He’d be hers soon.
She could hold him, so long as she could hold herself together.
The heady rush of power made her float. Like she were both above and in the moment. She let her fingers trail behind, held out. He took her hand. It wasn’t only the touch, which sent liquid anticipation trembling up her arms to center in her chest. His hands were finely wrought, his fingers elegant. It was the fact that she’d known he’d reach for her. That she hadn’t had to look back or to taunt him.
She’d offered and he’d taken.
How simple and how completely complicated.
The back door, the dark-painted wood slab that opened on the bowels of the kitchens, had been left unlocked for her as it always was. Her liberal control of the household meant that she was obeyed to the letter. The two scullery maids curled up in front of the fireplace to tend the flames through the night had come from Lottie’s school and before that a tinwork factory.
The girl on the right rolled over and lifted her head, looking at Lottie, who put a finger to her lips. Eloise had lost her smallest finger in a press and worshipped Lottie as the person who’d gotten her free of that world. She nestled back into her pallet. The blankets twitched over her head in an intentional move. She’d say nothing.
Once Lottie and Ian were in the hallway again, Ian pulled her close. Their hands, still laced together with warmth passing from palm to palm, were tucked behind his back. There was strength in the heavy curve of muscle barely hidden by his proper coat.
The amazing part was that she’d see all of him soon. She meant to touch and take as she liked.
Except it appeared he might be having second thoughts. A single lamp glowed at the other end of the hallway, where it opened on the foyer. Where they stood, dark shadows clung and draped along his features. They turned him into something different than the open, honest man he’d been. “Are you sure this is wise?”
His skin smelled like spice. That would be all hers soon as well. She shrugged, though it felt almost as if her body would buckle if she didn’t get her way soon. “Which part?”
“Here. Your family’s house?”
He was rather cute when uncertain and at sea. “You’ll see.”
She led him up the back stairs, the narrow ones that the servants usually kept as their domain. The fingertips of one hand trailed along plaster walls, and Ian kept the other. His grip never slipped from hers. She would know him. That closeness. That warmth. His breath slid across the back of her neck, shifting a lock of hair.
When he hesitated on what should have been the floor for bedrooms, she kept going almost into the attics, where the servants shared rooms. Below was the level that once was a nursery and playroom.
The landing was small, the hallway truncated. The stairs split and turned to keep going upward, and to the right was a single door. She fished a key out of her reticule and unlocked it.
“Here,” she said as she stepped in and lit a lamp. Her reticule spun across the petite table she kept inside the doorway. She shrugged off her cloak and draped it over the back of a gold-leaf decorated chair. “This is my...space. For lack of a better word.”
“How interesting.” He let go of her hand and wandered into the open area of her room. “Where did this come from?”
“Well, when they built the house, there were walls put up. Floors between stories. Windows here and there. The usual.” Her mouth stayed bent in a smile, but her fingers twisted in the front of her skirts.
This was...strangely personal. Very few people came to her rooms. Fanny tended to her, but she stayed toward the front quarter, which could generally be called Lottie’s dressing area.
That was the problem. The whole area was rather amorphous once compared to most rooms and buildings. This whole stretch...it was open. Wide. There had once been five rooms along here, but the walls had been removed, and now only a series of archways broke up the areas. The one room extended the full length of the building. The front section had dressers and armoires and standing closets in which Lottie stored her clothing. Past that was stacked with books and couches and a chaise lounge perched beneath the window.
Her hands clenched on the sides of her skirts, staining them with salt from her damp hands. But she couldn’t look at the pale pink blanket spread over her bed or the darker rose curtains hanging from the half tester without thinking of Ian in that space. How very masculine he’d be against those pale colors.
He hadn’t spotted the bed. He was wandering about with curiosity writ on his features, much as he had when he’d seen her mother’s room downstairs. “Don’t be intentionally obtuse,” he said.
She moved past him and threw herself down into her favorite chaise. She loved the crushed velvet and well-padded back that stretched halfway down the side. Resting her chin on a fist, she watched him. “But I like teasing you.”
He slid a look at her out of the corner of his eyes. A small slice of the London sky gleamed through the window. Half haze, half dark night swirling together. London never slept. He pushed aside the gauzy curtains. “You don’t exactly live...normally, do you?”
She was sure he didn’t mean that to hurt, but it did, more than she would have liked. Her chest clenched. “You’d be bored if I did.”
“Maybe.” He sank to the end of the chaise, beside her knees. The way he sat pinned her skirts. She tried to shift and could only move a few inches. “Tell me how this room came about.”
“Mama, of course.” She shouldn’t like that he’d immobilized her. She certainly wouldn’t if it had seemed like accidental oafishness.
When he braced his hands on each side of her head against the end of the chaise and leaned in, she knew. He was unaware of nothing. Every inch of her skin, every inch of his body, filled his mind. How they would align. He wanted her still. Wanted her held down.
She shuddered. Her breathing coiled in her throat.
“I doubt your mama held a hammer or a paintbrush.”
She could hardly believe they were having this discussion with his mouth only a fraction away from hers. She wanted to be kissed.
She settled for petting back locks of his hair that eased across his forehead. Her lips parted a tiny bit. Wonder made her tentative and appreciative.
“This was supposed to be Mama’s studio. She directed all the changes. The windows along the back were put in specially. But once it was done and paid for, she declared it not right. She couldn’t create here.”
“So you took it over.” His eyes were a brilliant blue. He let his arms fold, his elbows tucking down and bringing him closer. His mouth was near enough that his air brushed over her lips. “Creating your own world in what she left behind.”
She didn’t like the way that sounded. Didn’t want to spend her life following in her mama’s wake. The very opposite was her intention, after all. She’d left behind any dream of the existence most would expect. Between the school and her friends, she’d created something new that was good enough for her. She didn’t like that maybe her whole self was wrapped up in her mother’s shadow.
Her fingers slipped around the back of his neck and delved into his hair. She liked the strands, their soft and crisp texture. But it was the intimacy of the gesture. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched another’s hair or felt their warm scalp. Never, probably.
She kept her voice contained and quiet. “I always take what I want.”
Tonight, that meant him. She tightened her grip in his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers. Then kissed him.
Ian knew what it was like to kiss a woman. He’d done it plenty of times, with results that were more than lovely.
He wasn’t simply kissing Lottie. Such words were inadequate and cheapening. He was kissing her, she was kissing him, and they came together in a way that was unlike anything he’d experienced.
He wrapped his hands around her jaw, feeling it work under his touch. Her lips were pliable as he drew her essence into his senses. She was sweetness and desperation
wound together. She melted under his every touch, then launched. Her body begged as her mouth was taken and given.
With his eyes shut, Ian knew how she looked. So exquisitely beautiful he’d be transported to a level he’d never dared touch before. She was gorgeous. Lovely.
Frightened.
He could feel it in the way she trembled. But when he tried to pull away, she made an impetuous noise. Her fingers wrenched hard enough to cause a flinch of pain. The skin of her cheeks was more satiny than any he’d touched before. She was plush and tender, except when she was mean. Her teeth nestled into his bottom lip.
He hissed. His hand rested in the bend of her jaw to neck, where bones met resilience. “That hurt.”
“I know,” she whispered in a husky voice. “You loved it, don’t lie.” Her eyes were so heavy-lidded he wondered if she really saw him. He wanted her to. He wanted to know her and he wanted her to see him inside and out. He cupped her small breast. Her eyes flew open. “So bold.”
“You love it, don’t lie,” he said in an intentional echo.
“So true.”
She was wearing entirely too many clothes. He set about unbuttoning and untaping and untying her. She wiggled and shifted, eventually letting him draw the dress down her body. A ridiculous amount had been paid for that tumble of silk for it to end up on the floor, but Ian didn’t give a goddamn. He pulled her petticoats off next and they ended up...somewhere.
Her legs were long and slender. Gently muscled. Her knees bent, and graceful toes dug into the cushion next to his hip. She watched him from under those contradictory lashes. “You look at me like I’m something you’ve never seen before.”
He reached out then. Held her thigh in one hand. She had magic in her. Maybe it was that such an accumulation of angles in her sharp shoulders and the jut of her hipbones could turn into something still lushly female. “You’re amazing.”
She cut her gaze toward the window, her mouth tweaking in good humor. “I’m attractive enough. I’ve never lacked assurance of that. But you...you look at me like I’m something more than human.”
“Are you?”
Her legs were works of art, and he could hardly believe he was petting them. Her knees pressed together, more coy than shy. The corset she wore was both delicate and ornate. Layered with embroidery, it skimmed over her body like another lover. “I’m just a girl.”
His thumbs delved behind her knees, testing the fragile hollow. She was slightly damp with anticipation and a thin sheen of sweat. “A woman.”
“Yes.” Her knees parted a whisper. “Will you be disappointed? If I’m nothing perfect? Nothing worthy of the way you’re looking at me?”
“You’ve little worry on that score.” He trailed smooth, slow strokes over her thighs and the brush of curls at the top. She shuddered. “You really are perfect.”
Her fingernails dug into his neck. She pulled him closer. “You’re an idiot.”
“You don’t see yourself as I see you.” He tasted her mouth again, and all he could think of was the way her quim had tasted, the way she’d been so sweetly enticing. The way she’d shaken apart. How much freer would she be here, in her own room? “You’re exquisite.”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
“Gladly.”
He swept his mouth over hers, pushing her into the downy cushions of the lounge. She sank down, her curls spreading over the velvet. She melted and he loved it. Wanted to take and claim. Her skin was pale enough to be marked, his for the owning.
Part of him was tempted to take the corset off her. But it framed her body and her slender waist with such precision. He wrapped both hands around her ribs, holding, caressing. Squeezing tight. Beneath his grip, beneath the corset, she was something new. A wild creature who twisted and stroked her hips upward. Her wantonness waited to be unleashed.
But maybe he’d always been waiting for her.
Her hands found purchase in the front of his shirt, and for a second he thought she might try to rip it off him. Then she wound her fingertip through the material and yanked her mouth away from his. “Off. I want this off. I hate it.”
“It’s a shirt.” He felt his mouth slide up into a half smile and was astonished. The heavy lust that slammed through his veins and turned his cock into a hot pipe ought to have seared away all other emotions. But whenever he was with Lottie, too many emotions whirled together for a single one to stand out.
“It’s between us,” she muttered. “I want it gone.”
Chapter Fifteen
How quickly Ian yanked his shirt off over his head. Lottie filled her hands with the stretch of his back, the muscles there that shifted and twitched as he eased down into her arms. She liked being swept up by him. Being absorbed by him.
Her hands coasted up to the back of his head, and her neck fell backwards against the arm of the couch. He overwhelmed her. His mouth opened across her shoulder, the angle of her collarbones. His fingertips sank into her hips, and he ran his thumbs over her flesh. Tingles and jolts dove beneath her skin.
The weight of his body on hers added an extra layer of sensitivity. She wasn’t trapped by him. She was surrounded.
Her knees slipped apart with no thought behind it. She had a need to open and take him in. He still wore his trousers, but the warm expanse of his chest pressed against hers. Inside her corset her nipples tightened.
He must have known. Strange magic rolled through the air and turned the breath in her lungs hot and humid. With bold, stroking pets, he eased up her side, then traced across the delicate stitching of her bodice. The embroidered satin there barely covered her nipples, and he wasn’t stopped. He touched and claimed.
She clenched the back of his head, but she didn’t know what she wanted until his head dipped. Dark, dark hair eased toward her. He delved into her corset, scooping her breast. The rough touch made her whole body curl toward him. When he sucked the tip into the warm, wet haven of his mouth, a wicked kind of cry eased out of her throat.
Her hands framed the sides of his skull. Her lips parted on more of those breathy cries. She sounded wanton. She sounded completely abandoned toward pleasure. Like a spinning-wild version of herself.
She adored every reckless cry, every tingling sensation coming from the pulling draw of his mouth on her flesh. He put teeth to her skin. Bit meanly enough that she jolted. She flushed.
If anything, she wanted to be taken. Filled. Her hips surged toward his but found only the wool of his trousers. She tangled her big toe in the brace that he’d snapped down from his shoulders to dangle about his lean hips. Tugged on it. “This. These.” She hardly made sense. How wonderful.
“My trousers?” he muttered against her skin, and the words went through her like a bell that rang her into existence.
“Those.”
“Suppose you hate them too?” He flicked a gaze upward and smiled.
She felt positively filthy and marvelously exposed. She scratched over the back of his shoulders, and he must have liked that or maybe he hated it, because he shuddered and pressed closer to her. Suddenly it didn’t matter because his hard flesh pressed between her legs.
Even through the barrier of the trousers—that yes, she did hate—his touch did something. Something exciting. Mind exploding.
She gave a soft, “Oh!”
“Maybe you don’t hate them after all?” He eased his touch over the mounded top of her breast. She shivered.
“I do,” she whispered. How much further could this go? She didn’t know which way to push, to grab, to take. “I hate them desperately, because if it’s this good now, I can’t begin to imagine how much better it could be.”
“You’re so eager.” He ducked his head again, his mouth slicking over her nipple. She clutched his shoulders. “I do like that.”
“Good, good,” she found herself chanting. “Now more. Now take them off.”
He laughed as he reached between them, unfastening his trousers. His knuckles glanced over her flesh, and she knew it was inte
ntional because as soon as he was done, he turned his hand about. He cupped the tenderness between her legs. She gasped. Those long, elegant fingers tucked into her.
She had no idea. All the books she’d read, all the investigations she’d made—none of them had truly left her informed. Not about how it’d feel. Not about how she’d shake with pleasure and anticipation. She almost didn’t notice when Ian leaned back into her.
Almost.
Hot, warm skin brushed the insides of her thighs. Ian’s legs were dusted with crisp hair that abraded gently. A long, firm weight Lottie assumed must be his member nudged her, beside his hand. Still his fingers delved and ringed the explosive spot at the top of her sex to pull forth cries that left her throat raw.
She opened her eyes and found him watching her. Closely. He was alight with something she hardly knew how to name.
“I should wait,” he said in a tone of voice that sounded as rank and rough as she felt. “But I don’t think I can.”
She folded her forearms behind his neck and hauled herself high enough to assault his mouth. This was no kiss, it was hiding and running and taking. She bit down on his lip. Wrenched a grunt from him that went straight to her body and turned her inside out. “Don’t you dare stop.”
“I’m not. Fuck, I’m not.”
He shoved a finger inside her. Her neck arched back, and she keened, but she never took her eyes off his. Let him see. Let him know how far he took her and how far she intended to take him. His thumb pressed down on the spot that seemed connected right to her white-fire feelings.
She had never felt so good and yet so incomplete. “More, please.”
He added a second finger, and it wasn’t enough. Her head tossed across the arm of the chaise, and she suddenly let go of him. She reached behind herself enough to hold the carved arm. Her fingernails sank into the wood, but it still didn’t make her feel solid and real.
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