to listen in India. Not just to words, but to everything—body, clothing, even decor. All reveal something.” He tried to shift his hands, but she held him tightly and he would not force the issue. Instead, he leaned forward and inhaled deeply. “I also learned to appreciate the smell of an aroused woman.” He looked up at Scher. “It is one of my most favorite scents.”

  “And you think then because I am aroused that I must naturally succumb to enjoy the pleasures you offer? That I am ruled by my body?”

  He laughed. “Of course not, but I know what you want.” She still would not release his wrists, so he tightened his fingers, squeezing and kneading her flesh. “I know how to listen to a woman’s body, Scheherazade. I know what she wants even before she does.”

  “I will scream. I will scream and fight.”

  He paused, her words too disconcerting for him to continue. “You want this, Scher. We both do.”

  “No, Brandon, I do not.”

  “Your body, your flesh. Your scent!” His hands tightened around her legs. He could shove them apart. He could take what they both obviously wanted. “And, yes, Scheherazade, some women want to be forced. It adds spice to the game.”

  She abruptly released his left wrist to grab his chin. Her fingers
were sharp as they tugged his chin up. Never since he was a little boy had a woman thought to do that to him. He kept his desire in check as he looked where she intended. At her face. At her eyes. At the total implacability in her expression.

  “No. Brandon, no! If you have any respect for me, any care at all, you will release me now.”

  He stared at her, his mind moving slowly. He saw no coyness in her, no game of saying no, but meaning yes. He knew she was aroused. Damn it, he knew it. She had let him into her room!

  No, he recalled, he had picked the lock and surprised her.

  But she had allowed him to touch her!

  No, he realized, she had closed her eyes and he had surprised her. But she had certainly not stopped him.

  Except, of course, she had. Her knees were firmly locked together and one of her hands still gripped his wrist.

  “Let me show you what it can be like between us. We could be so much to each other.”

  She huffed in disgust. “Is this what you learned in India? Do the Indian women say something entirely different than what they mean?”

  He swallowed. “I did not, um, enjoy Indian women. I kept to the bored British wives.” His hands went slack along her calves. Suddenly his belly was sick with acid, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil in his mind.

  “I am not bored,” Scheherazade said. “We are not in India. Do you understand, Brandon? I do not want to go to bed with you.”

  But she was aroused. That one thought kept replaying in his mind. She was aroused. She wanted him. He could have focused on that knowledge. Even now he knew what to do, he knew the techniques to use, the shift of touch or tongue. He could make it good for her. He could make her enjoy it.

  But her face. She no longer gripped his chin. She had released him the moment his hands had slid down her calves. He could easily turn away and not see her face, but that was a coward’s act. No matter what her body said, no matter how it smelled, there was conviction in her face. She did not want to be seduced.

  Despair consumed him. A crippling wave of burning pain that started in his chest and flowed outward. The first time he’d felt it—when fire had destroyed everything he’d thought to build—he’d felt sure his heart had given out. It grew worse when he realized the fire was only the beginning. There had been murders and theft, and no way for him to make the murderers pay. Then his chest had squeezed so tight that he thought he would never breathe again. Now he knew better. Now he knew he would still go on, still live only with the total loss. This feeling was devastation, an emptiness that left nothing behind.