For Desire Alone

by Jess Michaels

  As a man, the same warning signs put him on guard and made his stomach clench, but John was happy to have put the fear away.

  “Don’t play stupid, John. I know your brother made an appearance here yesterday.”

  John shifted. The spies were hard at work, indeed.

  “I suppose he did,” he said quietly. “Though I’m not certain how that visit is any of your business.”

  Vaughn laughed, but it was anything but a pleasant sound. “I’m sure it had everything to do with the fact that I recently cut your brother off entirely and told him directly that I was turning over the inheritance of my fortune to you. No doubt he came here sniveling for a handout. So I think it has everything to do with me.”

  John shut his eyes briefly. How he wished he could block his father from his world entirely. How he wished he could pretend he had no father. But it was impossible.

  “Adam mentioned something to that effect, yes. But he didn’t ask for a handout at all. Just delivered a welcomed warning.”

  “No doubt he warned you of a great deal.” His father leaned back with a satisfied smile. “It must have stuck in that boy’s craw to tell you my fortune was being torn from him. It must have made him sick.”

  John stared. For years, his father had pitted the brothers against each other. As children, they had each played into his game in order to avoid the ugly, painful consequences of defying Vaughn Rycroft. As adults, their separation had only grown.

  John imagined other parents might have mourned the distance between their children. Or even worked to close it.

  Their father smiled over it.

  Hatred bubbled inside of John, but he kept it in check. “The entire situation makes both of us sick, I assure you, sir.”

  His father laughed again and sarcasm dripped from his tone as he continued, “Oh yes, I’m certain the idea of inheriting a fortune worth well over one hundred thousand pounds and growing every day is pure devastation to you. And taking it from your brother gives you no pleasure at all. Winning is, after all, such a burden.”

  “Is that what you think this is?” John asked, truly surprised. “Winning? You don’t seem to understand that I don’t care about your land and your businesses and your money. Your hundred thousand pounds worth of assets is garbage to me. I do not desire it and I will not accept it. You waste your time and mine by coming here.”

  His father moved on him with such swiftness that John hardly had time to react before Vaughn was standing just a foot in front of him, his dark eyes flashing with rage and his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Bollocks,” he snapped, his tone tense with anger and violence. “You don’t get to choose, John.”

  He shrugged and now a smile of his own fluttered on his lips temporarily. “Oh, but I do. You see, I have made my own fortune. I don’t need yours.”

  His father sneered. “That little shipping business? It’s worth, what, half of what I am offering you?”

  John tensed. How did his father know that? His records were kept private.

  “It matters little what the business is worth. It more than supports me.”

  “You lie if you say that you don’t want more,” his father snapped.

  John considered that. Once that might have been true. Once he might have been his father’s son. Not anymore.

  “I lie about a great many things,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But not this. I will not come under your thumb, Mr. Rycroft. So forget whatever nefarious plans you have.”

  His father stared at him for a moment in disbelief. “I could destroy you. And then you will have no choice.”

  John held his tongue. All his life his father had torn down in order to control. His toys, and even his bones, had been broken. His friends had been taken from him, his mother had been sent away to die alone because Vaughn Rycroft knew that destruction was the best way to keep his sons trapped beneath his heel.

  Everything was different now. John’s shipping business had been successful for years. His father’s influence could perhaps take away a few of his clients, but not all. He might be damaged, but not broken.

  Not ever again.

  “Try,” John said softly. “Try to destroy me.”

  Vaughn blinked in what could only be described as disbelief and John’s heart swelled. Oh yes, his father could do nothing to him now.

  Vaughn stepped away. “So you think your business is safe. I disagree, but very well. The fact that you are considering adding your brother to your payroll tells me you have no ability to make good decisions.”

  John moved forward. “And what do you know of that?”

  Hell, he had only told his brother of his intentions to bring him aboard yesterday. His solicitor had taken over the arrangements and John trusted him completely. But his father knew. Which meant he had connections somewhere within John’s business.

  His father smiled over his shoulder as he turned away. “Oh, I know a great deal. A fact I hope you won’t soon forget. I know how much you pay your servants. I know the club where you fence. I know you have been fucking your best friend’s whore, not just once, but for quite a while now.”

  Now John clenched his fists. “Don’t talk to me about Mariah.”

  His father spun around and his grin widened. “Ah, there’s that soft spot. I knew I’d find it eventually. Interesting that this time it’s nothing more than a lightskirt masquerading as something more refined. But if you pretend you don’t care about what I can do to your life, perhaps you might care about what I could do to hers.”

  John surged forward, all his attempts at control disappearing in a flash of anger and rage so powerful he feared he might not be able to control it. That he might do what he’d fantasized about for years and kill his father where he stood.

  But that would only end in ruination. Scandal. Despair.

  He grabbed his father’s collar and slammed him against the wall next to the window as hard as he could.

  “Stay the fuck away from Mariah,” he growled, low and dangerous as he held his father’s gaze. Vaughn Rycroft’s eyes were so dead and empty that it was sickening.

  His father remained curiously silent as John released him and stepped back, trying to regain control of his breath, his heart. But soon Vaughn smiled, ugly, glee-filled and so sinister that it brought back a new passel of awful memories.

  John squeezed his eyes shut. That was it. His father knew exactly what his weakness was thanks to his emotional responses. And now any dream he had briefly had of a longer future with Mariah slipped from his fingers. She could never be his. Not for more than a few days or weeks. Not if he wanted to keep her safe.

  Behind them, the door to the parlor opened and Swanson stepped inside. John could see by the way his servant’s shoulders were thrown back that the butler was spoiling for a fight. He couldn’t help a smile at that fact, even though his body and heart ached.

  “Mr. Rycroft, the meeting you are meant to attend starts in a few minutes. Should I have your carriage brought around?”

  Vaughn Rycroft looked at him with a small tilt of his head. “I should go,” he said. “It seems we’re finished here.”

  John looked at his father. What had been done could not be undone now. All he could do was try to find the best way to prevent anything worse in the future.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “You and I are finished.”

  His father smirked as he headed for the door. “We’ll see, boy. We’ll see.”

  Then he was gone, with Swanson trailing after him, likely to ensure he stole nothing on the way out. John appreciated the gesture, but in truth, there was no point to it. His father might not take the silver, but he had already stolen something of far greater value.

  A future he hadn’t even known he desired so deeply.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Mariah had been invited to supper at John’s home, to be followed by a night at the opera, she was delighted. Their most recent encounter, the night they spent together, had brough
t them closer than ever. And even though she had strenuously denied that fact to Vivien, Mariah welcomed the new closeness. She wanted to spend more time with John, to make love to him and to engage in conversation and connection. She had never experienced anything like it before and she reveled in it.

  But now, sitting at his table, with him far down the length of it staring at food he was not eating, her delight faded to be replaced with concern and frustration. It seemed every time they took a step forward, he dug in his heels and forced them two steps back.

  Which begged the question, if he was so resistant to any kind of connection to her, why did he continue to see her? Why not let her go entirely and simply move on? If he did so, she could return to her search for a protector, and he could go back to the meaningless encounters he had enjoyed for so long.

  It seemed very unfair. And yet she couldn’t be angry. Not when his mouth was so drawn down and his shoulders so tense.

  “John, you have not spoken more than five words the entire night,” she finally said, setting her fork aside. “Clearly, I have done something to offend you. Tell me what it is now and let us deal with it.”

  He blinked and stared at her blankly. “You, offend me?” he said softly. “No. I’m sorry, Mariah, if that is the impression I have given you. You have caused me no offense, I assure you.”

  She shoved back and stood from the ridiculously long table that had been designed for twenty people at least. Tossing her napkin aside, she stalked to the end where he sat and took the chair immediately at his right. He watched her every move with an unreadable expression that was as maddening as everything else.

  She took his hand and held it gently.

  “Then what is it, John? You have been distant and unhappy all night,” she said softly. “If that has not been caused by me, then what has put this wall between us?”

  He stared at her with an expression she had never seen before and she thought, just for a moment, that he might let her in. Her heart leapt at the thought and she leaned in to encourage openness from him. But instead he slid his hand from hers and sat back in his chair, as aloof as ever.

  “Mariah, I would like to employ a guard for you.”

  She rocked back in surprise. He could not have said anything else to shock her more.

  “What?” she asked, unable to form any more coherent or eloquent reply to the madness he presented to her.

  His frown deepened. “A guard. He would not intrude upon you, I assure you. Simply trail you to and from your appointments and sit outside them. He would also keep watch over your home.”

  Mariah blinked and briefly wondered if what she was experiencing was a dream. After all, this conversation was as nonsensical as any she’d ever had in her sleep with butterflies or cats. But she could not imagine a dream involving John that would be so serious, so she had to be awake, after all.

  “I do understand what you mean by a guard,” she said slowly. “And my reaction is not based upon how much I fear such a person would intrude upon my daily activities. It is based upon the fact that I have no idea why you think I would need or even want such a thing!”

  John hesitated and there was a mere glimmer of emotion in his eyes that caught Mariah off guard. It was fear. But of course he swept it away with one blink and shrugged.

  “Owen’s death was very public. The world knows you are living in your home alone, and perhaps with a more limited staff, yes?” he asked, his tone calm and collected, as if there were no emotion to this conversation.

  Mariah flinched. She had let two footmen go today in an effort to make her purse leaner and buy herself a little more time. Of course she was spending that time with John, not looking for a new protector who could save her from her dire situation.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  He shrugged. “Then you see, I simply do not wish for anyone to take advantage of you.”

  She shook her head. “That is pure bollocks, John. I don’t believe you for a moment. There is more to this ‘suggestion’ than that. You do not hire a guard for nameless fears that have in no way manifested themselves, you hire a few large footmen and talk to my driver. This is about something more.”

  He drew back in a moment of surprise and then tossed his napkin aside. “Think what you will then, Mariah. The man has already been spoken to and will arrive at your home tomorrow.”

  Mariah let out her breath in a shocked huff. “If you have already made these arrangements on my behalf, why bother asking my leave at all?”

  “I did not ask. I was simply being polite in informing you,” he replied with a shrug.

  Anger swelled in her. “Oh yes, you are the picture of politeness, John.”

  He pursed his lips, but gave no other response to her outrage.

  “Now, are you ready to depart?” he asked, as if they had been discussing nothing more important than the weather or the price of fabric for a new gown.

  She stared at him. “You must be in jest. Do you think I would wish to go out when you have hardly spoken to me all night except to demand I accept a guard for a threat you lie about?” She shook her head. “No. I do not wish to spend an evening with you. I am going home.”

  His fingers curled into a fist on the tabletop and it was through clenched teeth that he said, “No.”

  Her eyes went wide, even though she wished she could stay as stoic as he managed to do. “No?”

  He shook his head. “If you don’t want to go to the opera, we will stay in, but you’re not leaving.”

  She slammed a hand on the table. “Oh, you do vex me endlessly! How dare you claim you have a right to dictate my actions? What happened to my carefree friend who was to take me as a temporary lover?”

  His lips pursed and for a moment she saw she had hit a mark with him. She should have felt triumphant that she had, but she didn’t. Only confused and exhausted by his sudden overbearing protectiveness.

  “I—I am truly sorry, Mariah,” he said, his voice low and filled with true regret. But that was gone when he said, “But I must insist.”

  She straightened her spine. “As do I. Good night, John.”

  She turned toward the door, but the screech of his chair and the steel of his fingers closing around her wrist let her know it wasn’t going to be that easy. She spun back toward him to protest his bullying, but he didn’t allow her to speak. He dragged her against him and then his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, hot and heavy with desire and promise.

  She wanted to fight him, to refuse him, but as his tongue molded to hers, she lost all ability to say no, to pull away, to do anything but arch against his chest and moan out pleasure against his lips. She felt him smile as he spun her around, pressing her to the edge of the table and stroking her with his hips.

  The steel of his erection was evident even through all the layers of their clothes and her treacherous body ignored her outrage and instead ripened and readied for his invasion. Her nipples rasped against the silk of her chemise and telltale wetness pooled between her legs and heightened the throbbing of her clitoris.

  “I…don’t…want…this,” she tried weakly between passionate kisses.

  He drew back a fraction and stared down at her, his eyes lit by passion. “I sincerely doubt that, since you are rubbing your hips against me in a most pleasing rhythm.”

  She blushed as she realized he was correct, she was rubbing against him with the same fervor as she would once they were naked together.

  “But if you are not in jest, say it again and I will stop.” He lifted a hand to her breast and cupped it, rubbing his thumb against her nipple in a slow circle. “If you have enough breath to speak, that is.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the sharp bursts of pleasure that radiated from his circling thumb, warming her limbs, creating flutters in her belly and bringing her closer, inch by inch, to orgasm.

  She let out her breath in a cry and he chuckled. “Should I take that as a yes?”

  He plucked her nipple again and
she jolted. “Yes!” she screamed and he crushed his mouth to hers again.

  She tore at his jacket, surrendering to the fact that she had no defense against him, even if she wanted one. Her need for him was the most powerful force she had ever encountered. She had no strength to deny it, to reject it. And he knew it and could exploit that fact.

  He lifted her onto the table and opened her legs to step between them. She moaned as the dishes behind her clattered. Without preamble, he reached back to sweep them out of the way. She heard a cup crash to the floor and silverware bounce under the table, but she didn’t care. Nor did he, judging by the fact that he shoved at her skirts, lifting them up around her waist before he took the seat she had abandoned and dragged it to the table.

  “A feast,” he all but purred. “How can I resist?”

  He pressed his lips to her slick entrance and began to lick her in earnest, hard strokes. She gasped as she clung to the edge of the wood and lifted herself against him to meet his stokes. He spread her sex open with his fingers and lapped at her juices just like they were indeed a dessert to be savored. He didn’t seem to care that they were in the dining room or that the servants had not been ordered to stay out. He didn’t seem to care about anything except thoroughly devouring her every slick and ready fold.

  “John,” she gasped as sensation mobbed her, overwhelmed her. It was too intense, too focused, too much in every sense.

  He grinned up at her and then pressed two fingers to her entrance, gliding them deep within her clenching body as he returned his tongue to her aching, hard clitoris. He sucked the little nub of nerves between his lips and swirled his tongue around and around, flicking her with his teeth and tormenting her in every way imaginable.

  The orgasm started slow, a few little twitches and vibrations, but as if he sensed her crisis, he increased both the speed of his thrusting fingers and the suction of his mouth on her sex. She cried out in utter release, writhing on the table, her heels digging into the edge as she lifted her hips helplessly.