Bombshell

by Sarah MacLean

  “Wicked girl,” he whispered, his fingers reaching the leather strap and sheath that held her knife, stroking over it like it was a silk ribbon. “Wicked girl, with a blade at her thigh. Goddess of war.”

  She sighed at the words. At the way her secrets brought him closer.

  But he didn’t linger there. He was too interested in what else he might find. What else she might tell him. “What were they doing?”

  She closed her eyes at the memory. “At first I couldn’t tell . . . His back was to me. She was lifted onto the high, unmade bed, her legs wrapped about his waist. Her arms around his neck.”

  Those fingers, stroking carefully, ever closer to where she wanted him. “And?”

  “She was making sounds . . . little soft sounds.”

  “Mmm,” he said, as though they discussed a curious natural phenomenon. And then his fingers were there, playing in her downy hair, spreading her open, one finger parting the seam of her.

  And then he stopped.

  The wretched man stopped.

  Sesily thought she’d go mad. She clenched her fingers in his hair. “Caleb.”

  “You stopped talking. Tell me what they were doing. And I will continue.”

  She lifted her hips, hating the tease. Loving it. But he was ready, pulling away from her until he was just barely touching her. “Tell me,” he insisted. “Tell me and I’ll give you what you want.” He stole her lips in the darkness, a sweet surprise, his tongue stroking deep.

  When he released her, he pressed his forehead to hers and said, “Say it.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “They were fucking.”

  He groaned his pleasure at the filthy words, and made good on his promise, sliding one finger deep into her softness, finding her wet and wanting, and then his thumb was where she ached for him, pressing firmly, circling with precision, as though he’d spent a lifetime learning how to pleasure her.

  As though he was made to pleasure her.

  She gasped his name and threw her head back, knocking it against a shelf behind her. “Yes,” she whispered, knowing it was bold. Knowing he liked it.

  And he did like it. “Yes,” he repeated as a second finger joined the first. “And did you watch?”

  She bit her lip as his thumb swirled, circling the tight center of her pleasure. “I did.”

  He tutted his disapproval—a blatant lie. “Naughty girl.”

  Sesily tightened her grip on his shoulders, this was the game they had always played—his censure, and her refusal to be censured. “I think she was the naughty girl,” she said, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate thrusts, making her ache. “And she wasn’t alone—he, too, was naughty.”

  “Lucky bastard.” His lips were at her ear again, his breath hot on her skin like a brand. “And now?”

  “Now,” she said, turning to meet his kiss, slow and sinful, before she asked for what she wanted. “Now I would say you are not being naughty enough.”

  She heard the little hitch in his breath at the words. Barely-there and still, like gunshot in the silence. “Not naughty enough with my lips here?” He kissed her again. “With my tongue here?” He licked over her ear. “With my touch here?” He curled his fingers deep inside her, finding a spot that had her crying out for a heartbeat before he caught her lips again, drinking the sound. “Shhh, Sesily. You must be quiet, or we shall be caught.”

  The words sent pleasure pooling through her—pleasure she couldn’t hide with him so close. With him inside her. He gave a little, low laugh at her ear. “Oh . . . You like that, too. You like my hands on you, bringing you pleasure, while you have to be quiet.”

  She did. She did. “Yes,” she whispered. “I love it.”

  He shuddered at the words. “You’re going to kill me.”

  She rocked her hips against him. “I could say the same.”

  He kissed her again, deep and delicious, before he whispered against her lips, “Can you stay quiet? Or do I have to stop?” The steel that edged into the words, like he would stop, threatened to end her there.

  “I can,” she promised, her fingers tight on his arm, in his hair. “I promise.”

  And then he was where she ached, his fingers and thumb slow and unyielding, following the movement of her hips, his words at her ear. “If you can’t stay quiet, love, we shall be caught and that won’t be the worst that happens . . .” he vowed. Everything fading except his heat and his muscles, and the magnificent way he touched her, like she was an instrument and he was a virtuoso. “If we’re caught, I shall have to stop.”

  She stiffened at the words, rocketing through her as the wave of her pleasure threatened. “Don’t you dare,” she said, her hips working faster.

  “Even if we’re caught?” he asked, tempting, teasing, his fingers playing over her without stopping. “You’d want me to finish you even if the door opened and we were discovered?”

  She was wild with it. With him. “Caleb. Please.”

  “You’d come against my fingers even then?”

  “Yes,” she promised, panting, lost to the fantasy.

  “Show me now,” he demanded. “Come.”

  The command was so imperious; she couldn’t help but follow it, her mouth opening on a silent scream, turning to find him, needing to anchor herself to him. And he gave her that, too, pulling her tight to him with his free arm, stealing her lips as she came hard and fast around him, losing herself to the darkness and to this man who knew exactly how to give it to her.

  She rocked against him, riding out the waves of her pleasure as he pressed soft kisses across her cheek, to her ear where he praised her in soft, dark whispers that made her want it all over again.

  Not again. Still.

  She’d wanted this man for years, and now that he was here, and it was in reach, Sesily didn’t want to let go. “Caleb,” she said softly, as he pulled free of her clasp. He was letting her go. They were going back to normal. But she didn’t want normal. She wanted him. “Wait. Let me—”

  She lost the end of the sentence when she realized he wasn’t leaving her.

  He was getting on his knees.

  She blinked in the darkness. Was he—

  Sesily was thirty years old and widely known as a proper London scandal. Once it had become clear that she was not for marriage, she’d had a handful of love affairs with artists and actors—never aristocrats, because that way lay more dramatics than even she was willing to tolerate. She knew pleasure, and wasn’t afraid to ask for it.

  But in the fifteen years since her first kiss and the decade since the first time she’d found pleasure with another, she’d never experienced one wildly satisfying orgasm only to be treated to another, instantly.

  Confusion flared, and she stiffened as she realized what he was up to. “Caleb, you don’t have to . . .” She trailed off.

  “And if I want to?” he replied, casually, as he lifted her skirts up over her lap.

  God, she wished she could see him. She clasped the fabric in one hand. “Well . . . I suppose that would be alright.”

  He nipped at the inside of her knee. “You suppose.”

  She smiled. He was so playful here in the darkness.

  What would happen when they returned to the light?

  No. She wouldn’t think about that. “I mean, if you must,” she retorted, teasing him.

  He huffed a little laugh, tickling the inside of her thigh as he widened them. “Very kind of you.”

  “I do try to be accommodating,” she quipped, threading her fingers through his curls again. They were so soft, impossibly so.

  “Mmm,” he said, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder. “What is the rule?”

  She closed her eyes at the feel of his breath against her curls, as his fingers parted her again. She sighed her pleasure at the cool air against her flesh, still swollen from the pleasure he’d given her minutes earlier.

  He growled. “I can smell you, love. Fucking mouthwatering.”

  “Caleb,” she said, hearing
the plea in her tone. Knowing she shouldn’t beg. Knowing it was unladylike.

  Unlike the rest of this. Exceedingly ladylike.

  “What is the rule, Sesily.”

  Don’t make this more than it is.

  Don’t fall in love with him.

  She pushed the thoughts away, as he leaned closer, tempting her with the feel of him but not the touch she craved. “Sesily . . .”

  That warning again, delicious.

  “Stay quiet,” she whispered.

  He rewarded the answer with a single long, slow lick up her center. His low moan of pleasure was muffled by skirts and skin, but she felt it there, at her core, and she closed her eyes, growing wetter for him, wanton for him.

  The wicked, wonderful man relished her response.

  He licked over her, pressing his tongue into her softness, making love to her with slow, languid strokes that disappeared everything but this darkness, this heat, this man. His mouth was pure sin, like a gift.

  She sighed again, louder, and he stopped, dammit.

  “Quiet,” he reminded her.

  “I will be,” she replied, instantly. “Do it again.”

  He laughed that wicked laugh again, the one she’d just discovered and suddenly had trouble imagining living without. “I have dreamed of this . . .”

  He had?

  She hated the darkness. She wanted to see him. Wanted to know if it was true.

  Was it just a thing he said to women?

  His tongue swirled at her center. “God, I have starved for you.”

  No. She couldn’t bear thinking of him saying such a thing to other women.

  She tilted her hips up to him. Insistent.

  He did as he was told, the glorious man, returning his mouth to her as she bit her lip, trying to stay quiet, her fingers tight in his curls, holding him to her as she rocked against him, losing all control, unable to stop seeking more of him, claiming more of what he offered. And then it was Caleb making sounds, his hands releasing her thighs to wrap under her and clasp her bottom, pulling her to him as he found the tight bud of her desire and working it in ever tightening circles, until Sesily was reduced to nothing but the feel of him.

  Her thighs began to tremble as he took what he wanted from her, as he gave her pure, unfettered pleasure in return. Her back bowed as she pressed herself to him—an offering at his altar—and came apart against him and still he did not release her, his magnificent mouth and his strong hands holding her in place as he delivered her to oblivion and stayed with her, softening as her movements slowed, as she found her breath once more, as she returned to the moment, to the small, dark space where they’d had no business finding such pleasure.

  He turned his head and placed soft, lingering kisses over the inside of first one thigh and then the other, and she thought she heard him whisper, “Good girl,” at her knee, before he lowered her skirts and smoothed them down her legs. The praise sent a flood of pride through her—knowing that she’d pleased him.

  As well as he’d pleased her.

  Impossible. It could not have been as well as he’d pleased her, because Sesily had never experienced anything like what he’d done. And she was terrified by what that would mean.

  Before she could wrap her thoughts about this new reality, a soft rap came on the door, and they both froze. He stood, turning toward the door, putting his back to her. Sesily reached to stay his movement, fully intending to push past him, open the door, and talk her way out of whatever situation she was in. There was no reason whoever was outside would have to see him. He could escape without notice.

  But when she touched him, she realized he’d turned to steel.

  Gone was the soft, playful man who’d kissed and touched and teased her.

  He was pure muscle now, strong and immovable.

  Protecting her from whatever was to come.

  And then she heard the bell. Short and light, the kind that summoned servants.

  Or heralded friends.

  “Open it,” she whispered.

  He did, his muscles rippled beneath her touch as he prepared for battle.

  Instead, he found Duchess, a knowing look in her eye as she took in the scene in the cupboard, her gaze sliding over Caleb to the topcoat on the floor of the closet, then up to Sesily.

  “Strange place for croquet, no?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Aunt Sesily does not require additional maquillage, Lorna.”

  The only sign that Sesily’s eldest niece, all of four years old, had heard her mother’s warning was a slight flattening of her lips as she considered her aunt’s face.

  Sesily did her best not to smile at the little portrait of determination, so like Sophie, who had spent much of her life as the quiet, unassuming Talbot sister—without anyone realizing that she was an absolute battering ram when she needed to be.

  Lorna’s blue eyes, the exact color of her mother’s, met Sesily’s. “I’m not finished.”

  “Well then you absolutely must finish,” Sesily said, leaning to one side from her spot on the carpet at the center of the Highley Manor library. “Sorry, Sophie, but she can’t leave me half done. I shall look ridiculous.”

  Sophie, Marchioness of Eversley and future Duchess of Lyne, looked over, dandling her youngest babe, Emma, on her lap. Next to her, their sister Seleste, Countess of Clare, was busy adjusting the straps on her youngest son’s trousers.

  “We wouldn’t want that,” Sophie said. “You do not look at all ridiculous as it is.”

  Sesily grinned. “I like to look good for you lot.”

  “And we appreciate it,” Sophie retorted.

  For twenty years, it had been the five sisters against the rest of society, which regarded them with equal parts fascination and disdain.

  The Soiled S’s, so named for the way their father had built his fortune, were everything society loathed . . . but they made for good fun at a party, perfectly happy to be the center of attention—attending the events of the social season with elaborate, outlandish gowns paid for by their husbands, each richer than the last. But in recent years, four had married and chosen to have children.

  As children were far less welcome at balls than scandals, the quintet now spent their time together in more domestic locales, along with the ever-expanding brood they’d produced.

  Well, the brood that four of them had produced.

  On nice days, the clan took over the northern edge of the Serpentine lake, loud and raucous and making an absolute scene to the disdain of London’s society set (though, if any ever wandered over to say hello, they’d happily be welcomed into the fun). As November in Britain had a shortage of nice days, however, they often landed here, at Highley, two-hours’ drive outside of London, at the country seat of the Duke and Duchess of Haven.

  Here, the sisters, their husbands, and their children had the run of the massive manor house, which boasted more than a dozen bedchambers, making it perfect for large family gatherings that regularly became days-long affairs.

  Though in the last two years, Sesily had made a point of coming with her own carriage, and leaving before the day turned into an overnight.

  In the last two years, it had become more and more difficult to be with her sisters, with whom she had less and less in common as their lives diverged from her own.

  Oh, they still loved her. They still found her amusing and teased her about her scandals and asked her to deliver the gossip from this ball and that tea and who was seen with whom in private boxes at the opera. And Sesily was always welcome at The Singing Sparrow—though Sera was rarely there in the evenings now that she was increasing, which meant that Sesily didn’t see her near as much as usual.

  Which was why she’d sought out The Place.

  How she’d come to meet Duchess and Adelaide and Imogen.

  Being at The Singing Sparrow had soon lost its appeal because it was so difficult to think of it as Sera’s and not Sera’s and Fetu’s and Caleb’s. And when he’d left without a goodbye two ye
ars earlier . . . one year earlier . . . Sesily had been forced to confront the simple reality that Caleb Calhoun was not interested in her.

  Except . . .

  He’d seemed exceedingly interested three nights earlier, when he’d delivered her a shattering amount of pleasure in the Viscount Coleford’s servants’ closet, with a not insignificant number of aristocrats in shouting distance.

  Shhh, Sesily. You must be quiet.

  The memory of Caleb’s words thrummed through her, setting her skin aflame.

  Caleb, whom she’d left in the closet, following Duchess up the servants’ steps and back to the room where everything had gone pear-shaped to make her excuses and say her goodbyes, certain that when she returned to Talbot House, he’d be there. She’d never admit it to anyone, but she’d held her breath as she entered her home that evening, imagining that he was already there. Imagining that he was waiting for her.

  Imagining that they’d spend the evening repeating their actions in the dark . . . this time in a room awash in candlelight.

  Imagination had not kept her warm that evening. Nor had it done the next day when she’d turned up at The Singing Sparrow ostensibly to deliver her sister a length of ribbon Sesily thought she’d like, but really just hoping to cross his path. To read his eyes. To steal another kiss.

  Nor had it the following day, when she’d delivered the papers she’d stolen from Coleford to the Duchess of Trevescan, only to find Adelaide there, sprawled across a divan, reading the newspaper. The moment her friend had tipped the point of the newsprint down to look at her, Sesily had raised a finger in objection and said, “No.”

  Adelaide’s only response was a raised brow.

  Caleb Calhoun could return to Boston for all she cared. He probably was already on his way, the coward.

  “Sesily.” Her name, loud and firm, suggested that Sophie had been trying to get her attention for a bit.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Sorry, lost in thought.”

  Sophie’s brow furrowed just slightly in concern. “Are you well?”

  Irritation flared at her sister’s perceptive response, and Sesily knew it was unfair. Was that not what sisters were for? To see the truth and root it out? To pick at the scab until it revealed the wound beneath?