You Only Love Twice (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 3)

by Bec McMaster

  To frustrate him.

  "What's wrong?" she teased. "Thwarted by fashion?"

  "Curse your goddamned Madame Lefoux." He finally had her gown undone, and spread both halves of it. "I'd rip it, but you have nothing else to wear."

  And a penchant for her fancy gowns.

  "That didn't stop you before."

  "I was a little... frustrated."

  "Do tell," she purred, biting the fleshy lobe of his ear.

  "You know what you did to me in Vickers's manor." He pushed the sleeves from her shoulders. "You drove me half insane. All this skin I couldn't touch. Lips I didn't dare taste. You. Mocking me. Tempting me. You're the cause of my madness."

  Gemma laughed, the sound spilling from her in a throaty echo as she peeled the sleeves over her hands. "You're impatient."

  "I've not had you naked before."

  "I was naked. You wouldn't look."

  "Then consider me a fool. I didn't want to see what was right before my eyes." Yanking her gown down around her waist, he slid his palms up her ribs, capturing the generous curves of her breasts. They threatened to spill from her corset. The press of lace and silk was a riot of sensation against his fingertips, but nothing compared to the warmth of her skin.

  Gemma wilted into the touch as if it was all she needed.

  Pushing her right breast free of the clasp of her corset, he sucked her nipple into his mouth, using his teeth just the way she liked it. The strings on her corset were an impossible mess, but somehow he drew them loose, tugging each crisscrossed lace free until the corset settled around her hips.

  He drew it over her head, and then her chemise, until she was wearing nothing but her stockings, with those red silk garters.

  Of course. A laugh vibrated in his chest. Only Gemma would wear such a frivolous thing where no one could see it. A little touch of naughtiness only she would ever be aware of.

  Or perhaps she'd meant for him to see it.

  To always wonder what she wore beneath her gown from now on.

  "You're beautiful."

  The sight of her naked body was enough to ruin what was left of his control. She'd been made for a man's gaze, all creamy skin and rounded curves. An hourglass in shape and form. Unbound, the lush sway of her breasts were large enough to overflow his hands. Her body was an odd mix of hard muscle and soft, soft flesh. Without her daily training, she'd have been voluptuous.

  Gemma bit her lip, as he trailed his fingers down over her throat and breasts. "You are not so hard on the eyes yourself. There's just one little problem...." Her finger snagged in the waistband of his trousers. "You're dressed and I'm not."

  "Then remove them."

  "It will be my pleasure," she purred, as she bent to unsnap his buttons. Gemma worked her way down his body with sinuous appeal, her feline eyes glinting with a dare as she pressed kisses down the center of his abdomen.

  Intention sparked in her eyes as inched her hand into his pants and curled her fingers around his cock.

  There was something about watching her head lower, that small tongue darting out to tease the smooth skin at the base of his erection, that made his ass clench and a shiver work its way up his spine.

  He didn't dare breathe.

  He couldn't move.

  All he could do was watch as Gemma's lashes flickered up and she met his gaze, her hand twisting, stroking, driving him bloody crazy.

  "Are you trying to torture me?" he gasped.

  "Is it working?"

  He had the brief, startled thought this was supposed to be about her. About pleasing her, making love to her, making her scream....

  Somehow she'd turned the tables on him.

  She always does.

  "I'm fairly certain... I was meant to be... making love to you."

  "Oh, pish. You've been in control the entire time. Now it’s my turn." She pressed a kiss to the soft skin of his groin, dangerously close to where he wanted her mouth. "Oh, and Dmitri, I fully intend to make you suffer the way you made me suffer."

  "You have no idea how much it hurt to keep my hands off you."

  "It wasn't your hands I was worried about."

  Obsidian swallowed as her hair dragged over the sensitive tip of his erection, followed by the heated clasp of her mouth. Gemma never had been shy. She swallowed him whole, the wet lash of her tongue stroking the sensitive arrow beneath the head of his cock, teasing him mercilessly—

  Somehow his hands were in her hair, and he thrust up into her throat as he eased her down. The hot, wet clasp of her mouth drove all rational thought from his mind. He was losing himself, inch by inch, the base of his spine tingling as her mouth did wicked things to his cock.

  "Up," he commanded, wrapping her hair around his fist and drawing her up.

  Her wet lips met his, but he had no intention of stopping there. Cupping her ass, he hauled her astride him, her thighs clamping around his narrow hips.

  "Dima," she gasped, as he thrust up into her wet heat, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth glide.

  Tighter and hotter than her mouth. Dangerously addictive.

  Obsidian held her against his chest, the fingers of one hand stroking the base of her skull as he fought to regain his equilibrium, the other toying with the lace of her garter.

  But she was having none of that.

  Rolling her hips, she lifted until all but the very tip of him broached her. Gemma eased back down with an inner squeeze, her nails digging into his chest.

  Every inch of her body sheathed him with a silken flex that had him groaning. Fuck. He'd never last. Just as she no doubt intended. Mother of God, she moved like her very bones were flexible, as if she knew just the rhythm to drive him out of his bloody mind.

  "What's wrong, my love?" Gemma gave a husky laugh.

  Oh, she was a devil.

  Grabbing her by the nape, Obsidian mashed his mouth against her and rolled them, driving her into the furs with a hard thrust.

  Gemma moaned, and somehow he got his elbow under the back of her thigh and hooked her knee over his shoulder, pinning her open beneath his ruthless assault. He could feel her tensing as he rubbed the base of his cock against her clitoris, pushing her toward pleasure like a fast-running freight train. Fucking her so hard she could do nothing but thrash and moan, her nails biting into his shoulders.

  The brief flare of pain anchored him.

  He looked down into her face as she came, her pillow-shaped mouth parted and her eyes shuttered as she threw her head back with unabashed pleasure.

  She was the only thing that made sense in his world.

  And she was so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.

  He traced her lips, her cheeks, his fingertips learning her with an artist's touch as she moaned, his thrusts slowing. "Ever since I met you, you're all I ever wanted."

  Gemma sucked his fingers into her mouth. It was all happening. Heat flashing through his balls. Her body clenching around his like a silk-gloved fist, his eyes rolling back in his head—

  He couldn't stop the strangled sound leaving his throat as he gave a few more savage thrusts before he spent himself inside her with one last moan.

  Obsidian slumped atop her, burying his face in the hollow of her neck as Gemma stroked a hand down his spine. Her chest rose and fell against his in harsh rhythm as they both panted.

  And then she was laughing and so was he, the clench of her body echoing in time to the silvery gales of laughter she made.

  "I don't know who won," she admitted.

  "You came first."

  Those wicked blue eyes narrowed, and she squeezed him again. "You came harder."

  "That's debatable. I think I'll be feeling your nails in my back for years to come."

  He could feel himself hardening inside her at the sight of that wicked smile. Obsidian gave her a gentle nudge.

  "Again?" One of her black eyebrows arched.

  Obsidian smiled a dangerous smile, and kissed her fingertips as he rocked inside her. "Didn't I tell you? The
teeth weren't the only enhancement the elixir gave me. Are you sure you can handle me?"

  Gemma wrapped her arms around him, her eyes narrowing as she locked her legs around his hips. "Oh, please. Don't you know who you're dealing with by now?"

  He kissed her slowly. "Then let us put it to the test."

  "I think you might have won," Gemma finally conceded, spilling onto her back beside her lover in a wobbly mess. "I concede. I don't think I have a single orgasm left in me."

  "I'm sorry. You might have to repeat that," Obsidian murmured, trailing his fingers over the ripple of her upper arm. "I won?"

  She punched him in the ribs, but he merely grunted and dragged her into his embrace. Every last inch of him wrapped around her, and he kissed the back of her neck lightly, as if to say, I'm here.

  And suddenly the rest of the world was intruding, no matter how much she wanted it to go away.

  Gemma rested her head on his biceps, staring at the dying flicker of the last remaining candle.

  She was ruined. Emotionally. Physically. Sexually. There wasn't even enough energy within her to feel more than a mild ache when she thought of Malloryn, which was exactly what she'd wanted.

  But she couldn't avoid it forever.

  With the light of day would come the reality of the situation. She wished she could close her eyes and when she woke, this would all seem like some horrible dream.

  But wishes were for little girls who hadn't been sold to a school of assassins.

  Because that little girl learned long ago there was no point in believing in things that would never come true.

  The only thing different about this time was she wasn't alone. And maybe that would be enough to get her through tomorrow and the harsh reality of all that had occurred.

  "Stay with me like this?" she whispered, curling her fingers through Obsidian's.

  "Always."

  And Gemma surrendered to the warm darkness and the safe cocoon of Obsidian's arms.

  "I have to go back," Gemma whispered, sitting in the arched window of their secret tower with a glass of blood, watching the world go by.

  Watching people come in and out of the safe house.

  Ava. Kincaid. Byrnes. Ingrid. Jack. And Charlie.

  But never Malloryn.

  The wait was killing her. She needed to know what had happened to him. And though she could stay here forever in Obsidian's arms if she pretended there wasn't an entire world out there, how long could she play pretend?

  COR needed her. She needed them. Obsidian filled one half of her heart, and while she could survive with him alone, there was a part of her that needed more to be truly content.

  Memories flashed through her head: Byrnes complaining about her penchant for blud-wein; teasing Charlie about how to seduce a certain girl on their long flight to Brighton last month; "borrowing" Jack's new prototype of a blast-shield for a mission; begging Kincaid to resurrect it so she could replace it before Jack noticed it was destroyed; and getting hilariously foxed on Malloryn's secret stash of sherry with Ingrid and Ava, and not realizing Ava had barely ever imbibed before.

  And now she knew what they faced, she couldn't leave them to face it alone.

  "Ingrid and Ava will be worried," she said, knotting her hands. "And poor Charlie…. He’s such a sugarplum. I wouldn’t want him to feel guilty—"

  "A sugarplum?"

  "He’s my perfect, sweet Charlie," she replied, "and if anything ever happened to him I’d never forgive myself."

  "And the queen?"

  "Regardless of what the queen desires," she whispered, "I have a duty to those I love to return."

  Obsidian slid onto the ledge of the open window and kissed the back of her shoulder. "As you wish."

  Chapter 27

  Malloryn rapped at the door to his wife's bedchambers.

  Wife. It still felt strange, though the ceremony had been a simple one, a swift half hour stolen the day following their attempted wedding, and he'd barely seen her since. Vows had been exchanged, papers signed, and Adele handed into the carriage that would take her to Malloryn House while he checked his pocket watch and made his way to the safe house.

  Indeed, the last time he'd laid eyes upon Adele, he'd been between her thighs with her blood on his lips and—

  He was not going to think of that now.

  The queen had finally sent him home, insisting he see to himself as she didn't want to see him "limping around chambers" for at least a week.

  There was no rest for the wicked, but he'd succumbed to her "suggestion" with ill grace. Logic dictated at least one decent day of sleep if he was to heal completely.

  He’d need all his strength to face the forthcoming days, and the shocking revelation that Balfour had survived.

  But there was one last person he needed to check upon before he could take himself off to bed.

  "Come in," Adele called, and he pushed the door open to find her seated primly in bed, reading a book.

  Her sister, Harriet, sewed quietly in the corner, her feet tucked up beneath her skirts.

  Adele turned her page, engrossed in the story. "You can set the tea on the—"

  "It's me."

  Harriet's head jerked up. "Your Grace."

  "Your Grace," Adele blurted, as if she’d thought he was the last person who'd ever enter her bedchambers.

  If he was being honest, he couldn't truly blame her for the assumption.

  It was the last place he wanted to be.

  "Miss Hamilton." He tipped his head to Harriet before he turned his narrowing gaze upon his wife. "Duchess."

  They held a long stalemate, until Adele put her book down, and cleared her throat. "Your Grace."

  "You said that."

  Color flooded her cheeks, and she touched one of the loose curls draped over her shoulder, as if aware she was en dishabille. "Yes, well. I am dealing with the Duke of Malloryn. His magnitude is so great he deserves at least two 'your graces'. I should not wish to offend."

  Harriet's eyes widened to the size of saucers.

  Ha. Clearly his wife was feeling better after their encounter in the tower. "Are you well?"

  "Tolerably."

  "You've regained your strength?" He began to tug his gloves off.

  "Hattie's informed the staff I am strictly confined to bed until the end of the week," she replied, shooting her sister a disapproving glare.

  Was that frustration he heard? He glanced at her as he slapped the gloves into the palm of his left hand. It was somewhat discomfiting to share an emotion with her.

  Adele is ice and haughtiness. She's a viper who doesn't deserve an ounce of compassion.

  Of course. Which is why she bled herself for your sake in the Tower....

  Curse her.

  "I hope you've informed your sister how dangerous your actions were." He couldn't restrain the slight edge to his voice. "And how, if she is clever, she will never, ever put herself in a position where she is in such danger."

  "You're welcome, Your Grace." Adele visibly seethed. "Hattie recommended I wait until you ceased breathing, whereupon I'd be completely alone in this lovely big manor with all your money, but I admit I suffered an inconvenient moment of conscience."

  "Adele!" her sister squeaked.

  "Most of the property would revert to my heir, a distant cousin who'd likely cast you into the streets. And it wasn't as though I was dying. I'm a blue blood."

  "Oh, of course," Adele mocked. The blankets tumbled into her lap, revealing the fine lawn of her nightgown and the shadow of her breasts beneath it. "How could the Duke of Malloryn ever be bought so low his wife saved his life?"

  Malloryn stared at the outline of her figure, then furiously looked away when he realized she hadn't even noticed how revealing her nightgown was. His cock gave a faint clench. Don't you bloody well dare, he told it silently.

  He'd been two seconds away from delving his fingers into the wetness of her body in the tower when he'd finally regained his senses.

  Mo
ments away from tearing the buttons on his breeches open and fucking his way inside her, the bloodlust shifting to something else.

  How utterly mortifying.

  Adele.

  Adele Hamilton.

  Unwillingly consummating his marriage on the floor of the Ivory Tower with his dead mistress in the hallway outside and five bullets still inside him would have been at the top of his list of the most humiliating moments in his life.

  But it could have been worse.

  He'd had no sense of the world. No rational thoughts. All he'd been was a mess of need and hunger, and a sudden furious desire that still ticked through his veins, curse her inconvenient nightgown. Did she not realize how the light fell upon her?

  She was clearly wearing nothing beneath the fine lawn.

  The primal side of a blue blood's nature was dangerous to rouse, particularly in the presence of one's enemies. He was loath to call what he felt for Adele hate, for he wouldn't dare give her the satisfaction of such a thing, but he'd been faintly furious toward her ever since she trapped him into this farce of a marriage.

  He could have killed her.

  "Aren't you going to say something? A moment of conscience?" she mocked, clipping her vowels in the precise way he did. "Why, I'd have never thought you afflicted by such a grievous burden."

  He cast a seething glance upon her sister. "Can you fetch your sister a robe? I should hate for her to catch a chill, though I suspect her heart is frigid enough to stave off that burden." He arched a brow toward Adele. "Is that better?"

  Clearly he wasn't the only one who remembered that moment on the floor. Adele subsided with a waspish nod, as if relieved to return to the parry and thrust of their previous relationship, but her cheeks bore a rosy stain and she couldn't quite meet his eyes.

  "You should speak of frigid hearts. It's been three days and this is the first you've visited," she said, instead.

  Not entirely.

  He'd called in on her the first night, when he'd finally staggered in on crutches, his right kneecap still shattered from where Gemma had shot him. Hattie had been sitting by her bed, fretting over Adele like a concerned mother hen, when he checked to make sure she'd recovered.