Alexandra lifted her head and tongued the shell of his ear. “Hard and fast. Now.”
Nick shut his eyes. “Thank christ,” he breathed.
Then he reared back and slammed into her.
Yes. Yes. This was how she wanted it: his body moving fast against hers, muscles straining as he fucked her. The scrape of his teeth as he marked her, pain mixed with pleasure.
Later, he would have all the time in the world to explore her body, for her to do the same. She wanted to know every inch of him, the cause of each scar that marked his body, ones she traced as she slid her hands down his back and roughly turned her nails in.
With his free hand, he hitched up her thigh to change the angle. His cock went deeper, harder, but it wasn’t enough for her. Would it ever be enough? She wanted him beneath her skin, marked in her bones. She wanted to spend the rest of her life learning the shape of him, hearing the roar of his breath in her ear as he whispered filthy words that should have made her blush.
“Come,” he told her, moving faster now. “Alex. Please come.”
She smiled once more. She liked it when he begged her. “No.”
“No?” Nick slid a hand between their bodies, pressing his fingers to that sensitive place between her legs. “Still no?”
A shiver went through her. Her toes curled and she lifted off the bed. “Nick.”
“That’s it,” he murmured, circling with his fingertips. “Come for me, sweetheart.”
Alexandra dug her heels into the blankets. Her head swam, and warmth diffused through her. The pleasure built, and built, until she didn’t think she could stand it anymore. Her fingernails marked his skin, for he was her anchor, the only thing tying her to the earth.
She came with a rough gasp of his name from her lips.
Almost immediately, he gripped the headboard and shuddered above her as he experienced his own release. Some strange power came over Alexandra as she watched him; she had done that. Brought him to pleasure. Made him come apart.
She wanted to put him back together and unravel him again. Every day. Every night.
For the rest of her life.
Hours later, Alexandra stretched languidly in bed as Nick pressed another soft kiss to the arch of her neck. “Is it always like this?” Alexandra asked with a smile as Nick trailed his lips down her throat.
They had dozed for a while, and Alexandra had never slept so well as in the cradle of Nick’s arms. The warmth of his body pressed to hers had brought safety as much as comfort. Then, when she woke later, all she wanted was to have him inside her again.
Alexandra had made her intentions known by taking Nick’s hand and pressing it to her wet quim. Fuck, he’d breathed, and that filthy word had burned her ears. One single breath later and she was under him once more, and his cock was inside her, and she came so hard that it made her dizzy.
Nick went still at her question, his lips pressed to her pulse. When he breathed, it was soft and ragged. “No. Only with you.”
Alexandra smiled and slid her hands into his hair. “Good. Then it will always be like this between us.” He froze, his entire body stiffening over hers. “Nick?”
Nick lifted his head. In the candlelight, those eyes were deep pools of black, as unfathomable as the space between stars. He was beautiful like this, high cheekbones stark and shadowed, lips swollen from kissing her. But his expression had grown distant again, and Alexandra felt the precipice between them widening and deepening once more.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”
He frowned. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You are. You’re leaving me for that place in your mind I can’t reach.” Her fingers trailed down the smooth line of his back until they rested on one of his scars. “Is that where you got these?”
Nick’s jaw clenched, and for a moment Alexandra wondered if he would answer at all. Then, very quietly: “Yes.” He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. “I love you,” he told her. “I love you. Remember that when we return to Stratfield Saye.”
And he pulled her close and held her so tightly that she felt his heart beat against hers.
“Let me speak to your father,” Thorne said as he and Alexandra waited in the foyer at Roseburn. The butler had raised a disapproving eyebrow when they arrived, but nevertheless went to tell the earl his daughter had returned.
“Why not go to your house?” she asked, biting her lip. “We’ll send for my brother James. He’ll be much more understanding, and he’ll make Father see reason.”
Their train had arrived in London that morning. Every hour that passed during their journey made Thorne wish they had more time. More hours. More minutes. More days. He had fucked her again in their private rail cabin, brought her to climax several times. What a bastard he was, that he didn’t stop her when she’d straddled him. When she’d plucked at the buttons of his trousers and palmed his cock and guided him inside her. These were not borrowed moments, but stolen ones.
Because Thorne was not a good man. There was not a thing in his life that he had ever earned honestly—not even her.
And he was so afraid of losing her.
Thorne flattened his lips. No matter. He owed her the confession. If her father gave it first, he’d gloat over her new husband’s deception, use it to cut her down, break her heart. Fuck, her heart was going to be broken either way, but Thorne intended to tell her that his words last night were the truth.
He loved her.
Thorne cupped her cheek and she leaned into his touch. He marveled at how instinctively she did so, and it pained him to realize she would never do this again. Today, he held her trust.
And today, he was going to lose it.
“Your father needs to hear it from me,” Thorne said. “Will you wait here?”
Alexandra hesitated. “You shouldn’t go in alone.”
The butler returned and said the earl was receiving. Thorne dropped his hand from Alexandra’s cheek. “Don’t worry for me, Alex,” he said softly. He couldn’t bear it. “I don’t deserve it.”
Thorne left her and followed the butler down the hall to the Earl of Kent’s study. Kent stood at the window with a glass of brandy in his hand. At Thorne’s arrival, he dismissed the servant.
“Please tell me you wed the little baggage,” Kent said.
Thorne’s hands tightened into fists. So this was what a deal with the devil was like: to get everything you want and still lose everything. “We’re married, yes.”
“Thank Christ.” Kent went over to his desk and set down the snifter. “When you hadn’t bedded her yet, I was beginning to think you weren’t worth my time and investment.” He glanced over at Thorne. “You did bed her, yes? Her brothers won’t care if she’s my wife’s bastard. My heir isn’t without resources for an annulment.”
Thorne was moments away from slamming his fist into the earl’s face, but he restrained himself. The last thing he needed was to be put in the gaol for assaulting a lord. He didn’t have the kind of power yet to avoid prison.
One day he would.
He’d make sure of it.
“We had a deal,” Thorne said flatly. “And I’ve done my duty, as we agreed.” You piece of shite. “Pay up.”
The earl smiled coldly. There was no mistaking his regard: they were both mercenaries. This was a business transaction. And Thorne had come to get what he was owed.
After all, he’d sold his soul to do it.
“Of course.” Kent opened a drawer and pulled out a pouch and a stack of papers. “Her trust is yours. Her money is yours. Take these jewels—” he tossed Thorne the bag, who caught it easily—“and our business is settled. Congratulations, guttersnipe. You’re a rich man now.”
The soft gasp behind him lanced through Thorne’s heart. Slowly, he turned. Alex stood at the door of the study, her chest rising and falling with her breaths. She stared at the velvet bag in his hand—which suddenly felt as if it weighed a bloody ton—then at the pape
rs on the earl’s desk. Though she couldn’t see the print from her vantage, she had to know what they were: the contents of her trust.
All one-hundred thousand pounds of it.
And everything, down to the last farthing, belonged to Thorne.
She flinched in sudden realization, and the hurt in her face nearly broke him. “Alex.”
“No,” she breathed, putting up a hand. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
“You didn’t tell her,” Kent said with a chuckle of disbelief. “My god, she still thinks you’re a lord, doesn’t she?”
Alex’s eyes met his. Another sharp pain went through Thorne’s chest. He thought of her expression in the foyer only minutes ago, the trust in her expression. Already, he felt its absence so keenly. Christ god, he was a monster.
“Who are you?” Her voice held some plaintive note, as if she begged for reassurance that what she saw and heard was all false. That there was a reasonable explanation. Something that did not hurt. “Tell me.”
He would not lie to her, not anymore. Never again.
But it was her father who answered. “He’s a nobody,” Kent said with a shrug. “Some criminal from the East End I hired to take you off my hands.”
Thorne glanced at him sharply. “Enough, damn you.”
Alex took a step back, inching closer to the door. Thorne didn’t know if it was instinctual, or if she were waiting for the opportunity to escape. “Why?” Thorne heard the pain in her question, the understanding that the man she thought was her father didn’t just neglect her; he worked to destroy her. “What have ever I done to—”
“Don’t you understand, you stupid girl? You’re. Not. Mine,” the earl said through his teeth. “Your mother never thought I’d find out that she humiliated me by siring a bastard under my fucking roof. I’ll be damned if I let another man’s by-blow marry a peer using my reputation. You’re lucky she secured you a trust, otherwise you and your new husband would be living on the streets begging for scraps.”
“I said that’s enough,” Thorne snapped.
His words drew Alexandra’s attention. The betrayal in her expression . . . god, he wanted to get on his knees before her. Beg her forgiveness. He’d give her whatever she wanted, if only . . . if only . . .
Tears rolled down Alex’s cheeks.
Her father marveled at the sight. “You must have been a great fuck, Thorne. I’ve never even seen her cry.”
Thorne spun, about to punch Kent in his arrogant goddamn face—fuck prison, he’d risk it—but Alexandra let out a sob and took off.
With a swear, Thorne dropped his fist and went after her. “Alex!” She didn’t stop. Her speed was fueled by hurt. She exited the house and ran down the steps to the drive. Thorne caught up and reached for her. “Alex, wait.”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me, Nick.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “My god, is that even your name? He called you Thorne.”
“My name is Nicholas Thorne,” he said quietly. “My Christian name was the truth.”
She was breathing hard now, her voice trembling as she asked, “And everything else?” At his hesitation, she balled her hands into fists. “Everything else, Nick. How we met? My father forbidding me to see you? Was it all lies to get my money?”
By some miracle, Thorne managed to remain standing. By some bigger miracle, his heart had not been cut out and handed to her on a platter. These were only impressions, the nearest approximation he had for the feelings that rioted inside him. It would be easier, he realized, to sink onto the ground and offer her the organ beating in his chest.
But it was worth nothing. He had nothing of value to give her.
“Yes,” he said very quietly. The word settled like coal smoke in his mouth. “It was all lies for your money.”
“Oh god.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh god, I’m going to be sick.”
Reflexively, Thorne reached for her again. He had grown too used to the ease of it, and wished he hadn’t taken every touch for granted. “If you’ll just let me expl—”
“I said don’t fucking touch me, Nick.”
Alex backed away, her hands grasping her dress so hard that her knuckles were white. She took gulping breaths, her body visibly shaking with the effort. Then, with each passing moment, her exhalations began to slow. Her body began to relax. And something cold and hard settled in her gaze as she stared at him. It was a wall, he comprehended. A citadel she erected around herself, brick by brick, until it reached an unscalable height. He was left out in the cold, circling those high walls, until he had no choice but to retreat. She was no longer open to him.
Her heart was a fortress.
“I’m taking the carriage to my brother’s,” Alex said flatly. “You will not come with me. And you tell my . . .” She clenched her jaw. “Tell the earl that if he informs a single person about this marriage, I’ll tell everyone who will listen that his wife made him a cuckold.”
Thorne would do more than that. He’d make threats if he had to. He’d do whatever she asked—whatever she wanted. He owed her that much.
“All right,” he said gently. “There’s a tavern in Whitechapel called the Hare and Hounds. Will you send word—”
“I will only send word if I am with child.” Her expression was hard. “Legally, I can do nothing about the fact that my money now belongs to you. Take it. Do whatever the hell you want with it. Spend it all, if that’s your wish. But you will not seek to contact me. I don’t want to know you.”
The fist around his heart tightened. You deserve this. You deserve this. You deserve this.
But he had to tell her that there was one truth. Only one. “Alex,” he said. “I meant what I said last night.”
I love you. Remember that when we return to Stratfield Saye.
She stiffened. The last words she spoke to him broke his heart in two. “I don’t believe you.”
Alex spoke to the coachman and got in the carriage. He watched as the conveyance disappeared down the drive.
Chapter 18
London. Four years later.
The hack would not go into the St Giles rookeries.
Thorne could hardly blame the driver for his reluctance. There were certain places in London vehicles didn’t stop, even in the light of day.
As they walked past the tenements, Thorne kept a wary eye out for pickpockets. Just from the look of Alex, it was clear she didn’t belong. Even her plain gray walking dress was too clean and well-made for these parts.
“Up here,” Alex said, indicating with a nod. She ignored the old drunkard who stared, his trembling hand plucking at the buttons of his worn trousers as he relieved himself against the wall.
“Who is this woman, exactly?” Thorne asked, following her across the street.
“Millicent Kirkpatrick was trafficked to Australia to work in Lord Seymour’s opal mines.” She took them down a narrow alleyway. “One of the guards there took a fancy to Millie and helped her escape and, by some grace of god, she ended up back on English shores. She supplied me with all the information on the conditions in the opal trade.” She stopped in front of a tenement door and knocked.
Thorne eased his body in front of hers as a group of youths passed. “How often have you come here?”
She knocked again. “Often enough.”
Thorne’s body was tense. He did not like being out in the streets with Whelan still alive. He fought against some animal urge to bundle Alex up and take her back to the Brimstone. “Alone?”
Alex pressed her lips together and hesitated. “Yes.” She gestured to her clothes and knocked a third time. “Usually I am in something more practical.”
Thorne made a soft noise. “Practical or no, it’s not—”
“Safe? Few places in London are for women.” Thorne would have argued at length with her, but Alex muttered a swear and glanced at him. “You’re a thief. A decent one, so I gathered.”
“Retired thief. I’m practically respectable now.”
Alex sn
orted. “Practically,” she muttered. She plucked two pins from her coif and passed them to him. “I assume you can pick a lock. Do me the honor, if you please.”
Thorne took the pins from her. “Don’t change the topic.”
“You’re about to lecture me about safety and I wish to avoid that conversation entirely.” She watched him with interest as he got to work on the lock. “Where did you learn to do this?”
A soft, wistful smile came to his face. “My ma.” With the pin, he felt for the give and resistance of inner mechanisms, listened for the right clicks. “She had a crew back in Dublin. They stole only what they needed and took care of each other. But the famine hit hard, and they had to choose between leaving or starving. The others settled in New York. Ma was the only one who came to London. Hoped she’d get back to her country one day.” He lifted a shoulder. “America seemed too far. Too unfamiliar.”
“Did she ever . . .” she bit her lip, but didn’t finish the question.
“No.” He had the lock open now. Whelan had demanded efficiency; Thorne could pick a lock with his eyes closed, in mere seconds. Now he toyed with the mechanism, wanting to linger with her a moment longer. “Never went back. Sold herself to the wrong man one night. He wasn’t quick with her.”
Her face had gone soft with some thought or another. She was always thinking, his wife. “Did you find this man?”
“Sure, I found him some years later.” Thorne could no longer tarry with the lock; eventually she’d notice that he’d opened and closed it several times. He shoved open the door and stepped aside for her. “And I wasn’t quick with him.”
Alex stepped past him and hesitated. Something unfathomable passed through her expression, one he could not comprehend. She was a lock he could not pick, one forged from the strongest steel and most complex mechanisms. The only way through her walls was if she let him inside.
Her light touch on his arm made Thorne’s breath catch. It indicated some weakness in the lock of her heart, the tiniest mechanism yielding. “Good,” she whispered, and then she disappeared into the tenement.
Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2) Page 16