Some Like It Wicked (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  Her eyes widened as his words struck directly at her heart, and blinking back ridiculous tears she lifted her arms to wrap them about his neck.

  “Oh, Hellion.”

  His eyes darkened as his gaze slowly lowered to her mouth. “Dear God, Jane, if I do not kiss you soon I shall surely go mad.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, tangling her fingers in his hair to draw his head downward.

  He needed no second urging. With exquisite care his mouth brushed over her trembling lips before returning to plunder their softness in a kiss of sheer possession.

  Jane groaned, her head spinning as a blaze of heat raced through her blood. Oh heavens, he was so damnably good at this.

  As if sensing her faint hint of panic, Hellion reluctantly eased back, his lips gently nuzzling the corner of her mouth.

  “I have another confession to make,” he husked.

  Barely capable of coherent thought, Jane swallowed heavily. “And what is that?”

  “Watching you today as you toured the inn made me wish to toss you upon the floor and have my mad way with you.”

  Jane stiffened, certain he was mocking her. No gentleman would ever find her love for bourgeoisie trade anything but repulsive.

  “That is not amusing.”

  His gaze narrowed as his hand boldly moved to cup her breast. “I am perfectly serious. There was something incredibly erotic in watching you take command. Whoever claimed women the weaker sex have never seen you march into battle.”

  In spite of herself Jane felt her tension ease and a ridiculous pleasure warm her heart.

  “You are being absurd.”

  Hellion gave a low growl as he pressed against her hip, revealing his hard erection.

  “Does it feel as if I am being absurd?”

  Her stomach clenched in response. “Oh.”

  “Once we are wed I shall insist upon a private chamber close to your office. I sense we shall have need of it with astonishing regularity.”

  “Hellion.” She frowned in sudden warning. “Our future is far from decided.”

  His dangerous chuckle washed over her skin with unnerving intensity, raising a rash of goose bumps.

  “On the contrary, my shrew, it most certainly is decided. From the moment you appeared from behind that urn our destiny has been firmly entwined. A believer in fate would claim our marriage was written in the stars.”

  Her breath caught in her throat despite the logical part of her mind that dismissed the ludicrous words.

  Written in the stars?

  It was all nonsense, of course. But as she watched his features harden with a stark hunger that was echoed deep within her, she could not deny that there was something about this man that ensnared her senses. Whether it was lust or love or sheer madness was impossible to say.

  Perhaps it was all three.

  “You feel it too, do you not, Jane?” he rasped, his fingers shifting to drift along the plunge of her bodice.

  Refusing to be lured into a confession she was not yet prepared to make, she sucked in a deep breath.

  “I do not believe in fate. Our future is decided by the decisions we make.”

  “How pragmatic you are.” He smiled with wicked amusement. “But life is not all about what we can see or touch or taste. What of your heart? Do you decide how it will respond? Can you explain faith or hope or love?”

  A finger slipped beneath the thin muslin of her gown, brushing her nipple and making her jump at the shocking pleasure.

  “Hellion,” she choked in protest. “I cannot contemplate philosophy when you are touching me in such a manner.”

  “Good, then contemplate this,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple as he efficiently tugged the sleeve of her gown and shift off her shoulder. Pulling back he regarded her with a glittering gaze. “I want to see you. I want you naked and trembling beneath me.”

  A convulsive shiver raced through her body, her heart lodged in her throat as the soft air prickled over her bared skin.

  “I am already trembling.”

  Hesitantly Hellion stroked his hand gently over her face, his brow furrowed as if concentrating utterly upon that delicate contact between them.

  “So fragile,” he murmured. “You are always so bold and fiercely in command that I forget just how tiny you are. I do not want to accidentally hurt you.”

  A poignant sweetness swept through her, banishing the lingering doubt. She was poised upon the edge of destiny, a voice whispered. And while she could not yet determine what path the future might bring, she knew with absolute clarity that in this moment she wanted Hellion. If she never possessed anything else of him, she wanted this.

  “You will not hurt me,” she whispered, but even as she said the words she was not at all certain they weren’t a lie.

  His hand trembled, cupping her face while his thumb stroked a slow path over her bottom lip. “Are you certain, Jane? Is this what you desire?”

  He was offering her escape from the rapidly mounting desire, his features tightening as if preparing for a crushing blow. In answer Jane lowered her hand to place it against the thunderous beat of his heart.

  “I am certain.”

  He gave a low groan, burying his face in her hair. “Say it, my love. Say that you want me. I need to hear the words.”

  “I want you, Hellion.”

  She was as startled as Hellion by the calm certainty of her voice. With a broken moan he planted frenzied kisses over her face, his hands roughly pulling off his jacket and waistcoat. His cravat was swift to follow along with his shirt. Jane barely noticed his effort. She was intoxicated by the lips that were now exploring the curve of her neck, and nuzzling the tender pulse at the base of her throat.

  But then he grasped her hands and placed them against the silken heat of his chest.

  “Touch me,” he pleaded in a dark rasp. “I have longed to feel your hands upon me.”

  Tentatively Jane allowed her hands to glide over the hard muscles, marveling when he sucked in a sharp breath of pleasure. The knowledge that he genuinely desired her was as heady as any aphrodisiac.

  “Dear God,” he muttered, his seeking lips claiming her mouth in a kiss filled with aching need.

  Jane sighed, her hips instinctively arching to press against his swollen muscles. She was not certain what she sought but she needed more.

  With restless urgency she moved her hands over his shoulders, moaning deep in her throat as his lips moved down her neck, his tongue stroking a white hot path of pleasure.

  “Hellion . . .” she muttered, uncertain why he was prolonging her torment.

  “No, my love, lie still,” he commanded hoarsely. “It has been so long, and I want to make love to you as I have dreamed of night after night.”

  Even as he spoke his hands moved, slipping beneath her to tug the ribbons loose. With swift ease he was removing her gown and then the linen shift from her body.

  “Bloody hell.” Allowing his gaze to wander over her slender form he sucked in an unsteady breath. “You are beautiful.”

  Jane allowed her lids to slide shut, her straining breast already anticipating the touch of his mouth. Perhaps she was willfully fooling herself but in this moment she felt beautiful. Every tremble of his hard body, every rapid beat of his pounding heart convinced her that he desired her. This sensual, magnificent beast wanted her. Her. Miss Jane Middleton.

  She smiled slowly, and then caught her bottom lip between sharp teeth as a moist warmth covered the tip of her nipple. Hellion teased the quivering peak, his tongue flicking softly until she gave an impatient moan, her fingers threading through his satin hair, silently demanding more.

  Eagerly he satisfied her plea, sucking gently but insistently as she arched beneath him with a flare of pure pleasure.

  She barely noted the hands smoothing her stockings and shoes out of his path, unconsciously kicking them aside to allow his searching fingers an unfettered freedom to explore her thighs, then, shockingly, the warmth between her legs.<
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  Unprepared for the surge of sharp delight, Jane cried out in surprise, a hint of embarrassment touching her cheeks as she felt a wet heat moistening his fingers.

  “Oh.”

  Lifting himself onto his elbow, Hellion made a soothing sound in his throat, relentlessly stroking that point of intense delight.

  “You are so warm, so sweet,” he murmured in soft tones.

  “I . . .” It was oddly difficult to keep her eyes open as her entire body focused upon the building pressure deep within. “I do not know what to do.”

  His eyes smoldered with a midnight fire. “Shall I show you?”

  “Yes.”

  With a gentle motion he took her hand and lowered it to the waistband of his breeches. Her breath caught at the feel of his straining bulge, but she did not hesitate as she fumbled to undo the buttons. His erection sprang free as the last button was opened and she gingerly allowed her fingers to test soft skin that sheathed the hardness.

  Hellion’s teeth snapped together as he heaved a strained groan, pressing himself against her touch. Then with an awkward motion he was moving to hastily tug off his boots and breeches before returning to cover her body with his own.

  “My God . . . you are going to be the death of me,” he muttered.

  Jane stilled as she absorbed the sensation of bare skin brushing together, the hard urgency of his arousal pressing into her thigh.

  Something deep inside her clamored in recognition, her body shifting to accommodate the unfamiliar weight, her legs spreading and encircling his poised hips.

  A harsh breath teased her ear as Hellion readied himself, his voice uneven as he attempted to reassure her.

  “I do not wish to hurt you, Jane . . .”

  “Hellion, do not stop,” she broke in anxiously, her body clenched tightly as if already searching for some unknown goal.

  His hands grasped her hips, his lips urging her to relax as he slowly, carefully entered her willing body. There was a flare of discomfort and Jane stiffened as she felt him thrust his way past her maidenhead. Good gads. Just for a moment she was not at all certain that this was going to be possible. Oh the theory was sound enough, no doubt. It had to be for so many couples to procreate. Most more than once. But until this moment she had not precisely considered the vast differences in their respective sizes.

  Easily sensing her tension Hellion stilled, then without warning he moved, withdrawing and sliding silently down her body. Jane gasped, her hands clenching in his hair as he kissed her stomach, and then stroked his lips along the inner length of her thighs.

  Her breath was oddly labored as his tongue tasted of her skin and then disappeared altogether as he shifted once more and boldly claimed a kiss at the very heart of her pleasure.

  Shocked by the sheer intimacy of his mouth, Jane wanted to protest. Or at least she wanted to protest for the merest fraction of a second.

  After that she would have considered murder if he halted.

  The sensations were so exquisite, so temptingly erotic, that she could only arch her back in mute approval. With a relentless expertise he coaxed her to the point of near insanity, seeming to sense precisely when she was prepared for him to once again cover her body, continuing the rhythmic stroke with firm thrusts that had her soaring to paradise.

  She had occasionally thought of this moment, even assumed that she knew how it would feel, but nothing . . . nothing could have prepared her for the heart-stopping pause as she rode on the crest of a wave. A harsh cry wrenched from her throat as she tumbled over the edge and floated in the dark waters of complete satisfaction.

  Above her she felt Hellion grow rigid, his countenance tensing with the same stunned wonderment she had experienced before he shuddered and sank onto her shoulder with a slow sigh.

  “My shrew,” he whispered against her damp skin, a possessive hand moving to cup her breast. “You are mine.”

  The town house in the aging, but once-elegant London square was the very essence of solid English tradition. The red brick was sturdy without undue pretensions; the wrought-iron fence framed a garden with the proper roses growing in proper rows and a well-polished doorknob that was a mandatory requirement for any establishment in a decent neighborhood.

  To most, the home bespoke old money and respectability. To Lord Bidwell it bespoke a tedious predictability that was enough to make him break out in a rash.

  Fortunately for his own delicate sensibilities, his business rarely took him among the ghastly prim and proper.

  Not so fortunately, however, today he had need of information that only one intimate with the War Department could offer. Not an easy task considering that most of the stodgy lot readily accepted his invaluable services as a spy while thoroughly disdaining his dubious morals.

  Wisely coming prepared with a tempting bribe Biddles squashed the urge to slip in through the cellar and properly waited on the porch for the elderly butler to pull open the door. Just as properly he handed the servant his calling card and watched him shuffle toward the back of the house.

  He waited only a half a heartbeat before he was in pursuit. His sense of propriety had been strained to the limit and besides which, he was not about to have his morning wasted by being ignored and avoided by a pompous half-wit.

  Remaining a step behind the servant Biddles paused in the doorway as the butler crossed the library to hand his card to the gentleman seated behind a large mahogany desk.

  Like most of the blooded gentlemen in England, Lord Carson was a large, rawboned man with a paunch growing at the same steady pace that his hair was receding. His countenance was square with a reddish hue that spoke of his love for fine food and finer spirits. Unlike many, however, he did possess an occasional flash of intelligence that Biddles had found useful during his course of work.

  Hidden in the shadows Biddles watched Carson briefly glance at the gilded card, his face taking on an additional layer of puce as he abruptly rose to his feet.

  “Bidwell,” he growled. “Bloody hell, not that rat-faced demon. Inform him that I am not at home, Potter. Better yet, tell him that I have died and am currently rotting in the family crypt.”

  With his lips twitching in amusement Biddles stepped through the doorway to regard his unwilling host with a raise of his brow.

  “Ah, Carson, I must say you appear remarkably well for a rotting corpse. Perhaps a bit tattered about the edges, but that is only to be expected, I suppose,” he drawled.

  Flicking an annoyed glare over Biddles’s lime-green coat and lemon breeches, Carson pointed a dramatic finger toward the nearby door.

  “Out. Out, before I have you tossed out.”

  “Now, now, old chap, I come bearing gifts.” Biddles held up a bottle of expensive spirits. “You see, your favorite brandy, aged to perfection.”

  Carson gave a loud snort, although he could not prevent his gaze lingering upon the bottle. He possessed a notorious weakness for French brandy.

  “Your Trojan horse, I suppose. I am not that much a fool.”

  “I have only a few questions.” Biddles smiled with the small bit of innocence he could conjure.

  “And that is supposed to reassure me? On the last occasion that you desired to ask me a few questions, I awoke with a pistol pointed at my heart.”

  “I did manage to dispatch the villain, Carson, and you were personally thanked by the prince for your service to your country.”

  The older gentleman frowned at him in a sour fashion. He clearly still held a grudge over the minor squabble that they had endured with the son of an earl who had been selling troop movements to the French.

  “After I spent a fortnight recovering from the shock. No. I am too old for your devious schemes.”

  “I assure you that on this occasion there will not be the slightest danger to you.”

  “Your notion of danger is considerably different than my own, Bidwell.”

  Biddles placed a hand to his heart, the hand that conveniently held the bottle of brandy.
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br />   “I swear upon my favorite Weston coat.”

  There was a prickling silence before the gentleman at last heaved a frustrated sigh and reached out to pluck the bottle from Biddles’s fingers.

  “Oh bloody hell, give me the brandy. I feel I shall have need of it.” With practiced efficiency Carson pulled out the cork and poured himself a generous portion. “What do you desire to know?”

  Pacing toward the valuable leather books that lined the room, Biddles shrugged with a seeming nonchalance.

  “I need to know what you recall of a Mr. Middleton.”

  “Middleton? The name is familiar.”

  “He comes from Surrey and managed to marry the daughter of an earl.”

  “Ah yes.” Carson frowned as he downed the brandy in one appreciative gulp. “There was something. Damn. It was several years ago.”

  “I believe it had to do with uniforms,” Biddles prompted.

  “That is it.” Carson set down his glass to promptly refill it. “There were accusations of shoddy workmanship and even rumors of receiving payment for uniforms that were never delivered. Messy business.”

  Messy, indeed. Biddles slowly turned, his nose twitching with curiosity.

  “And yet, any scandal seems to have been nicely hushed up.”

  “Yes.” Carson tossed back another shot of the fiery spirit. “Rather odd.”

  “You do not recall how Mr. Middleton escaped justice?”

  “I cannot say that I do.” Carson shrugged. “No doubt the Earl managed to soothe over ruffled feathers. Or Middleton was wise enough to share his profits with those men in position to hide his crime.”

  They were both perfectly reasonable explanations. Those in power often preferred to cover over unpleasantness rather than seek justice. Especially if there happened to be a profit in it for them.

  Unfortunately, such vague rumors and innuendos did nothing to help Biddles’s cause. He needed proof, not gossip.

  “Any notion of who those particular gentlemen might be?”

  Carson set down his glass with a loud bang. “Absolutely not. You have asked your questions. Now it is time for you to be on your way.”

  “What if I were to offer you an entire crate of that most excellent spirit?”