by Laurel McKee
Still holding her against him with one hand, Aidan slid the other between her legs as he kissed her shoulder, the curve of her breast. Her nipple puckered and pebbled, aching as it pressed to her corset.
“Aidan,” she cried as he slid one long finger into her damp folds. He pressed deeper with a delicious burning friction, exploring her, stretching her, until he could press in another finger. His thumb brushed over that spot, and she almost sobbed with pleasure.
“So tight,” he whispered. He moved slowly in and out of her, the same rhythm as his tongue against hers, brushing against her most sensitive spot again and again until she moaned.
She threaded her fingers through his hair and moved with his touch. The pleasure built inside of her, flickering from his fingers inside of her until it spread over her whole body. The floor seemed to tilt, the walls moving.
Startled, Lily tore her mouth from his and eased her head back. It wasn’t the room that was moving; it was her. Aidan had swung her around, both his hands under her legs as he spun her toward the chaise by the wall. He lowered her onto the cushions as his teeth closed over her soft earlobe, tugging at her cameo drop earring.
“You have too many clothes,” she said, and let her head fall back for his mouth. She shoved his coat off his shoulders and tugged at the folds of his cravat until it unwound from his neck. She wanted to see him, touch him. Feel his body against hers as it had been in her dream.
Aidan unfastened his waistcoat and shirt, never taking his mouth from her skin. He groaned against her shoulder when she slid her fingers between the loose linen folds and caressed his bare chest.
His skin was smooth and hot, damp with sweat, satin stretched taut over iron muscles. He felt so good, so perfect under her hands. Her fingertips traced over his ribs, down a long, thin scar that marred his perfect skin, over his ridged abdomen. He was no soft, idle nobleman.
She swept her hand along the band of his trousers, over the hard angle of his hip until she could cup his erection beneath the fabric. She wrapped her fingers around him and swept them down to its base. He seemed to grow even harder under her touch, and his hips thrust against her.
“Minx,” he growled.
Lily laughed, but her laughter faded when he knelt between her legs and reached for her hands. Before she could tell what he meant to do, he pressed them to the wall and wound his cravat around her wrists in a tight loop. He pulled on the silk, and she was bound, her body arched up into his.
“Aidan, no,” she whispered. She felt all her control slipping away, falling into his hands, and fear and desire tangled up in her.
He slid one finger under the silk bonds as if to test their tightness. “Does it hurt, Lily?”
She shook her head. It didn’t hurt, not physically. But being vulnerable to his desires, his domination—it awakened something in her she wasn’t sure she wanted.
A slow, feral smile spread over his lips, and he leaned down to kiss her again. As he held his hand over her bound wrists, his tongue swept into her mouth, tangling with hers, scraping over her teeth, making every part of her his.
Under his kiss, the fear faded, leaving only a hot haze of lust. His mouth trailed away from hers, over her cheek, her arched throat, the curve of her shoulder. The flat of his tongue circled her breast, dipped between her cleavage. As he tugged down her bodice to take her nipple deep into his mouth, suckling it hard, he pulled her skirts up higher and pressed his palm to her mound.
Tied as she was, Lily could do nothing but submit to his touch, to feel every sensation, every touch and kiss. He seemed to be all around her, all she knew.
Her nipple slid from his mouth, and she opened her eyes to see him kneel back at the edge of the chaise. He pressed his hands to the inside of her thighs, just above the ribbon garters of her stockings, and gently urged her farther apart with her knees drawn up. She couldn’t see him past the froth of her skirts, but she could definitely feel him. He laid her flat on the chaise, the linen of his shirt abrading her soft skin, and then she felt the tip of his tongue trace her damp seam, one long, wet sweep as he tasted her.
“Aidan!” Lily twisted in her bonds but she couldn’t get free. She had seen this done so many times; she had seen everything growing up in the brothel. But no one had ever done it to her. It was shocking in its intimacy, somehow more intimate than any kind of intercourse. Shocking, and so, so pleasurable.
She tried to jerk away from him but his hands tightened on her thighs, holding her open to him. “Do I have to tie your ankles as well?” he said, and blew a soft, hot breath against her. Then she felt his tongue on her again, driving through her folds, deep into her.
He groaned with pleasure, and Lily squeezed her eyes closed. There in the darkness, she felt every lick, every scrape of his teeth, driving her higher, higher. When he slid his finger into her, tracing his nail over that one spot, she cried out and leaped into that swirling abyss of climax. He caught her between his teeth, tugging at her, and she fell even harder.
She sobbed as his mouth trailed away from her, and he kissed the quivering skin of her thigh. She could feel the taut tension of his body against her, the desperation of his touch as he hooked his fingers behind the curve of her knee.
“Lily, Lily,” he said hoarsely. “God, the way you taste… I have to fuck you now.”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes.”
His hand tightened on her leg, and he flipped her over onto her stomach with her skirts caught around her. She pressed her bound hands to the curved back of the chaise and closed her eyes as he raised her up on her knees. She heard the harsh rasp of his breath, the pounding, erratic rhythm of her heart, the scrape of wool fabric as he pushed down his trousers and lowered his body over hers.
His arms were braced on either side of her, his chest pressed to the arch of her back, and she felt his hair brush over her skin as he kissed the nape of her neck. Then he pressed the tip of his penis against her, rocking back and forth as he found his angle and slid inside her.
She was so wet with need that he plunged all the way to the hilt, balls-deep in her, and she cried out at the fullness, the slight burning. It had been so, so long, and never like this. Her head dropped down between her arms, pressed to the chaise as she felt him with her. Part of her.
He went very still, and his lips swept over her shoulder. “All right, Lily?” he said hoarsely, and she nodded.
Better than all right, it felt too good. Too right. That fear hovered near her again, spreading its dark wings.
But there was no time for it to catch her. Aidan drew back and thrust into her again, driving away everything but the feeling of their joining. She arched back into him, meeting him thrust for thrust until they found their rhythm together. He moved faster, harder, and she felt his sweat on her back, heard the sound of skin meeting skin, and it drove her need higher.
“Lily!” he shouted amid a torrent of dark curses. His palm landed hard on her bare buttock, and the bite of it sent her soaring into another climax.
“Again,” she gasped, and cried out when his open hand landed hard on her skin.
He suddenly pulled out of her, and she felt him press his hand over himself as he came. She felt the heat of it as some of the liquid landed on her naked thigh, and it made her shudder.
She collapsed to the chaise, her cheek pressed to the cool leather. She struggled to breathe again, trying to pull herself back down to earth. She felt as if she floated somewhere outside herself, weightless, numb. Free.
Aidan fell to the chaise beside her, his chest moving hard with the force of his breath. He gently kissed her shoulder and reached around her to untie her hands. She moaned at the sting of the blood rushing back to her fingertips.
He smoothed his palm over the tangled fall of her hair, a slow caress over her neck and shoulders and back before he wrapped the long strands around his wrist. They lay there like that for long minutes, close in the silence, the dreamy aftermath of pleasure.
But all too soon, Lily becam
e aware of other things. Of the cool air on her bare backside, the press of the chaise on her cheek, the muffled clatter of traffic from the street below. The man whose body lay against hers.
Aidan Huntington’s body. Aidan, who had just had sex with her, bound her hands, slapped her ass, and made her go mad from it all. Made all her defenses come tumbling down.
She pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the chaise and tugged her gown over her shoulders and down along her shaking legs. Her hair unwrapped from his wrist, but she felt him catch a fold of her skirt between his fingers. He rubbed the crumpled silk.
“Why do you dress so somberly?” he said, his voice rough. He held up the fabric to let the fading lamplight fall on its dark purple color.
“Because I am a widow,” she answered, and snatched her skirt out of his hand. She heard him roll to his back, and she looked over her shoulder to see that he lay there with his hands clasped lazily under his head, watching her with hooded eyes. As if he had all night to ponder her mysteries.
“For more than a year now,” he said. “You’re too young to stay in purples and dark blues.”
“I like my clothes.” They let her fade into the scenery. Hide from everyone.
Except this man. He wouldn’t let her hide from him at all.
He grinned up at her, his dimple flashing. Just like that, he went from dominant lover to careless rogue.
He caught her around her waist and drew her down on top of him. He took her lips in a lingering kiss. Unlike their frantic, lustful embraces of earlier, this kiss was slow, seeking. He traced the tip of his tongue along her swollen lower lip before he drew back to look into her eyes.
“Well, I like you out of your clothes better,” he said.
She couldn’t help herself. She laid her hand on his cheek and let her fingertips trace over his sharp cheekbone and the line of his nose, the ridge of his brow. She outlined his sensual mouth, the mouth that had driven her to such heights of madness. He was such a good-looking man, almost godlike with his skin gilded in the lamplight. Had they really just come together?
“We never did quite get around to losing the clothes, did we?” she murmured.
He caught her hand in his and pressed his lips to the soft center of her palm. He slipped the tip of her finger into his mouth and gently nipped at it. “Next time,” he said.
Next time? “Aidan…”
He shook his head and tightened his hold on her hand so she could not turn away.
“Come with me to the theater tomorrow, Lily,” he said.
“I go to the theater every day,” she answered, still bemused that he wanted to see her again. That she wanted to see him again. She couldn’t stay away from him, even as she remembered that strange smile he gave her when they met in the park and a warning bell rang faintly in her mind.
“Not like this one. Please, Lily. Don’t say no. Come with me, just this once.”
Lily laughed ruefully. “Very well. Just this once, Aidan, though I fear I’m sure to regret it.”
Aidan grinned and kissed her hand again. “I won’t let you regret it. Meet me in your back garden again. And for pity’s sake, woman, wear some color. There’s no need to be the respectable widow where we’re going.”
Lily nodded and watched as he gathered his discarded coat and waistcoat from the floor. He straightened his clothes and his hair, which was tousled from her fingers. She smoothed her own gown before she led him to the back stairs that would take him to the street out of sight of her brothers.
He kissed her hand one more time, whispered, “Tomorrow,” and then he was gone.
Bemused and dizzy, Lily made her way back to her office and locked the door behind her. The small room felt stuffy and warm, the air filled with the heady scent of sex and skin, of Aidan’s cologne mingled with her own violet perfume. It made her remember all too clearly what they had done together, his mouth and tongue on her, her body bound and stretched beneath his, that dark need.
She hurried over to open the window and let some of the cool night air in. A fog was rolling in off the Thames, thick and damp, gray with the smell of coal fires and the tang of the river. Through the clouds, she just glimpsed a flash of bright yellow as Aidan’s carriage drove away from the club. She stared after him until he was gone, and then she crossed her arms tightly at her waist and turned back to the room.
The lamp was sputtering low. One of its fading beams fell on her gloves laid out on the desk where Aidan had left them. She placed her hand over them gently, stroking her fingertips over the smooth leather.
Then she noticed that one of the desk drawers was slightly ajar. She was always so very careful to keep them tightly closed. She slid it open to examine the contents, the papers neatly filed, the account book, the stack of creamy stationery engraved with her initials. It all seemed to be in order, not moved as if someone had been rifling through them.
Lily rubbed wearily at her eyes. “And now you are becoming delusional,” she whispered.
She should go home now, find her own bed, sleep—and decide whether or not she should really go to the theater with Aidan Huntington.
Aidan bounded up the stairs to his lodgings, feeling lighter than he had in a very long time. Lily had agreed to go out with him, and strangely enough, just being with her made him feel as if the world were somehow new again. That life was taking some strange, fresh direction. He couldn’t wait to see what would happen next, what new facet she would reveal.
He unlocked his door and slipped inside. The only light in the room came from the window, and in the shadows, he almost didn’t see the mail scattered across the carpet where the postman had thrust it under the door. On top of the pile was a letter addressed to Aidan in Freddy Bassington’s messy handwriting.
At the sight of it, some of Aidan’s high spirits dimmed, but there was no escaping from the letter. He knelt down to pick it up and broke the wax seal.
It was a short missive, with none of Freddy’s usual enthusiasms. He demanded to know if Aidan had made any progress retrieving his letters or if he had discovered anything of Lily St. Claire’s intentions. The penciled words were hastily scrawled, smeared, full of desperation.
Aidan couldn’t tell his friend he had discovered nothing of his letters—though he had learned much about their possessor lately. And he intended to discover more very soon.
He went to his desk and stuffed the note into a drawer. There would be time to figure out all he needed to know about Lily St. Claire….
Chapter Nine
“You were quite right,” Lily said. “This is nothing like the Majestic.”
Aidan laughed as he watched her study their surroundings, her face solemn as she took in every detail. He hadn’t been sure he should bring her here. It wasn’t the usual place he brought a woman. A society miss would faint dead away at the scandal, and a courtesan or an opera dancer wanted fine suppers in expensive hotel restaurants. But he had taken a chance on Lily, on the depths he glimpsed behind her serious, dark eyes.
On the sense of adventure he found with her in bed, much to his surprise.
He slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer, just to feel the brush of her body against his. The smell of violets lingered in her hair, and he leaned his head down to inhale the sweet scent, the warmth of her skin.
Damn it, you are a fool tonight, he thought. Finding excuses to touch her, to smell her hair. He hadn’t been so lustful since he was a boy. He needed to back away, to keep control.
“I haven’t been to a place like this in years,” she said.
“Do you like it?”
Lily glanced up at him, a faint smile on her lips. Her eyes were so dark in the dim, smoky room, so opaque and cool. He could hardly believe this was the same woman who had let him tie her up and spank her bottom, who came apart in his arms.
“I don’t know yet,” she said.
“Well, let’s get something to drink while you decide.” Aidan slipped his arm lower around her waist and led he
r into the crowded room.
While his friend Nick’s place didn’t have the grandeur of the Majestic, it was not exactly a penny gaff either. It was spacious, carved out of an old, abandoned dissenters’ chapel, with plenty of tables and chairs and a dance floor. A large wooden stage was built at the far end of the room, with benches for the audience lined up in front of it.
Along the adjacent wall was the bar, its long wooden surface full of the scars and nicks of hundreds of patrons. The cloudy mirror behind it reflected the crowd of workmen in rough wool, shopkeepers in their black coats, and girls from the shops and factories in their cheap, colorful finery out for an evening of fun. Nick mostly kept out the rougher sorts.
Aidan led Lily around the edge of the crowded dance floor to a place at the end of the bar. He caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror. She had done as he asked and left her solemn silks and satins behind, but even in a simple rose-pink muslin skirt and pink-and-white striped bodice, her hair drawn back to a plain knot at the nape of her neck, she stood out. She looked like a fresh summer flower. A very serious flower. She studied her surroundings so carefully, as if she would be tested on them later.
Aidan frowned as it suddenly struck him that he didn’t actually know much about Lily St. Clair at all. He knew she wasn’t one of the St. Claire offspring but adopted from somewhere; she had been married to some frightfully respectable-sounding greengrocer; and Freddy had been in love with her, and she took advantage of that love.
And he definitely knew the way her soft, slender body felt against his own, the way she cried out his name. His body knew hers, craved hers.
That was more than he usually knew about his women. But he wanted to know more. He would know more.
He gestured to the barkeep, an intimidating-looking hulk with a shaved, scarred head and beefy arms in his rolled-up shirtsleeves. The man grinned widely, revealing broken teeth as he turned toward them.