by Erica Monroe
He couldn’t remember how to breathe without her lips on his. Her hands wove in his hair, pulling him closer to her, deepening the angle of their kiss. Each move of her rear made him harder, until the cut of his trousers against him became uncomfortable. Until at the table next to him, a mug was shattered. Until the men at that table stood up and bellowed that he ought to take his whore elsewhere, if he knew what was good for him. Automatically, Thaddeus snapped back something fierce, but he ceased touching Poppy.
Then it hit him, that he’d let things go too far. They were in the middle of a crowded bar. She deserved honor. She deserved so much more than a quick tup in this dirty locale.
He expected she’d tear back from him, that she’d be hurt by the man’s words. Wouldn’t it remind her of her the place in society she occupied? That she thought she occupied, he corrected himself, because he’d be damned if he put her in that caste. He didn’t believe in castes, in—
Poppy was off of him, standing up from their blessed table. Her hand was in his. She pulled him up from his chair too and off they went, running down the hallway, toward some place he didn’t know. He should question her, but those questions died in his throat. Whatever this was, he’d let it run its course. He had to.
She stopped in front of a door. Stopped to push him up against that door, her body coming flush against him. He’d never be the same after this night. He knew it now, knew it with the unshakable truth of a man bent on destroying all the walls he’d built up over the years.
For she’d reached up, wrapped her fingers against his neck and brought his head down. Her lips found his and he gave up thinking they needed somewhere better than this. It was fitting, that he’d take her in this place, this home of thieves when her family was a room away.
He was fumbling with the doorknob as she kissed him, her lithe frame melded onto his. Whatever this room was, it was unlocked. He had the door open in a jiff. She backed him into the room. Boxes, crates, and kegs of ale surrounded them. The shelves were stuffed high with provisions. A storeroom of sorts, he supposed, and there were probably enough stolen goods in here to warrant several arrests. But he couldn’t think of that, he couldn’t be an officer for the Met now, not when this woman was tight against him and she’d claimed his lips again. He had enough mind to close the door behind them and flip the lock when she looked at him, her eyes glazed with wantonness.
And she spoke, the sweetest of all voices. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
Poppy had stopped thinking. Thinking led to sadness. Sadness led to this overwhelming sense of guilt within her, the knowledge that she’d failed so completely. She didn’t want to be that woman anymore, split apart by the injuries she’d caused.
It was much simpler, much more fulfilling, to be the woman Thaddeus seemed to see. A good mother, a brave friend, a saucy minx. Whoever he saw, it wasn’t her. But for tonight she could be that woman.
She’d made a life now out of pretending, and damn it all, she could pretend to be someone special.
This was a mistake, of course. Another to add to her long list, but this would be one she enjoyed fully. She’d hear about it from Daniel, from Jane, from every damn member of Chapman who’d seen her paw at Thaddeus. It was a licentious, reckless display. One that condemned her again. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Standing here in this overflowing stock room, his strong, muscular body wrapped around her much smaller frame, she knew without ever saying another word that he understood her. She’d spoken that line of Shakespeare and he knew what she needed.
He’d make her pain go away.
His hands shook as he slid her dress down from her shoulders, almost reverently, so slow was his movement. She couldn’t have this—couldn’t have a slow tempo because she’d remember what she was doing and the sensible part of her would stop him. She didn’t want to be sensible any longer. She wanted to be his, belonging to Thaddeus Knight of the Metropolitan Police and all he stood for. This badge of honor, goodness, and everything in between. She could believe in him when she believed in nothing else.
“Faster,” she bid him on a whisper. She’d never been so forward with Edward. But here, she felt comfortable, able to express her own desires. And she longed to have it hard, to have it rough until she burst at the seams.
For a second, his eyes searched her face, as if giving her a chance to take it back. One last moment to say she’d lost her mind. But she wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t give up this one night with him. For whatever it meant, and whatever perdition it sent her to, she’d have him.
“I want you.” She suited her words with a firm kiss, taking his lower lip within her teeth and sucking upon it. His whisky kiss. “I want this. Thaddeus, I need this.”
“God, Poppy,” he groaned. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you, do you know that?” His hands had ceased shaking. With steady decision he now tore the dress down from her shoulders, past her chest, until it pooled against her thighs. He undid the fasteners to her petticoat with its heavy twine cord, scooting it downward. He lifted her up from the ground, ridding her of both petticoat and dress, until she stood before him in her short-sleeved shift and stays.
He took a moment to look at her. Rather than wanting him to speed up again, she relished in the desire pooling in his eyes.
She stepped forward, tearing at his neckcloth, at the buttons of his shirt. She’d see him bared before her before she stopped. Shirt came loose, untucked from his breeches, and the athletic lines of his chest were visible. Sinewy and hard against her fingers. She couldn’t stop herself from exploring, rolling his nipple between her forefingers until he groaned.
Seizing her hands, he backed her up, to the boxes stacked against the wall. The stack gave some support to her back, allowed her to drag him closer, his heavier weight towering over her, yet not intimidating her. He wouldn’t hurt her; he could never hurt her. Her hands tangled again in his dark mass of curls, while his lips ran hot kisses down her throat. Each touch left a brand against her skin, a mark that she’d be his, his forever.
“Poppy.” He said her name like a prayer.
It had never been like this before, in her limited experience. She’d never felt worshiped. With Edward, it’d been quick and painful, no care given to her pleasure.
Yet Thaddeus’s thumb stroked against her right breast, palming the tender flesh until she whimpered from the satisfaction of it all.
That wasn’t enough for him.
He pinched her nipple within his thumb and forefinger. The pleasure mixed with pain brought a moan from her, and that he rewarded with another tweak, another circular massage across her breast.
“I didn’t think that’d work,” he grinned.
She blinked at him, too hazed to entirely understand what he was talking about.
“The book—” He started, but she kissed him, unwilling to be apart long enough for him to launch into what would undoubtedly be a long explanation of yet another tome he’d read. He shoved against her, grinding his erection into her, the hardness of him drawing out her breath. He was full and he was ready, and she wanted every damn bit of him.
“Thaddeus.” She arched her body, but she couldn’t hit the right point, he was too much taller than her. “Lift me up, would you?”
He assessed the pile of boxes with doubt, instead lifting her and swinging around to the door. There, he had enough leverage. He raised her up from the ground. Experimentally, she gave a wiggle of her bottom. She gave one rub, then another, biting her lip to keep from moaning out in pure delight.
He watched her, ecstasy crossing his face with each movement of her body. “Moan for me, Poppy. Don’t hold back. Don’t ever hold back with me.”
He bucked against her body with such force she hit the door fully. Unfettered now, she let forth a passionate cry she barely recognized as her own voice. He’d managed to pound against the exact spot—the right spot—the very best spot. Oh, if he could keep hitting there, she’d come undo
ne.
She’d go flying.
But he stopped, setting her down on the ground long enough to undo her stays and rip her chemise above her head. “God, Poppy, you’re beautiful.” His voice was so raw, so drenched in heat and need that it sent shivers up her spine.
She should feel exposed, should want to cover up. That was how it had been with Edward... Edward had changed once he saw her naked. He never met her eyes again.
But Thaddeus’s gaze swept all over her, returning back to her face before flowing down again. From the tips of her toes to the secret place between her thighs and up her stomach to her breasts. They were small breasts, she knew, but the way he looked at her she felt like she’d won some sort of grand lottery in proportions.
“Your breasts,” he declared, as his hand swept up underneath her breast and took the entirety of it into his palm. “Your breasts are so bloody perfect. I’d write sonnets to them if I was the rhyming sort.”
“You’ll have to show me how you like them then.” She was outrageously bold, forgetting how to be prim and proper. She wanted to embrace this new side of her.
The same sinful nature that had branded her would become her salvation.
And Thaddeus liked this about her, rewarding her sauciness with a flick to her nipple. He dipped his head lower so that he could envelop her breast with his mouth, taking her pert nipple in between his lips as if she was the most succulent of berries. He nibbled and he nipped, licked and tormented until the ache within her thighs grew almost unbearable.
She needed something, needed more of him. Before she even knew what she was doing, she was pushing him downward, where she desired him most. He dropped to his knees. Her legs spread without her proper command, until suddenly she was unveiled before him, her thatch of unruly curls leading the way to her pink bud.
He groaned his approval, his lips sliding down her stomach, planting kisses as he traveled. “Do you know what you do to me? You’re in my dreams, all of the time.” His voice came out almost strangled.
She leaned down, undoing the clasp of his pants. He sucked in a breath, and she grinned back at him. Sliding his breeches down around him, she watched for his reaction, biting her bottom lip. Then went his drawers, ridding him of the linen that hid his arousal. Erect and ready for her, the girth of him astonished her. She was not naive enough to wonder how his cock would fit, of course, but that his need was so potent...she was impressed with herself and in control at the same time.
She’d done this, brought this on. He wanted her that badly.
He stepped out of the cloth and came back to kneel before her. “Are you comfortable with me trying something?”
She nodded, though she couldn’t possibly imagine what he had in mind. The act of sex was relatively simple. It did not leave room for experimentation.
But his hands were on her legs, spreading her wider. As she watched, he lowered his head to her cunny, and his tongue flicked against her core. She bucked up against him, a shudder ripping through her, of surprise, of want, of something she couldn’t quite place. Encouraged by her response, he licked again, gliding his tongue across her folds.
He grew braver with each of her responses, taking her bud between his teeth and nibbling gently. She shook against him. He’d backed her up against the door, and she balanced precariously on his shoulders.
There weren’t words for this, whatever he was doing between her thighs. All she knew was that something seized upon her, some certain force that said the pain would be gone and, in its place, there would only be Thaddeus. She didn’t think about anything else but him, the strength of his fingers as he slid one long index finger inside her core, testing her out.
“You taste bloody wonderful.” He’d released her thighs, his hands coming up behind her butt to lift her back up. “And you’re so wet. Deliciously wet. I...I need you, Poppy. I need to be inside you if that’s acceptable.”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, for of course it was bloody acceptable. He didn’t move, and so she nodded. “You don’t need to be so gentle.”
And in that declaration from her, everything changed. He plucked her up from the ground, and she wrapped her legs around the back of him, locking him closer to her. One hand fell against the doorknob to hold her steady, the other clutching the back of his neck. Within an instant he was pushing into her, his hard cock thrusting into her tight cavern.
He paused for a second, checking her expression, and when she breathed out her pleasure he sank in deeper. In and out he went. She used her legs to guide him, pressing against his back, allowing no separation between them.
Hot, hot sensations filled her, washed over her, until there was nothing but this desperate rhythm of thrust and glide. His hands dug into her hips, steadying her against him. She had most of her weight balanced on the door. Her head came back against the wood with each of his thrusts, and somehow that ache mixed with the euphoria sent her higher because it was real and true.
This was happening. After all these moments of wanting him so badly, she had him.
His hands kneaded into her bare bottom, and the movement drove him in deeper than he’d been before, than she could ever remember being filled. Pleasure erupted within her, unstoppable and wild. If this was what it meant to be a whore, then by all that was holy, she’d be a whore every day of her damned life.
A whore for him.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, yes, please, yes.” She couldn’t think of any other words, couldn’t be anything but in this moment with him.
Her cries made him move faster, his thrusts becoming more erratic. His face was a brute mask of concentration and frenzy. He drove into her without cadence, plowing her so hard she half-expected to erupt from the force.
She became a creature of need and power, of lust and maybe a little bit of love. A woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to take it. She pushed, she guided, until the sensations built up so tight within her it was too much.
Too much, for sure she’d explode and there’d be nothing left of her when she returned. But then, he drove into her again and it all shattered around her. Waves and waves, crashing down upon her. She heard her own screams but couldn’t stop the force of it—half the damn public house could probably hear them over the band, but it didn’t matter because Thaddeus had filled her completely and ripped out that part of her that said she couldn’t let him in.
And he came along with her, spending himself within her thighs.
Then it was over.
19
Reason and logic came rushing back to Poppy with the speed of a lightning strike. Oh God, she’d made the gravest of mistakes. She’d learned nothing from Edward, not a single confounded thing. Shoving Thaddeus from her, she slid to the ground until her bottom hit the dusty floor with a resounding smack.
Smart women didn’t allow men to screw them in storerooms. And smart women certainly didn’t allow men to come inside of them, with the possibility of yet another bastard child now upon the horizon. Please, please, please, she prayed, let this pass by, for she couldn’t be mother to another child when she could barely parent Moira. Her thighs were sticky with his juices.
On the floor by her feet was an empty sack. Snatching it up, Poppy rubbed furiously at the inside of her thighs. She rubbed until her skin was raw. Until red spots splayed across her skin. But nothing changed. She was still the same.
“Oh, God, oh God, oh God.” Whispered underneath her breath, these words did nothing to soothe her. God had long ago abandoned a heathen like her. How could she have been so foolish?
“Poppy, what’s wrong?” Thaddeus’s eyes widened, reminding her of the alabaster plates Edna had found at the rag and bone shop the other week. He came to her, still naked.
And further proving she was nothing but a wanton whore, she wanted him again. Wanted him in her, fucking her so thoroughly she’d forget again that this was all bedlam.
“This was a mistake.” She raced to her chemise. With furious fingers she
flung the chemise over her head, quickly doing up her front-tying stays. “This, this was lunacy at its best. This can never, ever, ever happen again, do you hear me? Never.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No?” She stared at him as if he’d declared he was the new Gentleman Thief, for all the sense he bloody made.
“No,” he repeated. “I won’t allow you to think of us like that. This was beautiful.”
“You’re insane,” she retorted. “Insane.”
He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “I prefer to think of myself as a man in love.”
Her eyes snapped up, drawn back to his face. To the muscles of his chest, remembering the cords in his arms that had strained as he had tupped her. How was she ever supposed to regain sense when he looked like that?
Whatever he said, he couldn’t love her. Love was a lie, as much fiction as Shakespeare’s plays.
Forcing herself to look away from him, Poppy gathered up his breeches and tossed them at him. “Damn it, Thaddeus, won’t you put some clothes on?”
He pulled on his breeches. She breathed a sigh of relief at that, speculating that if he was clothed, this would all be easier to discuss. But it wasn’t.
She grabbed for her dress, her shoes, her petticoat, every piece of fabric that’d put distance between them. “I should go. Yes, I’ll go, and then we’ll never talk about this again, and it will be as if nothing ever happened...”
