London's Most Wanted Rake

by Bronwyn Scott

Channing rose up between her legs so that the two of them were close, so very close when he dipped the brush and drew it down her torso in a long stroke, leaving a warm trail of chocolate in its wake. Lord, it felt delicious on her skin, quite literally a sweet caress.

  He painted her chest with curving whorls about her nipples, her breasts, her belly and then the sweetness became something more as the brush moved between her thighs, painting them, painting her private furrow in strokes that made it weep. Her desire rose, hot and demanding. There was nothing she could do but endure it. She understood at last just how helpless she was to resist any of the pleasure. None the less, she arched and bucked, feeble as the efforts were, in an attempt to give herself release, to no avail. She tried to calm her fevered body with the reminder that he would eventually bring her release.

  But Channing had no intentions of letting the game end there. He meant for her to know tonight was his. She’d been the master last night, but only because he’d allowed it. He dipped a finger into the bowl and licked it with a wicked stroke of his tongue.

  ‘It’s time,’ he murmured mysteriously. ‘Perhaps you’d like something to drink first.’ He rose and stepped back, ensuring that he could see her. He took himself in his hand, drawing his hand slowly along his length, and Alina understood. Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine...

  Alina groaned, an arousal upon her so intense she thought le petit mort was far too small a concept for what she felt and it was clear Channing wasn’t done, not even close to it.

  He returned to her, kneeling once more and lowering his mouth to the flat of her belly, then to the silvery hillock between her legs, his breath warm against her skin as he spoke hot, decadent words. ‘Sweet heavens, your pelt turns me on, Alina.’ They were worship words and she’d treasured the first time he’d said as much. He’d told her then it was the North Star, that he’d never seen hair like that down there. Pure platinum silk, he called it, combed to smoothness, edges trimmed into a triangle of perfection, one of the many reminders that she was a woman who knew how to take care of herself in all ways.

  He trailed a finger inside her cleft. She was wet for him; he would see it. She watched the pupils of his eyes dilate to black at the evidence. Ah, bien, this game was just as scintillating for him as it was for her. ‘Taste me, taste us,’ he whispered, dragging his finger across the top of his cock and then through the chocolate left in the bowl. He brought his finger to her mouth and she licked, running her tongue down the length of it. Surely, he would bring her off now. The chocolate was beginning to cool on her skin.

  ‘Do you like licking?’ he asked, but it was a rhetorical question only. ‘Then you will like what comes next.’ He rose on his knees and took her nipple in his mouth, his intentions clear. Oh, yes, there was no mistaking this was both pleasure and payback. After having painted her with chocolate, he was now going to lick it off her body, inch by inch.

  ‘You’re killing me, Channing,’ she managed to say as he flicked his tongue over the dip of her navel. Had she ever been so well ravaged? Ever rendered so out of control of her own body? Had she ever liked it so much?

  ‘Just wait,’ he whispered, lapping at the chocolate on her thigh. ‘The best is yet to come.’

  Let it come soon, Alina thought, before I explode from wanting, death by paint brush. Although part of her was in no hurry to have this naughty seduction come to a head, as it were.

  She gripped the arm rests, thankful in the exquisite moment for the bonds that held her in place. Without them, she might have slipped to the floor, completely undone. In the next, she wished she had her hands, wished she could bury them in his hair, wished she had an anchor in this storm of desire sweeping her. She wished she had use of her legs, wished she could squeeze them together, wished le petit mort would take her.

  She got her last wish. Channing gave a final pull, the suction of his mouth, the light rake of his teeth over her nub, pushing her forward towards oblivion until she was there at last and he let her go, let the consuming tremor take her, a cry ripping from her throat and she was consumed.

  She didn’t recall when he untied her bonds, only that once she recovered herself she discovered she was free.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Channing sat across from her, sipping Moët casually from his glass as if nothing extraordinary had transpired in the last hour.

  ‘Fine.’ She watched Channing as he poured her a glass. She did feel fine and drowsy now that the crisis had passed, leaving her with that boneless sense of repletion.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He smiled over the rim of his glass. ‘I have a little something I need you to do for me.’

  ‘What might that be?’ Alina asked, but she had a fairly good idea. A man couldn’t pleasure a woman like that and not want a little something for himself. And she’d be happy to regain a little control.

  Channing grinned and played with the stem of his glass. ‘You know, Amery told me you were too much for him. I’m starting to see why.’

  ‘I never slept with Amery,’ she reminded him. She was doubly glad she hadn’t. She and Channing had certainly had other lovers, but it was better to not know explicitly who they were, better that they didn’t have faces. Their past was haunted enough as it was.

  ‘I know. I can’t imagine what you would have done to the poor boy if you had,’ Channing teased, but she could see that it was a relief to him, too. Amery was his co-worker, his friend, and she suspected that whatever she was to him or had been, she belonged to a very private part of his life he didn’t share with others.

  ‘I’m glad you’re man enough for the task.’ She smiled coyly, setting aside her glass and rising, her nudity blatantly displayed. He devoured the sight of her with his eyes, rising, too, and she could feel her desire for him stirring afresh as if the release she’d experienced minutes ago had not happened at all.

  ‘Come to bed, Alina, and I’ll show you what I’m made of.’ Channing didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he swept her up in his arms and headed straight for the bed. She’d meant to take charge of this encounter, but any thought she had of regaining control was illusion only. This would be hard and fast, something that would give them both relief.

  Channing drew her down on top of him. She reached to turn the lamp down, but he grasped her wrist. ‘Leave it on.’ His voice was husky, the request firm. He would brook no argument on this. Channing grinned, ‘I want to see you fall apart on top of me.’

  She might be on top, but he was still definitely in charge. ‘I want to see all of you.’

  That’s what she was afraid of. They’d been naked together before, but never where there was full light. There’d always been dimness, darkness, to obscure her hidden flaws. She would have to work hard to keep him distracted, to keep him from thinking too much. She raised her hips over his phallus and slid down on him, her hair falling over her shoulders, her breasts, as she took him. She moved on him once, twice, then bent to take his mouth, but Channing restrained her.

  ‘If you lay on me, I can’t see you. Sit up,’ he commanded gently. ‘That’s better. I can touch you, cup you and you can sheathe me.’ He reached for her then, his hands taking her breasts from underneath, his fingers circling her nipples. She thought she might be safe. But she knew the minute she wasn’t, knew the minute the palm of his hand found the imperfection under her breast

  A question flitted across his brow. ‘What’s this?’ He rolled her beneath him in a fluid motion. She thought of making a final stretch for the lamp, but it was too late. To turn the lamp down now would be tantamount to admitting there was something to see.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she murmured, but Channing would see for himself. He lifted her breast and studied the mark, the line between his brows creasing.

  At length his eyes met hers. ‘How did this happen?’

  Alina shrugged. It was powerful and alluring to h
ave Channing above her, his body braced over her on his elbows, but this was business she didn’t want him in at all, even more than she didn’t want him in the business about Seymour. He knew nothing of her marriage.

  Channing pressed forward in the wake of her silence. ‘I’ll tell you what it looks like to me and then you can decide if you want to disabuse me of the notion.’ His voice was harsh, angry even. ‘This looks like a burn mark. There’s an image here or the remnants of an image. It’s faded over time, but the skin is still puckered and a shadow of the image remains. At the time, it must have hurt. I can only think of one way someone gets such a specific mark in such a concealed place.’ He paused, his gaze penetrating. ‘It’s not a mark anyone would give themselves.’

  His blue eyes were hard, full of unconcealed anger. ‘If this was not your husband’s doing, you should speak now. You’d do his memory a disservice if you allowed me to think ill of the dead.’

  She met his eyes with a hard stare of her own. ‘He didn’t want me to forget that I belonged to him.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing he’s dead already or else I’d have to kill him.’

  Alina did reach for the light then. Not so Channing couldn’t see her, but so she couldn’t see him. When he looked at her like that, it was easy to pretend things could be different between them, like they’d been at Fontainebleau when anything had been possible. ‘I don’t need a champion, Channing. Besides, it’s in the past. You can’t do anything about it.’

  Channing gathered her against him, her buttocks to the curve of his groin, his voice in her ear as the darkness cocooned them. ‘You’re wrong, everyone needs a champion. Even you, Alina.’

  She fell asleep that way, cushioned against him, warm and safe in the pretence that tonight she could let him be hers.

  * * *

  Alina woke early. Something was wrong. For starters, the sun was up and Channing was still in her bed, snoring lightly. That did bring a smile to her face. London’s finest lover snored. Nothing horrendous, mind; however, it did put a different construction on all that perfection one associated with him. Perfection. Champions. That’s what was wrong. She remembered now. He was going to be her champion. Alina groaned. It had been a lovely pretence she’d fallen asleep to.

  The problem with pretence was that it wasn’t real. Pretence didn’t last. In the light of day, it faded from a potent fantasy concocted in the dark to uncomfortable wishes in the light. Hers was no different. Channing knew about the brand. It had stirred an emotional reaction in him. In turn, his response had triggered one in her as well. She’d felt safe, secure, treasured even. But it was all a pretence.

  Channing was very good at pretence. It was his job, after all, it was what made him such a success. He created fantasies women wanted to believe in, fantasies that went beyond the sexual, but encompassed their emotional lives, too. She’d seen it for herself when she’d hired him and she’d seen him at a distance with other women, too. She wasn’t the only one he created that other fantasy for, yet she’d nearly fallen for it again last night.

  She had to remember being here with her was a job, too, for him. It was not unlike the Christmas she’d first hired him. The only difference was that he was here as Amery’s substitute. She could indulge in what he offered, but she had to keep a firm grip on precisely what that offering was—a fantasy that would end, a fantasy that wasn’t real in the first place. This was business first and last for Channing. She’d do best to model that for herself. She would start reasserting a certain distance between her and Channing this morning.

  Her brain registered a faint rustling somewhere in the room. It wasn’t only the sensation of waking next to Channing that had drawn her from sleep with a feeling of unease. Something else was wrong. She caught the rustle again. Someone was in the room.

  ‘Celeste?’ Alina called out. Ugh, her voice sounded awful, proof of a late night.

  ‘Comtesse.’ Celeste hurried towards the bed, giving Channing’s sleeping form an approving smile before launching into her news. ‘I thought you would want to know at once. Roland Seymour’s carriage left here at dawn with trunks and all.’

  That got her attention. Alina sat up, her mind whirling. The bastard wasn’t supposed to leave until tomorrow like the rest of them. He’d be in London this afternoon before the offices closed. She didn’t want him discovering anything until she was back in town and had access to her team of solicitors. Damn and double damn. There was only one thing to do. Alina threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. ‘We must pack, Celeste.’ She was going to have to go after him, that despicable bounder.

  ‘Right now?’ Celeste queried, nodding towards Channing.

  ‘Right now. We can’t have him reaching town before us. Lay out my travelling dress.’

  This was not the morning she was hoping for. The day had been set aside for ‘recovering’ by their hostess. Guests would sleep the morning away, spend the day overseeing packing and perhaps taking a few quiet last walks with friends they’d made. She’d been looking forward to such a day, a day to celebrate that her efforts in regards to this party had been successful. A day to rest, to think of nothing before she had to think of what lay ahead in London; a Season she was obligated to attend just to prove to everyone her reputation was passable, reeling in Seymour and his dishonest heists. All she had wanted was one day of peace. What she had got was...

  ‘I think it’s time you tell me what is going on.’ His voice sounded like gravel.

  Channing. Wonderful. He was awake.

  Alina turned from her dressing table. Celeste had come to the doorway of the dressing room. ‘It might be best, madame. You could use an ally.’

  Alina gave Celeste a hard stare. She did not appreciate the vote of confidence in Channing, but Celeste’s point was well taken. If she didn’t tell Channing, he might seek out the information on his own and that could prematurely tip her hand before she was ready. Perhaps this was a case of keeping one’s enemies closer. Not that Channing was an enemy precisely, but interference was.

  If this was to be all business, she had to begin as she meant to go on. ‘If you promise to let me do this my way, I’ll tell you. But I must have your word, Channing.’

  ‘It seems I have no choice but to agree.’ Channing propped himself up on the pillows, the sheet falling to his waist. Celeste’s eyes popped at the sight of his bare chest. Alina wished he had the decency to cover himself. It was one thing for her to see him naked, but she found she didn’t like the idea of others seeing him in the same state.

  Alina took a deep breath. ‘Roland Seymour is a swindler and bankrupter of the unsuspecting. He offers to help people in distress by becoming a partner on deeds to their properties in exchange for loaning them money during the interim. Eventually the deed reverts full ownership back to the original holder and it does, just as agreed upon, but in the meantime he takes out huge loans, using the land as collateral. When he defaults on his loans, the banks come looking to possess the land, which is now back in the unsuspecting victim’s hands, and, since Seymour is only a co-signer on the deed, the owner is now responsible.’ She tried to keep the telling unemotional, tried to keep it devoid of the sordid way such a practice had affected her family.

  Channing pushed a hand through his already-tousled hair and groaned, a far different groan than the ones he’d given the night before. ‘Celeste, I’m going to need coffee.’ He looked around the room. ‘And I’m going to need my clothes. My valet will know what to send over. I think better when I’m dressed.’ He gave her a once over in her white dressing robe. ‘How about you, comtesse? Clothes?’

  Alina shook her head and scowled. ‘This is what I feared would happen.’

  Channing cocked his head. ‘What? Getting dressed or do you prefer to do your thinking naked? I could be persuaded to try, I suppose, although I can’t guarantee which head I’ll think with.’

>   Alina’s frustration rose. She was trying to keep their ‘morning after’ interaction all business, absent of any reference to uncomfortable disclosures from the night before. Channing wasn’t helping. He was using an entirely different script, wanting to play and flirt and interfere. ‘This is no laughing matter. I’ve signed over a deed to him in order to catch him in action.’

  What he ought to say was, ‘I can see you have important matters to deal with, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.’

  What he said instead was, ‘I suggest you get dressed. We have a lot of thinking to do.’ Channing’s grin vanished. ‘It won’t just be a disaster, it will be dangerous. A man like Seymour won’t take kindly to being thwarted and he’ll be even less appreciative of being exposed. Have you thought of that?’ He sounded angry. He also sounded as if he understood everything after her brief summary. She’d forgotten how quick his mind was when it came to grasping nuances.

  ‘I’d hate to think that the world would prefer to ignore a wrong simply out of fear to right it,’ Alina answered firmly. But she knew herself to be a hypocrite in that regard. She doubted she’d be so motivated to stop Seymour if he hadn’t personally struck at her family. When it had happened she’d been in France, unable to stop it until it was too late. But she’d spent the year and a half of her return gathering the information she’d need to bring Seymour down. If she was for ever to be branded with her former husband’s title, she was going to put it to good use. The Comtesse de Charentes was no longer powerless.

  ‘Good God, you’re set on this.’ Channing sighed. ‘Celeste, make that a lot of coffee.’

  He was staying. So much for ridding herself of Channing’s presence. It wasn’t precisely the outcome she’d sought. But there were other ways of establishing distance, it wasn’t only a consideration of proximity. If there was one good thing to come out of the morning, it was that she’d succeeded in keeping this all business. As long as they were discussing Seymour, they weren’t discussing her or any of the foolish things she’d given vent to in the night.