This was Marsden’s kind of place, where he came to relax.
“Stick close.” Marsden purred over her shoulder as he scanned the room and pointed. “Over there.”
A hand had lifted.
“Baron Von Bauer,” Marsden said. A long-standing friend of Marsden and her late husband.
Seph wasn’t quite tall enough to see who else sat there.
Marsden slipped an arm around her back and propelled her towards the table.
Large, masculine gold-framed paintings hung along the side walls. They depicted battles, dark and full of the cost of glory, images of death, rays of hope piercing through the clouds, bare chested women their mouths open in battle cries alongside soldiers. On the back wall a mammoth mural of an epic Renaissance painting, again a battle, yet painted the full size of the wall bursting with armored knights, rearing war horses, spears held high or protruding from their targets, bodies of the fallen lying in mounds on the ground.
“Is that a copy of a Giulio Romano?”
Marsden nodded, “The Battle of Milvian Bridge. So, what do you think? Disappointed?”
She shook her head no.
No, it was as if she had crossed into another world where she was in the skin of a man. It was a room that exuded masculinity in its furnishings as much as the tenor of the room, loud, rough. Power and tension rolled off every table as much as comradery.
Seraphina wove through the tables, dodged waiters with trays as they milled, until she came to the table, scanned the occupants, and froze.
“Well I say,” said Marsden beside her, “nice to see you here gents.”
The Petroskis were deep into the table, and Prince Vladimir had his usual female company balanced on his knee. Their gazes met and that very unwelcome sizzle of awareness and heat ran over her skin. Seph looked back the way she’d come. There was no way to leave after haranguing Marsden to bring her all night.
And…she wanted to step out. Be wild and exotic for a change.
Marsden pulled out a chair and with no option of retreat, she sat.
“I wouldn’t have thought this was a haunt for poets.” The Prince drawled on a silken voice with his thick and glorious Russian accent, staring at her with a twist of humor and a far too easy to read promise.
“I’m surprised you can think,” she said under her breath.
He barked a laugh, but Marsden looked down at her with eyes that saw too much.
They were dealt in.
Seph focused on the cards and the confidence they gave her. Having brothers had its advantages. She won the next two hands and earned her place at the table. The gentlemen relaxed their ‘ladies present’ behavior and settled in to win back their losses.
The Prince shooed his thigh warmer away and started to play in earnest.
In the rounds that followed she didn’t care so much if she won or lost so long as she beat him. And every time she did, he was inordinately pleased, which was entirely ridiculous and gave her unwanted enjoyment. When he smiled like that, when she beat him, his face lightened, his features softened, and despite herself she wanted to see it again.
But she did have some modicum of control. Clearly her winning from him made him happy, so she lost. That made him laugh out loud with seemingly more pleasure. And when she growled in frustration, he broke into Russian. He gazed at her as he murmured making her blush. Heat rushed over her body burning her skin as she imagined what those words promised. And so, the hands went, the others at the table inconsequential as they played each other. Each hand won or lost like an irresistible private tug of war between them.
Somewhere along the way Marsden had meandered out of the room through a curtained door. The tables around them were breaking up and she needed to find him, to escape the lure of the Russian rake whom she was clearly far too susceptible to.
She’d heard whispers around the salons that there were rooms at Hell’s Hall which served other purposes. Rooms that could be hired.
“If you’ll excuse me.” They stood as she left the table and instead of heading for the ladies’ room, she followed the direction Marsden had taken.
Seph pushed the curtain aside and stepped into a long dim corridor. Moved deeper then stopped as sounds from closed doors conveyed that things were happening of a rather intimate nature.
A woman with a tray came down the corridor. “Lord Marsden?” she asked.
“Sorry madam but we aren’t to say who is in which room.” The woman went to move on.
“Wait. I was given a room number and lost it. How foolish, him inside waiting and me out here.”
The woman looked at her for a few moments. “You didn’t hear it from me. Room six.”
The corridor was a promenade of visual treats. Small gold-framed nudes gently lit above polished hall tables. A deep pile carpet in rich reds that her feet sank into with each step. Wall mounted gas lights in the shape of miniature chandeliers cast warm hues over floral arrangements of broad-leafed foliage and hot house exotic blooms.
Seraphina found room six on the second landing.
She knocked.
There was no answer. She listened at the door…and heard nothing.
She grasped the handle, turned it.
“Marsden?” Nerves warred with curiosity.
Tentatively she opened the door.
Seraphina froze.
The interior lights were off except for towering candelabras dominating two side tables, one on either side of a midnight blue sofa. They poured an ethereal light over the tableau in front of her as the corners of the room sank into the shadows.
Seared to the spot, her body surged to life.
He was there, her dear friend. A breathtaking woman glowed in the lamplight, cascades of brunette curls fell lose over her shoulders, her bodice was pulled down revealing full high breasts. Her feet were drawn up on the sofa, her knees pressed out wide with skirts flared out around her in lustrous folds and peaks of brilliant emerald green.
Seph swallowed, heart thumping. That wasn’t all…the woman was gagged, a thick wedge of red fabric pressing across her open mouth. Her arms were outstretched, tied to metal rings fixed at each end of the top of the sofa.
Marsden was on his knees between those open legs, his head, his face, pressed against her sex doing what people whispered at the salon only the French did, as the woman made muffled sounds and cries against the gag.
A wave of need crashed over her. Seph’s sex pulsed. She took a step into the room, stepped closer to see exactly what Marsden was doing.
The sequence of events unfolded in seconds.
The woman’s eyes flared open and stared directly at Seph, her cry an escalating crescendo; Marsden pulled away from the woman’s sex and looked over his shoulder, his look of inquiry thunderous.
Seph’s heart raced, and her body rioted. Long buried longings surged forward, things she’d locked deep below the surface after the nature of her marriage became apparent. Sex was a duty, not a pleasure, her husband was not interested in more than a few hard squeezes of her breasts, a finger in her sex as a guide and then pressing himself home. He rode her with the modest requirement that she look to the side or keep her eyes averted, lest she see him in an unbecoming way.
That wasn’t what Marsden was doing.
She swallowed hard.
Couldn’t look away as her body bloomed to life.
A mutter came from behind her. Hands landed on her shoulders and spun her around, pressed her face against a chest that smelled of cloves, oud, cedar, and cheroots. The maleness of it, the simple fact that she was held close, the strength, the decisiveness of the ministrations and her sex throbbed to life.
Of course, it was going to be him. The Slavic Prince who annoyed her, who she was determined to dislike on the grounds of his character alone, even if he lit her up as if she were one of the season’s Christmas trees.
Chapter 3
“Let me loose.” Seph moved, tried to extricate herself from his hold. But it was more like rub
bing herself against him and that just made everything get tighter, her nerves, her skin, her teeth.
Deep notes of woody, earthy scent, floated on the warmth of him. The scent sizzled through her senses. Luscious. Luring. Intoxicating. Making her breasts ache.
“Be still.” His glorious chest pressed closer, encasing her, as he swiftly removed them from the room then reached back and closed the door, folding her into him and slipping her head into the crook between his shoulder and neck.
Wrapped in his heat her mind leaped to imagine more.
She imagined him on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his thighs drawing hers apart, the deep build of pressure and need as he pushed into her. Seph’s skin burned with sensitivity, with the need to be touched.
“Stay still.” Her cape was deftly wrapped around her, clearly acquired from the cloakroom – something he had no leave to do. Then he ushered her down the hall and off to the side into a small service corridor.
The wall hit her back as she was pressed against it sending shards of need through her body. Do it again.
Her heart pounded, her body a pulsing beat of desire.
Throbbing.
Wanting.
Not for Marsden, not for the Russian, but for the erotic nature of what she saw.
It would have affected anyone.
It was definitely not for the Russian.
Seph glanced up at him, his finger ran along her jaw and her breasts grew heavier, desperately needing his touch.
His face didn’t wear the rakish arrogance of earlier. Instead it held a need so raw that it made her nipples burn with awareness. It’s just the erotic tableau, not him, she chanted in her thoughts, not him.
“What was he doing?” Seph, glanced back to where her friend was doing things she hadn’t imagined he would. Peered back so she wouldn’t do something foolish with the Russian rake.
“You know what he was doing.” His thumb grazed her lips leaving a trail of fire.
He bent down to her ear and she stilled. “He was kissing her…lips.” He whispered so close she felt the warmth of his breath on the shell of her ear. “Kissing, sucking, and biting her tender flesh. Did you hear how she crooned for him, crooned for more?”
Her hand somehow managed to follow her instruction and pressed at his chest. He lifted away from her, yet he still stood far too close.
“I didn’t expect….” She swallowed, frowned. “A kiss?”
“Do you like kissing Seraphina? Shall I kiss your lips? Make you sing?” His eyes held a raw, heated look that triggered all kinds of sensations in her. “I could demonstrate.” Intensity blazed out of his eyes; he was serious.
Seph swallowed, reached desperately for some composure.
“Oh please.” She did her best to collect herself. “As if I’d choose you for a dalliance.” She rolled her eyes and gave his chest a little push to have him move. But even to herself she had to admit she didn’t push hard enough to convince anyone.
His hand came over his heart. “I am wounded.” But he wasn’t, he grinned like a wolf.
Voices came from the other side of the curtain leading back to the gambling hall. It opened.
The Russian blocked her from view with his body as two gents walked down the hall and past their position in the service corridor, his wonderful broad chest, and lean legs, standing so close she felt the full heat of him radiating over her. His cologne sat in his jacket, woody, earthy and so very dangerous.
“Your eyes are black orbs.” He murmured in that accent she was getting far too susceptible to; moved forward again making her all too aware of the way her body responded to him.
“Ridiculous.” Her voice, suddenly tight in her throat.
The Russian’s eyes trailed over her skin, picking up on who-knew-what telltale signs.
“You like me,” his deep voice purred.
She shook her head, no, heart thumping.
He smiled.
And blast it, the look sent pleasure flowing over her skin like warm honey.
“I think you do,” he said in another one of those melting murmurs.
She again shook her head. No, she didn’t…she didn’t want to. He was everything she detested, a man who thought women were for sport, that women were disposable. And yet her body traitorously burned with his proximity, burned for more of him, more of his touches, as much as it smarted for her to admit it.
The Russian rake leaned in, his fingers lifting her chin. “Your face is so transparent.”
“You’re mistaken. I really don’t like you at all.” She whispered even as her eyelids grew heavy, and her skin flamed with sensitivity.
“Your eyes are full of want, little bird. That is the kind of ‘like’ I see.” His glorious thick accent brushed her like velvet.
Her breath stumbled.
Little Bird… Her story. A Christmas fable she’d written that ended up with such a dark and erotic twist for the wolf and the little bird.
“You were bored.” She whispered. He was not a man for prose or poetry.
“Never,” he murmured.
Her gaze fixed on his full masculine lips. A shadow of black bristle darkened his upper lip, chin, and cheeks. She imagined his face pressed between her legs, the soft abrasion, and quickly looked away.
“Be careful of wanting the forbidden, little bird, someone may come along and give it to you.” He whispered above her lips drawing her eyes back to his.
Her mouth loosened.
Waited. Even as she hated herself for it.
He muttered something in Russian and then his lips touched hers…perfect, so soft and claiming. All her attention honed on his touch. He lured her with the unexpected, with gentleness. Soft. Sensual. Touches that said she was precious, special. That he would cherish her with each stroke, each touch, each kiss. He couldn’t have used a more devastating approach.
His lips were firm, his touch skilled and knowing…and yet, he was patient as he waited for her to open for him, waited for her to acquiesce.
Instead she slapped at him all but half-heartedly. He didn’t break the kiss and, blast it, neither did she. Her lips were set on fire. And the blighter showed her all too clearly that she wanted him. It wasn’t just that she didn’t break the kiss, her Russian rake wasn’t even holding her.
No.
He held his body away.
She could duck away from him at any time, slide past and be free.
Yet she didn’t.
Of course, she didn’t as his lips moved on hers, coaxing, luring, promising. Turning her mouth into a source of smoldering need.
Instead she chose to thump him with her palm, thump him for proving how shallow she was, how like every other woman he charmed she was, to want his kisses as much as they.
He simply kissed her deeper, slipped his tongue in, explored her mouth, ran it over her teeth, her tongue, until her tongue started to dance with his. Every swipe, every tangle was an elixir that both ignited and soothed. Until finally her fingers anchored on that broad chest, curling into his fine military coat, drew him closer and kissed him back.
The man groaned his approval bringing his whole body to press against hers which exploded with unprecedented need. Need that had been building and building all night. In reality, building for years as she read the poets and the passion they promised existed.
His mouth demolished her. Resistance left along with those much-needed threads of control. Each tangle of his tongue made her body glow with want.
“I’m burning,” she said between kisses. “My wings are burning.” Her fingers traveled into his hair, holding him there. “Burn me, turn me into a blaze.” The words came from nowhere and she murmured them against his lips, drawing a flurry of Russian in response.
“You consume me,” she whispered sliding her hands down his back. Muscles, broad and hard glorious under her palms.
He pulled her closer and his hips moved against hers. She grew lightheaded as she tilted hers forward, felt—even thr
ough the fabric—the hardness of him and her core clenched. Ached so much she wanted to sob.
His palm cupped her breasts. And a sound she’d never ever made in her life, ‘something in pain—something in bliss’, curled out of her.
“Do you want a taste, little bird?” His hand squeezed oh so soft, his nail scratching across the fabric over her nipple making the need pool deep between her legs. “Do you want to fly in that sky of flames?”
She wouldn’t say it, pushed instead on his chest which didn’t move, only bringing on more growled Russian that sounded like the rumble of thunder that promised the relief of rain in a tension filled sky.
His hand slid slowly, achingly, down her side.
Over her hip. Her fingers curled tighter in his jacket. Her breath now coming in short pants against his lips.
That hand slid down the top of her thigh.
Then, heaven help her, over her mons cupping her sex through the suddenly bothersome layers of clothes.
Her core throbbed, pulsed like her heart had fallen from her chest and now resided between the lips of her sex.
He pressed his palm against her. Pressed firmly and moved his fingers so they drew circles over a deliciously sensitive spot. A spot that made her clutch at him like he would save her from the flames that licked between her legs as surely as the ‘special kiss’ she coveted but had never had.
His eyes bored into hers, intense, seeing so deep into her she felt naked.
“Vladimir…”
His hand moved firmer, faster and she drew in a ragged breath.
“Ilya,” he growled. “My name is Ilya.”
His fingers circled against her, his body pressing hers against the wall, eyes so intense in the raw need they held that her legs weakened.
“Ilya.” She clutched at him, her fingers holding so tight onto his jacket. “Ilya. The sky is falling.”
Her world burst into nothing but pleasure, pleasure that washed through her whole body and took her mind away. It was as if the heavens burst open and released the freshest sweetest rain dousing the flames of sunset in an explosion of steam that hid everything from sight in its scorching heat.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 83