Over too soon.
From under lowered lashes, dark-green eyes gleamed at her, and the corners of Jack’s wicked mouth curved in a slight smile. He held that look as he came back for her, holding her where he wanted. “This”—a gentle nip at her bottom lip—“is”—a nibble on her top lip—“ ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ ” Another soft nuzzle, his mouth moving along hers in a languorous glide.
So very lovely. Her breath grew sharp and pained. She wanted to fall against him, grind her lips into his, so violent was her need. She held herself in check and gently, slowly followed his lead. Jack made a sound against her mouth. She eased her grip and slid her hand to his neck. A tremor rent along the muscles there, his skin dry and hot. Beneath her touch his pulse raced.
His fingers threaded into her hair as he came at her again with the same steady deliberation, exploring her as she explored him. Their breathing grew unsteady and fast. Mary clung to him, her head growing light. One muscled arm wrapped around her waist, and he drew her across his thighs. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and she felt small, fragile, safe.
Jack’s heavy pant mingled with hers as he rasped, “This is ‘I want you.’ ” His kiss deepened. The warm, slick tip of his tongue glided along the edges of her lips, coaxing them open. Mary shivered. She’d never felt the like, as though his tongue touched more than her mouth, as though it licked at the tips of her breasts, down her spine, between her legs. Whimpering, she opened her mouth wider, her fingers clutching the hard swell of his shoulder.
He responded with a low groan, his tongue delving deeper, sliding and coaxing. And she ignited. Her chin bumped his in her greedy haste to kiss him. Mary twined her tongue with his, learning his taste, loving the way he trembled under her touch, and he surged against her, all desperation and heat. I want you. How I want you. He’d been her enemy, teased and taunted her, made her blind with rage. And he kissed her as if she were the only thing in existence. As if she were his existence. And it was perfect.
Her world tilted, and then she was sinking onto the cold, hard floor. His warm, dense chest pressed against her, and his hot, clever mouth fed upon hers. She was dizzy again, her whole body trembling, her breath too short. Her breasts ached, and her skin burned. She could do nothing more than hold on to him as her old world crumbled about her.
“Jack.” She needed more.
His hand was at her hip, the other one under her head, holding her to him. The lines of his face were severe, almost harsh in the blue shadows. The look in his eyes was pained. “I want you.” His lips shaped the words against her. “But I need you more.”
Blind need had her clawing at his shoulders, holding him as if he’d pull away. Her hands grasped his short, shorn locks, then lost purchase as he kissed his way along her check, down to the tender juncture of her shoulder.
Something in him must have eased a bit, for he suddenly gentled. Soft lips pressed against her skin, scattering shivers down her spine. His breath gusted warm and humid into the well of her neck. “Slowly,” he said as if speaking to himself. “I can go slowly.”
He leaned against her, his fingers opening and closing on her hip as if he fought with the impulse to let her go. “You deserve slow care.” Another shudder wracked him. “We deserve it.”
Mary wound her arms about his back and held him. “Slow, fast, as long as it is with you, Jack.” She’d never given proper voice to it, but the words were out, and she knew the truth. For better or worse, Jack Talent was the only man she’d ever wanted. And she feared that he was the only man she’d ever want again.
He lifted his head, his eyes dark and glittering. He studied her for a brief moment, and then he kissed her. It was no longer frantic, but something altogether different. Something more. The tender claim behind it was a kick to her heart, and some small part of her feared it would stop altogether if he were to leave her just then. But he didn’t. He merely kissed her again. It was no introduction, this kiss. He was telling her something new, something she couldn’t quite understand. But she felt it.
“It was always you, Mary,” he said. “From the moment we met, it was you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kissing Mary Chase. Mary Chase beneath him, soft, fragrant, and pliant. In his arms. How had it happened? Jack’s head reeled, and his thoughts scattered. It might have been a dream. But no. His dreams of her had never felt this good. Her taste was not light and sweet as he’d imagined, but dark and smoky, rich and complex. She was whisky and chocolate. Goddamn but he shook like a lad as he tucked her lithe body close and kissed her gorgeous, luscious mouth.
That she’d wanted his kiss, when she hadn’t wanted any other, lit him with joy and lust until he scarcely functioned. She had no idea what it meant to him. For the truth was, he’d only kissed one other woman in his life, and she’d been paid by Ian to do it. Ian, who had declared that all men needed to be taught how to please women, and that a good tup would set him to rights. While Jack had enjoyed his lesson, it had never felt right, knowing that his partner had been bought and paid for. Then he’d met Mary. And he hadn’t wanted any other.
Mary. She was his flavor, the only taste he wanted to indulge. His body was heavy and tender. Pleasure washed over him in a hot, rolling wave as he feasted on her mouth, slowly. So slowly that he ached. Sweat bloomed on his skin, making him shiver again. His fingertips glided along her fragile jaw as he licked her upper lip. He didn’t allow his hands to explore lower. It would be over too soon that way. He’d fought this for so long. Now he planned to drown in her and enjoy every moment.
She made a little sound of contentment every time he slid his tongue into her warm mouth. And his cock throbbed in response. He lost track of time, forgot where he was, as they lay in a languid, heated cocoon of their own making, simply kissing, as if it were the only thing in the world. Even so, his fingers soon found their way to the clasp of her cloak. The grey wool slid open, revealing a lining of shimmering bronze silk. He smiled against her mouth.
“Why are you smiling?” A whisky voice to go with her whisky mouth. Like liquor, it went straight to his head.
“Because I am happy.” Wholly, incandescently. He kissed her again, lingering. “Because you cannot resist this small luxury.” He touched the cool silk. “You crave it.”
Her wide eyes crinkled at the corners. “Just as you do.”
Yes. Because they were more alike than either of them had known. And she cared. She’d come for him on that dark day, not out of guilt or duty but because she cared. Oftentimes he’d been tempted to ask what her motives had been, but base cowardliness had stayed his tongue. Now he knew. It felled him, made him want things he had no business wanting.
He burrowed against her neck, inhaling her fragrance. “This spot,” he whispered against her skin. “I’ve dreamed of this spot. Of kissing it”—he kissed her there, and she shuddered—“of licking it”—his tongue slid over silken skin—“sucking…” His breath came on hard and fast, his grip upon her growing tighter.
Mary moaned, arching against him. He shivered, laving that heated spot. “God, I want to bite you here, Chase.”
Her gentle laugh vibrated against his mouth. “Do you know, Jack Talent, I think I’ve wanted you to bite me there for some time.” Her voice lowered to utter softness. “I think I’ve always wanted it.”
Then she touched him, a small caress of his jaw as if he meant something to her, as if she could protect him with that simple hold. Jack lifted his head. Her eyes gleamed gold and bronze. Wide open.
His throat closed up, heat prickling behind his lids. A sharp blade of emotion scraped over his skin, down into his heart where it pierced deep. At that moment she owned him. She altered him, from blood to vein, to bone and sinew and flesh, reshaping what once had been into something new—hers. He was hers now. Irrevocably.
It did not terrify him as he’d long thought it would. It made him feel strong, larger and more infinite. He had a purpose now. And he had a home. Her. Always. Her.
He kissed her. Frantic. Deep. She knew the core of him, past all his blundering and foolishness. So bloody well. The feeling crescendoed. A perfect moment of clarity and peace. And then it crashed down around him, so painful and raw that he squeezed his eyes shut. Because she might own him, but he would never own her.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled back. His body protested, his arms moving too slowly, and his heart trying to pound free. “I can’t.” Just saying it cut into his throat. So he said it again. “I cannot do this to you.”
At first Mary thought she’d misheard Jack. She was almost certain of it. Save he rolled away from her and sat up, bending his knees and putting his head in his hands.
“I am the one, Mary.”
Instantly she went cold, her chest seizing. “You… you’re killing the shifters?”
He wrenched around to look at her over his shoulder, his brows drawn. “What?” Confusion melted, but he appeared more pained, his eyes red beneath those scowling brows. “No. Not… Hell.”
Jack stood and turned. She could only gape at his tall form looming over her. Strong. And glorious. He destroyed her concentration.
As if realizing this as well, Jack muttered a curse and stepped away, his movements graceful and lithe. He was beautiful. And he was distressed, all those lovely, dense muscles along his fine frame twitching as he moved.
Turning back to her, he stopped, his expression broken and helpless. He made a furtive gesture toward her but halted.
“Jack.” She caught hold of her skirts and stood as well. “Tell me what pains you.”
His chest lifted on a sigh. And then he turned to stone before her. Cold, distant Jack Talent was back. That more than anything else terrified her.
“Mary. The night you died. I was there.”
“What? No.” No, he wasn’t one of the men who had hurt her. She remembered each leering face. They’d been older. Good God, had he shifted into another identity? He couldn’t possibly have. She’d killed them all. She struggled to breathe.
“I killed you, Mary.” His voice was deadwood. “I was driving the gin wagon.”
Her scattered thoughts stopped. Jack’s haunted eyes stared back at her. “Me, Will, and another named Nicky. We’d stolen the wagon from a London gang. We… we worked for the Nex, Mary.”
She flinched. He’d worked for the Nex.
His mouth flattened. “I was driving the wagon, urging the horses faster. You ran out of nowhere.”
Before her lay the gaping maw of the alleyway. Her feet slapped over the cobbles, wet and cold, as she raced for it, for safety. She’d lost a shoe. Cold air hit her skin. Lamplight blinded her. The clatter of horses. She bobbled, her ankle twisting. And then the wagon racing down the lane.
Oh, but Mary didn’t want to remember that. Or what came moments later. A flash of wide, terrified eyes. A boy’s. The big, brown length of a horse’s snout. And then the hit. So hard she didn’t feel a thing at first. Just a jumble of sounds. And then the pain. Bright and blinding. She’d hoped she would feel peace. It had been so far from that. There had been nothing but regret.
“I didn’t stop,” Jack said. “Not for a half block. Couldn’t get the horses under control.” He looked away, the tendons along his neck standing at attention. “Nicky said to keep going, but you were lying there.” Jack ducked his head, and his lashes hid his eyes. “I knew what I’d done. I knew that if I left you there…” He bit his lip. “I was a liar, a thug. But I’d never killed a person.”
“How old were you?” She was surprised at the calm in her voice. Inside she was numb.
Perhaps so was he. His eyes were dry, clear, and direct when he looked up. “Fourteen.”
“And you—” She fisted her overskirt, her palms cold and clammy. “You recognized me? It was but an instant. When, Jack? When did you realize I was the one you’d run over?”
She didn’t want to know.
“Mary.” He stopped and started again, resigned. “Lucien’s barge.”
She flinched, the blow striking her in the center of her breastbone. Slowly she gathered her cloak and wrapped it around her. Clutching it like a shield, she approached him. He stood perfectly still, his eyes on her face as she came to him.
“All this time.” She stopped before him. “From the moment you recognized me”—for she could remember that moment too, the way he’d suddenly grown cold and distant—“I thought it was because of how Lucien and I were together.” Her teeth clicked. “You made me think that,” she ground out. “Made me feel like a whore.”
His gaze was impassive, as if he were merely listening. As if he weren’t even there.
She got closer, and her voice dropped. “When it was never that.”
“Oh, I hated seeing him touch you.” His retort was a soft whip. “Never doubt that.”
So cold. So very Talent.
“But that isn’t why you recoiled,” she snapped. “No. All this time, all these years of strife. It was out of guilt! For killing me.”
“Yes.”
Her hand met his face with a ringing slap. He didn’t flinch. But she did. He broke her heart.
“I would have forgiven you, Jack.” She stepped away from him. “Isn’t that ironic? I would have done it in an instant. You were a boy. A stupid, ignorant boy. And I ran into you, really.” She laughed low and ugly before tossing a glare over her shoulder, back at his pale, implacable face. “What I cannot forgive is that you held your own guilt over me. For years. You made me feel as though I were in the wrong. Deliberately.”
“Yes.” Weaker now. A ghost of a whisper. Pitiless. Hollow.
“Good God, I was so very wrong about you,” she said. “I thought you were redeemable, that there was hope for you.”
“No, there was never any hope for me,” he said. “Now you understand. There is only ugliness inside of me.”
Though her insides were shaking, she drew herself up and pretended that he hadn’t just run her over anew. “You don’t even care who you hurt.”
She got all the way to the stairs before he answered. “That is the only thing I do care about now. More than you’ll ever know.”
But it was too late. And he didn’t try to stop her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Holly’s new laboratory was a frigid cellar with low, arched ceilings that seemed to press down upon her. Stone and grit scuffed beneath her boots whenever she took a step, and the cold permeated her bones. She shivered once again, drawing her heavy smock-coat closer, and the shackles around her wrists rattled. Holly ignored them. If she thought about how she was chained to the wall… She took a bracing breath. Calm. Keep your wits, girl.
That rotter Talent had at least thought to provide ample light, by way of hundreds of candles in the three thick iron rings that hung from the ceiling.
“Quite adequate for the fifteenth century,” she muttered under her breath as she bent over the worktable and studied the infernal device she’d just created. Holly had never been accused of being ignorant. This electric prod that bastard had forced her to create, she knew exactly what the device would do to any GIM who felt the business end of the thing. And it made her ill.
Talent and Mary’s dislike of each other was well known. Regulators were taking bets as to who would do the other in first. All in good fun, of course. As much as people tended to stay clear of Talent and his foul moods, no one truly thought he’d harm Mary.
Holly’s throat burned when she thought of him turning that weapon against Mary now. And Holly would be an accomplice. She wanted to scream, rage against the iron bars at the cellar door. Those iron bars clattered now, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
The man she knew as Jack Talent walked in, only the moment he came closer, she realized it wasn’t him at all. He had the look of Talent, true, similar eyes and build, but he’d shifted again, revealing a face pitted with decay. He wore no shirt, only rough trousers, and his torso was as ravaged as his face. The true horror, however, was the center of his chest, w
here, beneath the exposed bones of his sternum and ribs, a shriveled and blackened heart beat weakly.
A ringing sounded in Holly’s ears, her head going both heavy and light.
“The lovely Miss Evernight,” he said with an evil smile, making the pockets of puckered raw flesh ooze pus. “Hard at work, I see. Excellent.”
The ringing grew louder, and her limbs numbed. “Who—who are you?”
“I am pleased you asked, my dear. You may call me Master.”
Something dangled in his hand and dripped upon the floor. He moved, holding his hand up higher as if allowing her to get a better look. Holly was sorry when she did. Several clockwork hearts, still attached to arteries, dangled in his grip. Blood oozed from golden gears, and a drop landed on the ground with a splat. “I have another assignment for you.”
Jack stood before the glossy black door to Mary’s flat. The large stone of regret that lay in his chest seemed to grow, pushing against his ribs and making each breath he took a painful effort. For a long moment, he simply stared, noting the fine striations the painter’s brush had left in the lacquer and the tiny rust spots at the edge of the brass NO.6 that hung on the door.
For years they had tried to make him beg, to plead for forgiveness. He could all but feel those long-ago grains of rice boring once more into his knees, and the shafts of agony driving through his flesh. Jack had never begged. Not even when they’d nearly killed him.
He swallowed hard, willing himself to move, to speak. This was different. This was necessary. He could do this. Because he had to. His hand shook only a little as he lifted it and knocked on the unforgiving iron-plated door. The sound echoed in the empty hall. Nothing stirred.
Blood rushed through his ears as he waited. But silence crushed down on his shoulders, and the stone within him grew heavier still. Jack cleared his throat, the sound over-loud to his senses.
“Mary.” He cleared his throat again. “Mary, open the door.”
Shadowdance: The Darkest London Series: Book 4 Page 23