The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

She opened the door and found Mulligan there, his shoulder propped against the wall, a glass of beer in his hand. He took in her attire and grinned. “If he screws this up, I feel it necessary to say you are always welcome here, cara mia.”

  Who would have believed this gangster spoke four languages and was so well-read? Mulligan was a contradiction. Furthermore, he’d been kind to her. “Thank you. I don’t intend on leaving, however.”

  “We’ll see. Follow me.”

  He turned and led her to the back stairs. As they moved through the club, she concentrated on her anger, nursed the hurt, instead of entertaining any nerves over Clay’s arrival. Undoubtedly, he planned to lecture her about the danger and impropriety of her presence here, a lecture she had no intention of sitting through. She did not answer to Clayton Madden.

  One mistaken evening together didn’t give him the right to tell her what to do. Tonight’s dance should have proven that. She’d half expected him to jump up on the stage and carry her off. Surprisingly, he hadn’t. Instead, his dark eyes had followed her every movement, his expression so intense that shivers had run down her spine.

  Almost as if he’d liked her up there.

  Which was absurd. He was stuck on her family’s name and her father’s importance. Status was everything to Clay. You’re not made for men like me.

  Well, she wasn’t made for men like Chauncey Livingston, her sister’s almost-fiancé, either. High-society men were hopelessly vain and inept. She’d experienced more pleasure in her one night with Clay than with any other man to date. In fact, her pleasure hadn’t even occurred to her other partners.

  So she’d avoid all men for now. Focus on her future and forget the past. Someday she’d figure out where and with whom she fit.

  At the landing, Mulligan swung to the right and continued along the corridor. His office door stood at the end, and her stomach roiled with anticipation and dread. I have no reason to be nervous. He cannot force me to do anything.

  Mulligan paused at the closed office door. “If you need me, I won’t be far.”

  She nodded, touched at his concern. “I’ll be fine.” Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and went inside.

  Clay faced her, perfectly attired in his customary black suit. And, despite being prepared, she lost her breath at the sight of him. She couldn’t read his expression but he didn’t appear angry. His hands were shoved in his trouser pockets, his huge shoulders relaxed. A calm mountain in the middle of the room.

  They stared at one another and seconds stretched as neither moved nor spoke. He was every bit as imposing and striking as she recalled, the resulting butterflies in her stomach every bit as intense. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed seeing him and talking to him until now. A shame her interest hadn’t been returned.

  The sound of the door closing behind her jolted her into action. She stepped forward, ready to get this over with. “If you’re here to talk me into leaving, you are wasting your time.”

  “I’m here to apologize.”

  So Mulligan hadn’t been wrong. Still, she wasn’t certain she wished to hear it. “Apology accepted. Good evening.” With a nod, she spun and lunged for the knob, ready to escape.

  “Wait.”

  The urgency in his voice gave her pause. She slowly turned. “Why?”

  “I need you to listen.” He raised his hands. “Please, Florence.”

  She leaned against the door, comforted by the solid wood behind her. “Five minutes, Clay.”

  “Fair enough. I’m sorry for what I said. All of it, actually. I didn’t mean those things and you deserved better.”

  “Yes, I did. So why did you say it, then?”

  “I was caught off guard. I’m not used to . . .” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Not used to someone like you.”

  Someone like you. The words acted like the strike to a match. Fury burned her skin. They were back to this, the figurative box in which he kept her. “Not used to someone so sheltered or spoiled? Impulsive? Irresponsible? Or maybe disappointing? You may pick one. Or even two. Not to worry, I’ve heard them all at some point or another.”

  A crease formed between his brows. “I don’t believe you’re any of those things.”

  “You must. You told me to leave and never come back before I’d even dressed.”

  “I was unnerved, Florence. And that was my problem, not yours. I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise.”

  “Unnerved? Why?”

  “Sex has always been just sex, in my experience. But you were different. Better. I hadn’t expected that.”

  Oh. He thought her better than the other women in his past. The knot in her chest eased a bit. “You have a dashed funny way of showing it.”

  “I realize that. At the time, I thought I was doing us both a favor.”

  “And now?”

  “It was a mistake. I took the coward’s way out.”

  She blinked. Something told her Clay didn’t often admit to acting like a coward. Her anger dissipated like ice on a hot sidewalk. “What does this mean? You want to continue giving me lessons?”

  “Yes, and continue sleeping together.”

  Desire unwound in her belly, twisting and turning along her veins, despite her best intentions to remain aloof. Their night together had been the best night of her life. Yet, it had also been the worst. She couldn’t allow herself to be hurt again. Taking lessons from Clay was one thing; engaging in intimacies was another.

  Though it made sense to work with Clay. His casino was exactly the type she wished to open, except hers would be for ladies. Mulligan, while knowledgeable, didn’t run the Bronze House. Furthermore, Clay’s casino was also a closer journey from her home.

  Admit it, you want to spend time with him.

  No, this was not personal. It was purely a business decision.

  She pushed aside the little voice in her head that whispered she was lying to herself. “I’ll return for lessons but nothing more. I cannot sleep with you.”

  His eyes roamed over her face as he studied her. “May I ask why?”

  “It never should have happened in the first place. We should keep things professional between us. That way, no one gets hurt.”

  “I won’t hurt you, Florence.”

  “You cannot promise that. Even if you did, I wouldn’t believe it. You did hurt me, Clay. And I won’t risk it a second time.”

  He started forward, slowly coming toward her, his mouth curved in a small smile. “I’m a man of my word. Once I give a promise, I never break it.” He swept his hand under her chin, the backs of his knuckles brushing her skin. “I won’t push you. If you tell me there’s no hope then I’ll never mention anything physical again. But I swear on my life, on everything I own, I won’t run from you. I’m at your disposal, for as long as you want me.”

  Her brain fumbled over the words. It wasn’t a proposal of marriage but it was . . . heady. He was offering himself up for whatever length of time she desired. He hadn’t said it, but he must care for her. You were different. Better. I hadn’t expected that.

  Still, why didn’t he say all this before? Why had it taken him a week? She’d been miserable these past seven days. “What changed your mind? Was it when you heard I’d come downtown to meet with Mulligan?”

  “That was when I decided to see you, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the night you left. You’re everywhere I turn. Each flip of the card, every roll of the dice. I haven’t even allowed them to change my sheets. They still smell of you.”

  Warmth suffused her body, from her toes to the roots of her hair. She slumped against the door and peeked at him through her lashes. “And here I thought you’d be angry that I danced.”

  “Quite the contrary. I want to keep you safe but I’m not your father. If you want to show off those spectacular gams to a roomful of strange men, then that’s your choice.”

  “Spectacular?”

  His nostrils flared and he put a hand on the wood right n
ext to her head, his big body leaning in. “Fucking spectacular, Florence.”

  “Did you like my dancing?” Her voice was raspy, needy. Strange to her own ears.

  “I loved it.” With his free hand, he fingered an orange ringlet by her temple. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

  “I noticed.”

  “It’s not as if I could help it. You are the most beautiful, most radiant woman in any room. Your smile could electrify every street in the city.”

  Goodness, this man. Her tongue was thick and awkward in her mouth. She licked her lips. “And compliments, too? I hardly know what to say.”

  “I merely tell the truth.” His gaze flickered to her mouth. “May I kiss you?”

  Instead of answering, she wrapped her hand around his necktie and pulled him toward her. His head dipped and his lips brushed hers gently once, then again, before he slipped a hand behind her neck to hold her in place. He deepened the kiss, his mouth sealing with hers, their lips drawing and sucking, and she rose up on her toes to get closer, her fingers sinking into his shoulders. Each breath, each sigh, came back at her, returned with equal fervor.

  Many minutes later he rested his forehead to hers, both of them panting for breath. “So you’ll think about what I said?”

  She couldn’t remember anything but that kiss, her brain muddled with wanting. His chest was so strong, his shoulders so wide. Her hands slid over his upper half, her fingers trailing over the slopes and ridges. She couldn’t stop touching him. “About my dancing?”

  “No,” he said with a chuckle. “About sleeping together. You’ll think it over and let me know if you are interested.”

  Ah, that. Now she remembered. Her heart raced at the idea, the beat echoing through her blood and centering between her legs. Slickness coated her thighs, her body more than interested.

  Could she give in this soon?

  “And if you hurt me, you’ll hand over the deed to the Bronze House?”

  His gaze narrowed, the dark depths dancing. “Is that what I said?”

  “You swore on the deed to the Bronze House that you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “I believe I swore on everything I own that I wouldn’t run from you.”

  “You’re splitting hairs again.”

  He kissed her nose. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Fine, the deed is yours if I hurt you.”

  She leaned in and scraped her teeth along his jaw. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  He sucked in a harsh breath. “Now?”

  “Had you other plans tonight?”

  “Absolutely not.” He took her hand and reached for the doorknob.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs. I need to change first.”

  He paused then dragged his gaze down her neck and over her bodice. “I like this look. If you’re asking me, I’d prefer you leave it on.”

  “Fancy sleeping with a chorus girl this evening?”

  He pulled open the door and tugged her into the corridor. “Only if that chorus girl is you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  He walked her in the front door.

  The Bronze House was already busy. Gentlemen crowded the tables, where chips and dice were flying. Clay led the bewigged Florence into the midst of the action in the casino. No one would recognize her, and they’d reach his bedroom faster this way.

  Heads turned but not for long. He knew what they saw, a woman dressed in an orange wig and matching skirt on a man’s arm. They’d assume she was his for the night, and they wouldn’t be wrong.

  Anticipation coiled in his belly. The carriage ride had been pure torture, her body pressed against his for the entire journey. She’d laughed at his discomfort, teasing him. He had promised to make her pay for that teasing when they were alone.

  Jack strode over to block their path. “What are you doing?” he snapped at Clay, his expression livid. “Have you lost your—”

  “Good evenin’ to ya, Jack.” She’d adopted an accent, similar to what one heard downtown. Not her polished, genteel tone, but a huskier, rougher sound with longer vowels, and Clay tried to hide his smile.

  Jack immediately relaxed when he recognized her features. “Ah, I see. Indeed, this is unexpected but a great relief to all of us at the Bronze House. Welcome, miss.”

  She looked up at Clay, mischief in her eyes. “A great relief, is it?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” he said. Then he glanced at his partner. “I’m unavailable for the rest of the night.”

  “Ooo, lucky me,” Florence said in her fake voice as she snuggled closer to Clay’s side.

  “Take good care of her,” Jack warned before bowing to Florence. “Enjoy your evening, miss.”

  Clay took her hand and crossed the floor. The inner corridors of the house were empty, the staff either working in the casino or the kitchens. He and Florence moved quickly, up the stairs and along the halls, until they reached his private sanctum. Withdrawing a key, he unlocked the door to his apartments and ushered her inside.

  The fire had been lit, the soft glow leaving enough light for him to see the way to the bedroom. He bent and picked her up, and her arms wound around his neck. “Clay,” she sighed against his temple. “Hurry.”

  Seconds later, he placed her on his bed, coming down atop her. He couldn’t be bothered to undress or remove his shoes. He needed to kiss her, right now.

  She met his mouth eagerly, her lips parting to wind her tongue with his. He’d never tire of this, of her slick heat and taste, like mint and oranges. He devoured her, the kiss hard and deep. Rough and raw.

  Kissing had previously felt like a tame prelude to other activities, a stepping-stone on the way toward getting to a woman’s pussy. Florence was different. Kissing her felt necessary, a connection that filled something inside him. He loved the sounds she made, the greedy pulls of her mouth, the bold swipes of her tongue. Her breath against his skin. The way they fit together.

  She was absolute perfection.

  Her hands skimmed his shoulders, his chest, anywhere she could reach, each gentle sweep like fire on his skin. He was burning for her, his cock aching and hard against the cradle of her thighs, separated from her sex by layers and layers of cloth. Christ, he could weep for all the fabric that must be dealt with before he could fuck her properly. He still wore his coat, for God’s sake.

  Frustrated, he ripped his mouth from hers. “I might die if I don’t get inside you soon.” She nipped his jaw with her teeth and slid her hand between them. Then she gave his shaft a squeeze. A shudder went through him as his lids fell closed. “Have mercy, Florence.”

  She pushed on his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. “Relax. Perhaps I can help you.”

  With her assistance, he removed his coat. When he tried to get atop her again, she held him down. “Stay there. Or don’t you want my help?”

  A list of ways she could help at the moment rolled through his mind, none of them suitable for a lady’s ear. His conscience wouldn’t permit him to corrupt her further. “With my clothes?”

  “No, with what’s under your clothes.” She moved down the bed and reached for his trouser fastenings.

  Lust raced through his blood, his cock twitching at the idea of her mouth taking him deep. Distracted at the mental image, he was slow to react as she opened his trousers. “Wait, you don’t have to do this. It’s not proper for . . .”

  The words died on his lips at the withering glare she sent him. “Not proper for your chorus girl?”

  He swallowed his complaints. Florence knew her own mind, knew what was best for her. It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit, but he didn’t wish to anger her again. He folded his hands behind his head. “Not proper for me to be wearing so much clothing,” he said absently as she started on the buttons of his undergarment.

  “I see. You could help, you know.” She flicked her eyes to his vest.

  His fingers flew along the black buttons. He tossed the silk vest to the floor just as she reached into his undergarment to grasp his penis
. The touch of her skin to his, hers cool on his burning hot flesh, caused him to groan. He rocked his hips, pressing upward. Begging.

  She laughed quietly as she curled over him. He held his breath, muscles locked, as the tip of her tongue touched the smooth head of his cock, licking him. Gasping, he screwed his eyes shut. He’d never last if he watched her.

  “It would help,” she said, the sultry air from her mouth gusting over his skin, “if you told me what you like. I’ve never . . . I mean, there’s not much opportunity to practice these skills with the other dancers.”

  Had she done this before? God, the idea that his cock would be the first one inside her mouth made him crazed, like a lunatic on Blackwell’s Island. It was barbaric, this sense of possession, but the animal side of his brain relished it. Craved it.

  Requesting this was wrong, but he would not treat her like a fragile princess. If she wanted to proceed with this, he only knew how to be himself.

  “Suck me,” he growled. “Take me in your mouth as deep as you can. Use your tongue, your hand, your lips . . . use them all on my cock.”

  She apparently liked the words because her gaze went hooded, dark with desire. Was it the power of controlling his pleasure . . . or the way he spoke to her? Those inept uptown lovers had likely used silly euphemisms like “love stick” or “mizzen mast.” Loads of “please” and “thank you,” along with fumbling in the dark.

  Clay had been raised in the streets. Knew every curse word invented, and some others he’d come up with on his own. If a woman didn’t care for dirty talk, she was better off bedding a different man.

  Florence wrapped her hand around his shaft and angled it toward her mouth. “Yeah, that’s it,” he encouraged. He thought she might ease into it, tease him a little. Work up the nerve to really get going.

  He should have known better.

  She opened wide and took him deep on the first pass. Wet, tight heat enveloped him and he threw his head back. “Oh, fuck.” His legs locked to keep from thrusting into that slick heaven, pleasure coursing through him like sparks. “Christ Jesus, woman.”

  His reaction must have satisfied her because her eyes were dancing when he regained the ability to focus. She set to her task, sucking and licking him from root to tip, her painted lips working his flesh to perfection. The sight of her bobbing over him, the ridiculous orange wig so out of place, her cheeks hollowing as she moved, was damn erotic. He didn’t hurry her, not even when he felt his orgasm gathering steam.