by Alyson Chase
For the right price, however, Molly could be whatever he needed. She was by far the most skilled lightskirt at The Black Rose. Molding her personality to suit whomever she entertained. The members clamored for her time, and Colleen had spent many an hour trying to calendar the girl in so she could meet the most requests. The members loved how perfectly attuned Molly was to each of their needs; and each of their needs were quite varied. She was a chameleon in a silk gown.
The men found her mysterious and alluring. Colleen was not so easily misled. Molly liked money. She liked shiny things. And she liked telling men what to do. Colleen had witnessed the girl at the handle-end of a whip too many times to mistake the glee in the girl’s face when she made a man beg. Molly could play the servant when called upon, but her true nature reveled in being in control.
Sutton shifted closer to Colleen, and her heart warmed. “A kind offer,” he told Molly, “but I assure you I am not without companionship.”
“As I see.” She looked Colleen up and down. “But unless our new manager has an untamed side she keeps hidden under that waistcoat, I’m sure you’re not getting everything that you need. If you ever want to play, come find me. I can take the heat.” And with a wink at Sutton, she threaded her arm through Lucy’s, and the two of them strolled to a waiting hackney.
Sutton pressed his lips into a white slash. “I believe she thinks that you and I have begun a liaison.”
“Yes.” The harlot believed that Colleen was untamed enough to set aside her morals and engage in an affair with the baron, but too domesticated to meet the baron’s more exotic needs. Her shoulders sagged, her body feeling heavy. Not for the first time, Colleen wished she were that woman. The type to loosen the strings on her stays and kick off her petticoats. But that wasn’t how she was raised. She wouldn’t know how to be that woman. And even though such behavior might be pleasurable, it still wouldn’t be right.
“I’ll catch her up and set her straight.” Sutton tugged his hat down and took a step towards the hackney.
“Don’t bother.” She grabbed his sleeve. “It hardly matters.” And a tiny part of her didn’t want the boring truth to be known. She wanted someone out there to believe her just a little bit dissolute.
“Now”—Colleen pulled her pocket watch from her waistcoat and checked the time—“I need to be getting back to the club. That luncheon isn’t going to serve itself.”
Setting her shoulders, she started off down the street.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I told you.” She looked over her shoulder and lowered her brow. “Back to the club.”
“You’re walking?”
“That is how I typically make it from one point to another.” She paused when a group of dogs ran in front of her, the lead mutt carrying a meaty bone in its mouth. This morning’s walk had been almost enjoyable wearing the boots she’d pulled from the bottom of her wardrobe. The thick soles had cushioned her feet and lengthened her stride.
Sutton turned her around. “I have a carriage. I’ll give you a ride back to the club.” A footman hopped down from the back and opened the door when he saw them coming. Sutton handed her in. “Why didn’t you hire a hackney, woman? It must be seven miles to The Black Rose.”
“Hackneys cost money.” Colleen tucked her feet under the bench seat, trying to hide her new boots under the hem of her short skirt. “I’ve been saving up every penny I can.” Sutton settled next to her, and she scooted to the wall, placing the daffodils on the seat between them. Best to head temptation off where she could. “I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”
Sutton pounded on the roof. He took off his hat and tossed it on the seat across from them. “Why does it no longer matter?”
Turning on her hip, she glared at the man. “Is that a serious question?” She didn’t wait for a response. She poked his biceps. “It no longer matters because of you. You broke your word to me, and now Mr. Ridley will most likely sell his flower shop before you give me my premium.”
For emphasis, and because she liked the contact, she poked him again.
Quick as a snake, he locked her finger with his own. “Won’t Mr. Ridley wait a bit longer?”
“Says the man with pockets as deep as a grave.” She pulled on her finger, but he refused to let it go. “To men like you, waiting a couple of months for five hundred quid isn’t of great concern. But for people like Mr. Ridley and me, it matters.”
Bringing her finger to his mouth, he pressed a glancing kiss to the back of her knuckle. His beard tickled her skin, and she repressed a shiver. His lips were as soft as she’d imagined.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Bonner. I don’t mean to make light of your situation.”
“Colleen,” she told him, her gaze trapped on his mouth. A small dent creased the center of his bottom lip, and she licked her own. “And if you feel badly, you can pay me what you owe and we’ll call it even.”
He was silent a moment. “You wish me to call you by your Christian name?”
She faced forwards, a move made awkward by her trapped hand. Their carriage rolled past Parliament, and her stomach rolled with it. She shouldn’t have opened her mouth. He was her employer, not an intimate.
But once she’d heard her given name on his lips, returning to Mrs. Bonner seemed a shame.
She jerked her head up and down.
He lowered their hands to his lap. “Well then Colleen, tell me, if I were to give you your premium now, would you stay at the club until this matter is resolved?”
“Or course not.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled. “Most people would lie, tell me what I want to hear and then take the money and run. But not you.” He rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand. “I’d be honored to call you Colleen.”
Colleen had never been so happy that she hadn’t put on her gloves that morning. His hand was bare, as well, and he circled the tip of his thumb on her skin until she felt the pattern imprinted down to the bone.
The caress was so small, so innocent. But as the seconds dragged on, a low hum started deep in her body, a heat that pulsed with every swirl of his finger. Her mind blanked of rational thought, and all she could contemplate was the softness of his lips. The scratch of his beard. Of how her whole life she’d behaved as she ought, as society dictated.
Molly had thought her adventurous enough to take a lover, and Colleen wanted to live that, if only for a day.
She took a deep breath. Two. Her desires were sinful, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care at the moment. Gathering her nerve, she crawled onto the seat on her knees and dug her free hand into Sutton’s beard. His mouth rounded in surprise, and she took full advantage. Closing her eyes, she crushed her lips to his.
Warm. Sweet. And a little scratchy on her cheeks. Altogether quite nice. A marked improvement on Mr. Bonner’s kisses, God rest his soul.
But not the fireworks she’d been expecting.
Sutton drew back. “Are you certain you want this?”
Was she? Not entirely. But she was sure she didn’t want to go through the rest of her life abiding by all the rules. She wanted to be able to look back and say that she’d stepped off the expected path once or twice.
Holding her breath, she nodded.
He circled her ribs with his large hands and lifted her into a straddle across his thighs. With one palm at the base of her spine, he wrapped the other around the nape of her neck and pulled her close.
The carriage rocked beneath them, and her sex rubbed against something hard and long. “Oh my,” she whispered, their mouths inches apart.
His breath feathered across her lips an instant before he closed the distance.
This kiss was nothing like their first. Angling her head, he took her mouth, sucking at her bottom lip, sending sparks racing to her center with each pull. He bit down, tugging at her lip, creating an opening. When he swept his tongue inside, Colleen jolted in surprise.
He explored every inch of her mouth, taking his ti
me, making her feel like she was someone worth getting to know. Her scalp prickled, her core ached. The sensations coursing her body were so unknown her mind couldn’t determine if her discomfort was from unmet need or shock at his technique.
Never had Mr. Bonner kissed her like this.
“Colleen?” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes, my lord?” She chased his mouth, but he tugged her head back.
“If I call you Colleen, you’d damn well better call me Max.” He slid his hand from her back and down her thigh. The warmth from his palm penetrated her skirt and petticoat, but it was nothing like the scalding heat when he reached under her skirts and touched bare flesh. He skimmed back up her leg. Without anything between them.
Sweat beaded at her temple. Closing her eyes, she drowned in stimulation. Her breasts felt full, achy. And each stroke of his fingers on her inner thigh sent a longing pulsing through her core. She shifted closer, tried to open her legs wider.
“I’m waiting.” He brushed his fingertips over the crease where thigh met her most intimate flesh. He drifted so tantalizing close, before pulling away.
Colleen blinked. “So am I.” Sutton had already brought her more pleasure in two minutes in his carriage than in her entire marriage. He couldn’t stop now. “What is it you’re waiting for?”
“To hear my name from your lips.” He stared down at those lips, and without giving her a chance to comply, bridged the space and took them for another searing kiss. “Such sweet,” he nipped at her bottom lip, “fuckable,” his tongue sparred with hers, “lips.”
Moisture pooled between her legs at his rough language. She’d never heard such a word coming from a toff. Something else that was highly improper and that she enjoyed more than she ought. Her lips curved, and she mumbled “Max” against his mouth.
Wrapping his hand in her hair, he feasted on her until Colleen grew dizzy. She tried to keep up, tried to match him thrust for thrust, but the slick slide of his tongue, the rough caress of his beard, all made it impossible to concentrate. Sunlight warmed her side, and she gave a passing thought to any witnesses that might see them. But it was a small window, and they were bumping awfully fast down the streets. Her body convinced her mind that it was worth the risk.
The hand on her thigh homed in on its target. She gasped, taking more of his tongue, and her knees snapped closed on instinct. Fortunately, instinct couldn’t overcome the barrier of his hips. She was left open, exposed to his touch.
Max eased a thick finger between her swollen folds, and her muscles clutched him eagerly. He pushed deep inside, his digit sliding easily. Dropping her head back, she blinked at the carriage ceiling. She rocked against his hand and took what he gave her. How was it possible that Max with his one finger could make her feel more than relations with her husband ever had?
He dragged his finger from her body and slipped through her slick lower lips to the little bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. “So wet for me.” He circled his finger around her nub, and she stopped breathing.
“Do that again.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Hmmm.” He palmed her outer lips, a nice feeling to be sure, but not what she needed. “For someone so prim and proper, you seem to have forgotten the niceties.” Burying his face below her ear, he inhaled, and sucked her earlobe into his hot mouth. “How about a ‘please Max’? In fact, I’d very much like to hear you say ‘please Max, make me come.’”
If saying please would get her what she wanted, Colleen had no objections. “Please, Max, make me come.” Any embarrassment she might feel at saying those words was well hidden by the flush that already engulfed her from head to toe.
He pressed his finger past her walls, sinking deep into her core. With his thumb, he circled her nub, the pressure a light tease. “Will you say my name, Colleen? When I bring you to crisis, will you scream your pleasure, let all of London know just who is in here satisfying you?”
Slapping her palms to the carriage ceiling, she pressed against the upholstered top, trying to push her body closer into his touch. “Oh God.”
He smiled against her jaw. “I’ll answer to that name, too, if you wish.”
The carriage took a hard turn, and she swore the only thing keeping her on his lap was the finger pinned inside of her. He started a pattern, two hard thrusts followed by a leisurely circle of his thumb. Her muscles bunched tighter, her chest heaved. She was close, so deliciously close, she … just … needed …
Max increased the pressure with his thumb, swirling at the same time with his thrusting finger.
Her spine arched, her nails dug into the cloth canopy. All her air was sucked from her and she grew dizzy. Her heart beat once, twice, and she flew apart, pulse after pulse of pleasure flooding through her body from her fingers to her toes. She rode the waves for as long as she could, Max’s beguiling fingers never ceasing. A long moan tore from her throat.
Wrung out, she slumped forwards, her body molding around Max’s torso like a wet rag over a rock. She drifted in a haze, feeling nothing but her lower body twitching periodically and the soft kisses Max pressed against her brow.
The sounds of London made themselves heard. Their carriage turned from a cacophony of noise into a quieter side street.
Max brushed his fingers against her thigh. “The sounds you make at your completion … like a siren’s call. I didn’t think I could get any harder.” One side of his falls dropped against her skirt, and he moved his hand to unbutton the other side.
The carriage slowed, and Colleen pushed herself up and looked out the window. They rolled past a neighboring building she recognized and came to a stop in front of The Black Rose.
The Black Rose. Her place of employment. A place where she’d managed to keep herself removed from the sin that went on inside those walls. Where she’d held firm to her morals.
Until today.
She couldn’t say she regretted it. Her body was still too flushed with pleasure to acknowledge remorse. But she knew it would come.
The carriage shifted as the footman jumped off the back.
Colleen slapped at Max’s hands. “Button yourself back up. We’re here.” Grabbing the daffodils by the stems, she pulled at the bundle. Half the blooms remained under Max’s thigh where he’d sat on them. The rest of the bouquet was woefully crushed by her own knee. There was something symbolic in that, something she didn’t want to contemplate.
At least the odor of the crushed flowers filled the carriage interior, masking any other scents that might linger. She hoped.
Max pounded on the roof. “I’ll tell them to go around the block.”
“That isn’t a good idea.”
“Colleen.” Frown lines marred Max’s forehead, and he reached for her.
The door swung wide, and Colleen stumbled to the opening. She couldn’t look at the footman, didn’t want to see the knowledge of what she’d done, what he might have heard. She hurried down the steps and turned at the bottom.
Max filled the carriage doorway.
“I have to get back to work. The workers’ luncheon won’t serve itself.” Patting her pocket to make sure her watch still lay inside, she spun on her heel and marched for the club’s entrance.
She could feel the heat of his gaze between her shoulder blades. He had a right to be angry, but his ire didn’t signify. Of all her sins, leaving a man wanting wasn’t one of the top hundred.
In fact, turning the tables on a powerful man was a bit thrilling. Usually it was the man who had all the fun, with the woman left to fake a smile. She’d seen that well enough in her marriage and in The Black Rose. If the baron wasn’t going to give her the money he owed, it seemed but the smallest of recompense to put her pleasure first.
She marched into The Black Rose, head held high. Revenge tasted sweeter than she’d ever imagined.
Chapter Seven
Max and Dunkeld sat in a carriage parked across from Garraway’s coffee house. His friend rested his head back against t
he seat rest, his eyes closed. They’d barely said two words to each other since starting their surveillance. Pinkerton was meeting one of Zed’s men at the coffee house, and they were hoping he’d have more information about his employer than the American did.
Dunkeld puffed out a small breath, the most sound out of the Scotsman Max had heard in twenty minutes. Not that Max was any better. Of their group of five friends, Dunkeld and Max had the most in common. Perhaps it was their size. It was easier for a large man to be taken seriously with his fists rather than his words.
Keeping his gaze fixed out the window, Max shifted. His left arse cheek was growing numb. He hated waiting.
“Something on your mind?” Dunkeld kept his eyes closed but he couldn’t hide the tension in his body. The Scotsman was always ready for action.
Max merely grunted. There was nothing he needed to get off his mind; he just needed to get off. He still couldn’t believe the little minx had left him there, cock weeping, with nary a thank you, or an invitation to follow her back to her rooms. He’d tried to corner her all through the frustrating luncheon, but she’d been slippery as an eel.
She’d enjoyed herself. Her sheath had gripped his finger so damn tight he’d almost gone off in his pants imagining her squeezing his cock in that wet heat. But for the most part, she was a proper little widow, and women like her didn’t fornicate in the back of a carriage. She’d let her hair down once, and he could only pray she’d do so again.
Dunkeld peeled one eyelid open and examined him. Max ignored the scrutiny. When would Pinkerton show his face? The man had told them he had a meet set up at four in the afternoon, and it was nigh on that hour now. As Max saw it, if a person wasn’t early, he was late.
“I should have chosen the position inside Garraway’s,” Max grumbled. “Their meat pies are damn good.”
“And I wanted to follow Pinkerton on horseback instead of Rothchild.” Dunkeld settled back against the cushions. “Looks like neither of us got what we wanted.”
“With that massive beast you ride, you’re too obvious.” Leaning forward, Max eyed the hackney that rolled up. Someone other than Pinkerton climbed out, and he cursed under his breath. “You stick out like a vicar in a whore-house.” Rather like his Colleen in The Black Rose.