The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  Good God, she was sheer perfection.

  He didn’t deserve to fuck her. He was a black-hearted criminal who valued money more than morals. His hands had committed violence and theft for as long as he could remember. And now he had one of the city’s most desired debutantes in his bed, naked.

  But he was no fool, either.

  He might not deserve her, but he wasn’t going to stop—not without showing her true pleasure. The kind he knew her uptown boys were too selfish to give.

  When he began sliding down the bed, she rose up on her elbows. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “Lie back, Florence. You’re about to receive another lesson.”

  Another lesson?

  She had no idea what Clay was talking about. Worse, she felt foolish. She’d whimpered from the pain of his invasion and caused him to stop.

  Why hadn’t she bitten her lip or a pillow instead?

  The pain never lasted more than a minute or two. Then the tingles returned and it would start to feel good again. If only she’d convinced Clay to keep going . . .

  And what was he doing now? He was moving down the bed, his head between her spread thighs, his face directly there. Then she remembered the couple from the brothel—

  His fingers touched her folds, separating them, just before he leaned in and . . . Oh, sweet heaven. He’d licked her. From the entrance to the tiny button on top. Her limbs twitched in surprised ecstasy as his groan reverberated throughout the entire room.

  “God, your taste,” he muttered. “I’ll never get enough.”

  He dipped once more, his eyes closed, and his tongue swiped over her flesh. The feeling was indescribable. Unlike anything she’d imagined, with a toe-curling rush of sparks centered in that spot. She held her breath, silently begging him to do it again. When he did, her arms gave out on her and she dropped back on the bed, her body ready and willing for whatever he had in mind.

  Apparently, he had more of the same in mind. His tongue licked and swirled, his mouth sucking and kissing. She panted and clutched the coverlet, trying to remain grounded as the earth shifted beneath her. He left no part of her unexplored, as thorough as when she’d seen him examine the night’s books. The hard bundle of nerves atop her folds received the most attention, and each swipe and suck caused her insides to wind tighter. Perspiration dotted her forehead. Her legs started shaking, her muscles twitching. The pleasure built as she climbed higher. He seemed to realize this because he sped up, drawing her clitoris between his lips, nursing on it, until her back bowed.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, he pushed a finger inside her. She cried out, the delicious fullness pushing her over the edge. White-hot pulses of pure bliss obliterated all thought and reason. She could only lie there and let the feeling envelop her. It went on and on, wave after wave, until she was limp. Utterly spent.

  As she floated back to herself, she marveled over what had just happened. It had been more intense than any orgasm she’d given herself to date. Perhaps she wasn’t trying hard enough? Or was Clay just that talented?

  A lesson, indeed.

  He nuzzled her entrance gently, still tasting her. “Did you enjoy that?”

  “You knew I would.”

  A rumble of pure male satisfaction sounded in his throat. “It’s a crying shame that no one’s taken the time to properly love this cunt.”

  She’d never heard the word spoken aloud, had only read it in books she hid under her bed, and she could feel her skin heating. Everything about him aroused her, even the way he talked. He was so real and raw, unpolished steel in a world full of fake gilding.

  Another finger joined the one already inside her, stretching her farther. She sucked in a breath. Not from pain, but from the heavenly drag against her sensitive tissues. She was so wet, her moisture coating his fingers as he pumped them in and out of her. Each movement felt better than the last, until her hips were rising up to meet his hand.

  “It shouldn’t hurt,” he murmured and kissed her thigh. “Not even for a few seconds. It should only feel good.”

  She barely comprehended the words because he’d added yet another finger. Her walls gripped the digits as her body chased the pleasure again. When he circled her clitoris with his tongue, her hands clasped his head, holding him in place. “Oh, God, Clay.”

  Suddenly, he was crawling over her, the muscles in his arms flexing as he drew closer. “Come here, you delectable creature.” Sliding her legs wider with his thighs, he took his shaft in his hand and notched it to her entrance. “Changed your mind yet?”

  She smiled at this familiar question. “Do you ever expect the answer to be yes?”

  The side of his mouth hitched, but he said nothing as he pushed the crown of his penis inside. He concentrated intently on where their bodies were joining, while she watched his face. The angles were sharper but no less beautiful. He was remarkable to look at, really. Strong shoulders, flat stomach. A powerful chest dusted with dark hair. A beautiful specimen of a man, even with the scars and a nose almost too big for his face.

  He was perfectly imperfect, and she found him fascinating.

  There was no pain this time, only pressure from his wide shaft spreading her open. Filling her. He seemed in no hurry, his bulk easily supported by his arms, with the pace agonizingly slow. No doubt this was for her benefit, to not hurt her again, and the consideration surprised her. Other lovers had rushed their encounters, her enjoyment not a concern.

  Until now, she’d believed that normal. Goodness, she’d missed out on quite a lot.

  His dark gaze peered at her face. “All right?”

  She nodded, not sure she was capable of words at the moment. He was so deep inside her, his heat and strength a part of her, and it strangely wasn’t enough. She trembled with the need for more. Her hands found his shoulders and gripped hard.

  “You’re tight,” he gritted out just before withdrawing a tiny amount. He slid back in and then grunted. “Damn, Florence.”

  His mouth covered hers in a fierce kiss, his tongue sliding to find hers, their breath mingling as he began to roll his hips. She could smell and taste herself on his skin, the spicy wetness he’d licked like ice cream. It was brash and earthy, much more sensual than she’d imagined. She clung to him as he worked his shaft in and out of her body, dragging the hard flesh over the walls of her channel, making her light-headed. Everything inside her strained toward him, her body desperate and hungry for more.

  Breaking off from her mouth, he kissed her cheek, her jaw. He dragged her earlobe between his teeth. Then he pressed hot, openmouthed kisses along her neck, sucking on the skin, tasting her. Biting her. It was like he wanted to devour her. She panted as pleasure streaked through her, building. Careening toward the precipice.

  Then he used a hand to lift the mound of her breast, catching the tip between his lips. He sucked, drawing the nipple into the lush, wet heat of his mouth, as he ground his pelvis against her clitoris. She gasped and her back arched off the bed. The drawing suction was similar to what he’d done between her legs earlier and it only increased her craving. She was burning, aching. Mindless and needy, an animal in heat. “Oh, God,” she breathed and rocked up to meet him.

  He released her and began thrusting with more force than before. “Christ. I am so close.” Covering her with his body, he moved quicker, their hands threaded together, his breath hot in her ear. She loved the weight of him, the ferocity with which he worked. The whole time he whispered a stream of compliments about how good she felt, how hot, how perfect. When his teeth sank into the skin between her neck and shoulder, the world disappeared. A climax burned through her veins, searing her. She shook and cried out, dimly aware of Clay’s own grunts as the pleasure turned her inside out.

  Before she’d even stopped trembling, Clay jerked away. Ropes of thick semen landed on her stomach as his hand flew over his shaft, milking it, the lines of his face pulled taut as if he was in pain. One last groan and he finished, her skin coated in
his spend.

  Harsh exhalations cut the silence, their bodies sweaty and shaken. It was like nothing she’d expected, beyond her wildest dreams. The other times . . . Well, they paled in comparison. Had those men been clumsy lovers? Or did her respect and fondness for Clay make the experience better?

  She couldn’t say. But if she had her way, this would not be the last time she and Clay slept together.

  Clay’s eyes opened and he winced as his gaze took in her stomach. “Shit,” he muttered before pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “God, I’m sorry, Florence.” Without looking at her, he slid off the bed. “Don’t move.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Oh, he’d . . . apologized. That was unexpected.

  Florence tried not to feel disappointed as cool air rushed over her naked skin. The erotic novels she read talked about cuddling after the act. Snuggles and soft kisses in the warm afterglow. To date, however, such tenderness hadn’t been her experience at all. Chester had barely bothered to remove his shoes during their encounters—and Clay had just rushed out as if the room were on fire.

  Perhaps she was overromanticizing these interludes. Men supposedly viewed sex as strictly for physical pleasure, not for any emotional connection with a partner. Somehow, she’d scared both her lovers into hurrying through the rendezvous.

  You’re not happy unless you’re causing a stir or the center of everyone’s attention.

  A lump formed in her throat at the memory of her father’s words. Was that how everyone saw her, desperate for affection? Craving the limelight like some stage actress feeding her vanity?

  She stared at the closed washroom door and swallowed all these ridiculous feelings and doubts bubbling up inside her. There was no reason to believe any of this was her fault. She’d done nothing wrong. In fact, he was the one who’d left her here, naked and vulnerable, in his bed.

  So what was she waiting for, a man to come and save her?

  Grabbing the bedclothes, she wiped her skin clean. This was why she must become independent. Relying on others was a foolhardy mistake and guaranteed to fail. Lord knew how long he would leave her here before he returned.

  Rising off the bed, she gathered her things and began dressing. She would find a way to put this right. They would return to their business arrangement, and she would prove this changed nothing between them. She could act just as a man would in this situation.

  The washroom door finally opened. Now wearing trousers, Clay emerged with a wet cloth in his hand. He frowned at the sight of her and apprehension slithered across her cold skin.

  He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “Should I help you dress, or . . . ?”

  She pulled her shift over her head. “I am able to manage.”

  While she struggled with her corset, he stood frozen, staring off at nothing. His jaw was hard, his eyes vacant. She had no idea of what he was thinking, but she had to get him back on level footing. “Shall we spend an hour on your accounting practices? I have questions about—”

  “No.”

  The word was sharp, final. She blinked at him, her grip on the corset strings tightening. “If you’re too busy tonight I could return tomorrow.”

  “No, not tomorrow. Not next week. You cannot come back.”

  Cannot come back? Surely he didn’t mean it. Her mouth dried out and her tongue grew thick. Still, she forced out, “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t give you any more lessons. This”—he motioned toward the bed—“was a mistake.”

  “Is this about trust again? Because I thought I explained myself.”

  “This isn’t about trust. It’s about you. And me. What happened tonight was a mistake.”

  She fought the embarrassment currently gathering like a storm in her chest. “You keep saying tonight was a mistake. But you aren’t saying why.”

  He dragged a hand down his face, the muscles in his chest and arms bunching. Clay normally appeared so cool and controlled. This was the most rattled she’d ever seen him. “I don’t need to provide reasons, Florence. We screwed. It was good. Really good. Now it’s over and we shouldn’t repeat it.”

  She sucked in a breath, the pain lancing her insides. Anger was there, too, and she grabbed on to the emotion with both hands, unwilling to let him see the hurt. “Is this how you act with all of your conquests? Treat them like dirt afterward and kick them out?”

  He winced. “I don’t mean to be cruel. I am trying to explain this to the best of my ability.”

  “Well, you are doing a terrible job at it.”

  “I . . .” He blew out a long breath and finally met her eyes. What she saw there surprised her. Panic. Clay was . . . scared. Of what? She was about to ask when he said, “When I first agreed to give you lessons, I thought it would be amusing to help Duncan Greene’s daughter descend into the darkness of New York’s underbelly. I was attracted to you but never thought anything would come of it. Women like you, those of your station, aren’t raised for casual liaisons. And I am interested exclusively in casual.”

  Had she given Clay the impression she wanted a lifelong commitment? Was that why he’d left her in bed? “I am not asking for marriage, Clay.”

  “I realize that. Even if you were, we both know it’s impossible. You’re not made for men like me.”

  Why must you be different? Why can’t you fit in?

  The familiar questions resurfaced at Clay’s rejection. How many times had her mother and father asked her this over the years?

  She pushed her disappointment aside for a moment to focus on the future. “What does this have to do with teaching me how to operate a casino? Can’t the lessons continue even if our personal relationship does not?”

  “No, they can’t. You are a distraction I don’t need.”

  A distraction. He saw her as a distraction. Not a partner or a colleague. Not a mentee. Not a lover or even a friend. She was a nuisance, a bother.

  God, why did that hurt so badly? Her lungs burned with unshed tears, the lump in her throat so large it was hard to breathe. She had always been the outcast, never quite fitting in with her family, but she thought she’d finally found someone who understood her. A place where she’d gained acceptance.

  She’d been wrong, apparently. She didn’t fit in here, either.

  Bending over, she collected more of her clothing off the floor and struggled not to cry.

  Poor little society princess.

  It was what Justine, her younger sister, said every time Florence complained about feeling like an outsider. There are people in this city with real problems, life-and-death struggles, Justine liked to say, not just hurt feelings. In other words, keep perspective on what really mattered and do something about whatever is bothering you.

  Fine. If Clay didn’t want her then she wouldn’t chase him. She had her pride. Never mind what had occurred in his apartments tonight. She would forget about it—and about him, in time. There were other casinos in the city, other men who were experts on how to operate outside the law. She’d find one and continue on with her plans.

  Because she was in charge of her own future. No one else.

  She drew on that strength, nurtured it, until her armor was back in place. Straightening, she faced him. “Don’t let me keep you. I am able to find my way out.”

  “No, I should . . .” He looked around as if just realizing where they were. “Help you into a hansom.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. One of the guards at the door will see me off. I don’t need your help any longer.”

  He bent to snatch his shirt off the floor and threw it over his head. “I know you’re angry and I’m sorry. Trust me, you’ll thank me later on.”

  “Trust you?” She gave a bitter laugh as she crossed to the washroom. “Indeed, I’d rather not. I tried it once and didn’t care for the results.” When she reached the washroom door, she paused. “Please be gone when I come out of here.”

  And fifteen minutes later, the bedroom was empty.

&
nbsp; Clay slapped the stack of papers in his palm and narrowed his eyes on the deliveryman. “You shorted me fifteen bottles this week.”

  The young man, probably not older than twenty or twenty-one, started visibly shaking. “No, Mr. Madden. That can’t be right. I double-checked the order myself. Everything was accounted for.”

  “And yet,” Clay said with icy detachment, “we are missing five bottles of rye, four bottles of whiskey, three bottles of burgundy and three bottles of brandy.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.” The young man began backing up toward the door they used as a loading dock. “Bald Jack himself counted it when it came off the truck.”

  “Is that so? You watched him count every bottle?”

  The man’s throat worked as he swallowed, his skin gone pale. “No, I didn’t but I’d never try to cheat you. Neither would my employer.”

  “Someone cheated me—and I hate cheaters.”

  “Whoa, what’s going on here?” Jack was now at Clay’s side. He reached over and began dragging Clay away from the delivery boy. “No one cheated anyone. There’s no reason to get upset.”

  Clay gritted his teeth. “We are fifteen bottles short.”

  Jack tossed an envelope of cash to the delivery boy. “We’re fine. Thank you for your hard work. We’ll see you next week.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jack.” The young man scurried for his cart, not sparing Clay another look.

  “What the hell?” Clay asked.

  Jack retreated a few steps and frowned. “Anna needed more booze this week. I gave her the bottles and forgot to mark it down. And I should be asking you what the hell. You just caused that boy to piss his pants in fear.”

  Frustration and remorse throbbed in his temples. Damn this eternal headache. “Send him an extra fifty with my apologies. I didn’t know about Anna.”

  “That’s the last time I let you handle deliveries, at least until Florence Greene returns.”

  Clay didn’t comment, merely turned on his heel and started for the stairs. Heavy footsteps behind him signaled he wasn’t alone. Jesus. He hurried in the hopes Jack would give up.