by Zoë Archer
* * *
Too late, Marco realized he’d trapped himself. He’d booked only one sleeping compartment, instead of two. It had been his idea to play the part of Bronwyn’s gigolo—and now he paid for both choices. Just as he’d paid the price after kissing her.
Why her gigolo? Couldn’t he have been her Italian cousin? No—he’d wanted it, wanted her. He kept discovering more and more about her, beyond easy categorization. She was much more than he’d first supposed. Now he needed to taste a desire that already burned him, though he tried to smother that flame. And here he’d gone and thrown further kindling on the fire.
Even before Charles and Lydia had shown up, dinner had been an exercise in exquisite torture. The oysters, of course, had been a mistake. He ought to have refused them or claimed an allergy. Instead, like a ruddy idiot, he’d swallowed the slick, sea-tinged morsels, all the while watching Bronwyn and thinking of that slick place between her legs. A place he wanted to savor much more than the oysters.
The rest of the meal had been by turns a delight and a torment. She was changing before his very eyes. He’d once thought her sheltered. Kinder than the other women of her class, but one of them, just the same. But he saw her evolving into a woman of boldness, who tested the measure of her own strength. She’d been shocked by both his violence against Devere, and the man’s murder. Yet despite her shock, she hadn’t collapsed into a swooning, useless heap. She’d gathered herself up. Moved on.
And she’d cut into him deeply with that clever mind, seeing things about him that no other Nemesis agent had ever discovered. She was far more dangerous than Les Grillons. She was capable of doing him a much greater injury. A knife wound or bullet hole could heal within weeks or months. Bronwyn could hurt him in a far more vulnerable place—a place he’d always kept well guarded. Until her.
As they now made their way from the dining carriage to the sleeping compartment, he watched her sway gently with the motion of the train, and every now and then, her hand reach out to lightly brace herself against the wall.
He tensed when someone opened a door to a private room. He could have his knife in his hand in less than a second, ready to protect her. But the threat wasn’t a threat—only a man ambling to the dining car.
Something was stirring to life inside him, something more than desire. What the hell was this feeling? He’d protected other Nemesis clients before, yet the idea of anything happening to Bronwyn filled him with ice-edged rage.
His hands clenched into fists. Anyone tried to touch her, let alone hurt her, and they’d meet a very ugly death.
“This is us.” He stopped outside one of the sleeping compartments and fished the key from his waistcoat pocket. Maledizione, his hands were actually shaking a little.
Bronwyn watched him with heavy-lidded eyes as he unlocked the door. The same look she’d been giving him all through their meal after the English man and woman had stormed off. The look that had left him hard and aching, barely able to eat for wanting her.
He’d thought the job would be too complicated if they became lovers. Now … now being near her felt impossible. Not without knowing the feel of her around him.
She stepped into the compartment, and he followed, locking the door behind them. For the first time since they’d boarded the train, they were now truly alone.
The compartment wasn’t large, despite the fact that it was first class. Wood and brass fixtures gleamed richly in the lamplight. A rather narrow bed was bolted to one wall, and an even more narrow chair sat in one corner, making the whole space somewhat cramped. A porter had already been through and turned the sheets down, and thoughtfully pulled the blinds.
She stood in front of the window, and, as he watched, reached up to slowly pull the pins from her hair. They dropped to the carpet, and with each one, more of her hair uncurled around her shoulders, until it was loose.
Was he supposed to stop her? Was he to play the honorable gentleman and sleep in the armchair nestled in the corner? He’d no desire to do either.
Words felt cumbersome and unnecessary. They both knew what they wanted, all moments—from the kiss to the ruse in the dining car—leading to this one.
He crossed the small compartment with a single stride, until he stood only inches from her. Her breath came shallowly as she stared up at him. He wasn’t feeling particularly calm, either.
And then they were both pressed tightly together, her arms around his shoulders, his hands cradling her head, as they kissed with a deep hunger. She tasted sweet and spicy, and her mouth was bold. When her tongue lapped against his, the sensation shot directly to his cock, and he was hard as iron.
He cupped her breast. Even through the layers of her clothing, she formed a perfect, small weight in his hand, and she moaned into his mouth.
“Tutto,” he muttered. He spun her around and quickly undid the fastenings of her dress. When this loosened enough, it slid down her shoulders, and she brought her hands up quickly to hold it in place.
“No, cara,” he murmured. “Let me see you.”
Slowly, she lowered her hands, and her slackened gown slid until it pooled at her waist. For a moment, she kept her chin lowered, a bright blush high on her cheeks. The lamplight revealed the soft paleness of her arms, her neck, as she stood with her corset and the top of her combination showing.
“Ah, bella,” he said on an exhale.
She peered up at him through her lashes. Then her chest rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath, as if readying herself. And then, slowly, slowly, she shimmied out of the gown. Took her time carefully folding it and tucking it into one of the suitcases. Delaying.
Until she couldn’t delay any more. She stood before him in her corset, combination, stockings, and boots. Tiny strawberry-hued freckles dotted her flesh.
How many other men had seen her this way? Was he only the second? How goddamn brave she was. So brave that it made him feel humble and thankful and even a little afraid. All at once. He couldn’t remember the last woman he’d taken to bed who’d shown so much trust. Who’d given so much of herself. Far easier to think of sex as just an exchange between two bodies, a mutual satisfying of animal need. But this held so much more. She’d been so fearful when he’d first met her, so full of trepidation. Yet here she was now, more courageous than she’d ever been.
He’d half a mind to pull the blanket from the bed and cover her. Shielding them both. But his need was too strong, and he looked and looked.
Drawing herself up even more, she worked at her corset, until at last the constricting garment peeled away. Through the fine lawn of her combination, her nipples made large, rosy circles, pointed and tempting. She drew in another strengthening breath, then unbuttoned her combination and shoved it down over her hips and to the floor.
Now she was naked, save for her stockings and boots. And the sight of her in partial nudity nearly made him tear the train apart. The fine silk of her stockings framed the red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs. Her small breasts were delicious and high, crowned with those beautiful nipples. Yet she couldn’t meet his gaze, looking everywhere but at him.
“Dio mio, sei bellissima,” he growled.
She glanced up. The uncertainty on her face flickered, her expression turning bolder. “I don’t speak Italian,” she said in a husky murmur, “but if it means what I think it does, you’d better kiss me. Now.”
He pulled her close, reveling in the feel of her body against him, kissing her, tracing every curve—from the dip of her waist to the flare of her hips and the softness of her belly. He took one breast in his hand, thumbing the nipple to an even firmer point. When he lightly pinched it, she melted against him, pressing her hips tight to his. The feel of his clothing against her bare skin must have aroused her, because she moaned again when his wool suit rasped over her flesh.
The train continued to rock as his other hand slid down her stomach, then lower, until he dipped a finger between her folds. Now it was his turn to moan as he found her soaking. He
stroked her, first with one finger, then two, his thumb circling the taut bud of her clit. She gasped into his mouth. Then, hesitantly, her hand slid down his chest, then lower. He groaned roughly when her hand caressed down the front of his trousers and cupped his straining, aching cock, uncertainly at first, then with more boldness.
“Sei bellissima,” she breathed, and he didn’t care if she spoke the words properly. All that mattered was the way she touched him, tentatively, then with audacity.
But he didn’t want this to be over before it had had a proper start. Having nursed a husband through a long illness, and then eight months of widowhood, she was due some pleasure.
So he led her to the narrow little chair and eased her to sitting. He pulled off his jacket and threw it aside. Then he knelt in front of her.
“You remember that postcard we found,” he said.
Eyes wide, she nodded.
“Did it arouse you?”
Another nod, this one a little more hesitant.
“You saw that woman with that man between her legs. Licking her. Tasting her. And you wanted to be her. Wanted to feel a man’s tongue on your pussy.”
She inhaled at his crude language, but didn’t reprimand him. If anything, the flush on her skin deepened.
“Now it’s your turn, fragola.”
“Fragola?”
“Strawberry.” Gently, he lifted her legs and rested her thighs on his shoulders. Baring her gorgeous pussy.
She slid her hands down, covering herself.
“No, cara,” he said softly, “don’t hide. Not with me. You and I, we can be whoever we want together. In this compartment. In this flicker of time. You want to be the woman in the postcard, and I want to be the man. Let’s be them. Let’s be us.”
For a moment, she continued to shield herself. Then, gradually, she leaned back, her hands gripping the back of the chair so her breasts were thrust upward.
He’d never seen anything more beautiful, more erotic. More courageous. And after sending up a silent prayer of thanks to all the gods of love, he bent his mouth to her.
She gasped at the first stroke of his tongue. And the second, and the one that followed that. Damn him, but she tasted delicious and felt like living silk, wet and eager for his attentions. His tongue caressed her. His mouth devoured her. She was a feast, and so responsive, he nearly came just from tasting her. It was almost a mistake to look up at her, see the flush spread over her skin and her eyes closed, mouth open in ecstasy. A mistake because he wanted nothing more than to tear open the buttons on his trousers and plunge his cock into her. But she would have as much pleasure as he could give before he even considered pursuing his own release.
He slid a finger into her as he sucked her clit. Moved his finger in and out of her, feeling her tightness around him and the bud of her clit between his lips. Her teeth clamped against her bottom lip, holding in her sounds of pleasure. He found the swollen spot inside her and stroked against it.
She barely managed to clap a hand over her mouth as she bowed up with a scream. Her body was tense and exquisite in her climax, and she gave herself to her orgasm completely.
With a groan, she collapsed back against the chair. She was quiet for a long time, save for her gasps.
Eventually, she stirred. “How do you say ‘now you’ in Italian?”
“Ora tu.”
“Ora tu,” she repeated.
“Non ancora, fragola. Not yet.” He bent back down between her legs. Made her come again. And once more. For all the years of suffering she’d endured, for all the uncertainty she’d faced since her husband’s death, he wanted to give and give sensation. Only when she lay draped bonelessly in the chair, panting and glassy-eyed, did he relent.
“Marco,” she sighed, when he finally sat back on his heels, “I want everything.”
“Sì, cara.” He stood and shucked his clothing with unseemly haste. He couldn’t remember wanting—needing—a woman more.
As he disrobed, she removed her boots and slowly, maddeningly rolled down her stockings, revealing long ivory legs. Her hungry gaze went straight to his cock, which stood up even higher beneath her scrutiny.
“I’m flattered,” she murmured.
“And I can’t wait for you anymore.” With one movement, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her the short distance to the bed. There, he draped her across the linens, and she made a symphony of delicately flushed skin, along with the blaze of her hair spread upon the pillows. When she opened her arms to him, it took all his strength not to throw himself upon her and take her like an animal.
Instead, he forced himself to move slowly. He knelt at the foot of the bed and prowled toward her. The blush on her flesh deepened when she sensed his predatory intent, and she moved slightly in retreat. Then she touched his arm and pulled him toward her. Welcoming him.
He stretched out over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head. He barely had to nudge her knees apart—her legs were already open to accept him. Slowly, slowly, he lowered his head for a kiss. She met him halfway, as if too eager to dally, and she made a little erotic hum when they kissed.
He lowered his hips, allowing himself the gradual, unfolding pleasure of feeling her bare skin against his. Her softness to his solidity. And there, ah there, the tip of his cock met her flesh, so wet and ready. He teased her a bit, rubbing the head along her folds and opening. Impatient, she lifted her hips higher, but he managed to find the strength to hold himself back.
But not for long. It seemed like an eternity that he’d wanted this woman. And slowly, he slid into her.
She cried out, and he growled.
The sound of the train’s wheels and its rocking motion set the pace as he stroked in and out, surrounding himself with her tightness. She gripped him, taking all of him, her legs wrapping around his waist. Bracing himself on his elbows, he fought the urge to close his eyes and revel in sensation. Instead, he watched her face and the play of pleasure across her features. There was no false modesty, no holding back. She finally gave herself to sensation, and to him, completely.
He felt his release building, fiery and unstoppable. So he shifted his hips, moving up slightly so that with each thrust, he rubbed against her clit.
Her orgasm hit her almost at once, and his own followed immediately after. He’d just enough presence of mind to pull out, his seed scattering across her stomach. It went on and on, his climax, until he was wrung dry, and collapsed beside her. They lay gasping for many moments.
Cristo santo, it had never been like that before. Where he’d given so much and received a bounty in return.
He staggered to the lavatory and retrieved a damp cloth, which he used to clean her. She watched his ministrations, a curious, soft expression on her face.
He made his way back to the bed and sank down. Something in him was pierced when she snuggled close. God, she gave so much. He had so much less to give. His body only. The years had carved him out, leaving him hollow, and nothing and no one could ever fill that chasm.
* * *
Marco was awake, washed and dressed, an hour before the sun rose. An old habit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken past daybreak, and it was impossible for him to lie abed—even with the delicious form of Bronwyn pressed close and soft limbed beside him. So he spent the time sitting in the chair, reviewing Devere’s coded documents and becoming more and more glad that the blasted fool was dead.
Devere had been playing far too easily with his clients’ money. Worse still, he’d kept digging himself in deeper and deeper, until he’d made that moronic decision to get into bed with Les Grillons. The loan he’d taken from the syndicate must have been astronomical, and Marco had to wonder if Les Grillons had agreed to the loan with the knowledge that Devere would never be able to pay them back. Perhaps the organization had gone along with the scheme just for the sadistic pleasure of watching Devere twist, knowing that no matter how much he recompensed them, it wouldn’t ever be enough, and the ultimate price
would be the idiot Englishman’s life.
Bronwyn sighed in her sleep, and Marco glanced up from his documents to watch her drowsily stretch, then fall back into slumber. Something ached in the center of his chest. He dug his knuckles there to soothe it, though it provided little relief.
He could use his fists. Been trained in all varieties of hand-to-hand combat.
Before anything could happen to her, he’d kill. Or give up his own life. He always acted in the best interest of the mission—but he moved in perilous territory now where she was concerned.
He wasn’t a stranger to working with female agents, both in his work for British Intelligence and for Nemesis. They were tough, capable women. And while Bronwyn had proven that she had all those qualities, she was untrained. He ought to teach her some defensive techniques. And a few offensive maneuvers, too.
Nothing would befall her. He swore this to himself.
Bronwyn woke by the time the sun turned the Provençal hills purple and gold. She stretched again and smiled at him. A tentative smile. And she tucked the sheets close around her. Ah, so she was feeling hints of uncertainty and guilt.
“Sleep well?” he asked mildly. Seemed a likely beginning to a conversation after tempestuous sex.
“Dreams.” A small frown appeared between her brows.
“Your late husband,” he deduced. “He was angry.”
“Not angry, but … mystified. We were back in our home in London, and he was wandering from room to room, looking for my veil. ‘I know you just had it,’ he kept saying. ‘It was here only a moment ago.’” Her frown deepened.
“Last night,” he said, setting aside the papers, “doesn’t change you. Not the core of you. It doesn’t make you a wicked woman.”
She sat up, but still kept the sheets close around her. “I feel wicked.”
“One night,” he said. “That’s all we’ll have. If that’s what you want.” Though it would be an exercise in agonized restraint to be near her, knowing her fully as he did, and not want more.