Wicked Surrender

by Jade Lee

  “The Indians? Yes, I know that’s what everyone believes, but it’s a lie. I woke up after the factory had burned to the ground. After Tapas had died when his home burned in an ancillary fire. They lived close to the factory.”

  She paled. “His wife? His children?”

  “All dead save one. I went insane when I heard. One of the boys found me. A child of a different dyer discovered me in an opium den and told me everything. I didn’t believe him at first, but then I went to the factory.”

  “You were mad with grief,” she said. “That’s what Kit said.”

  He snorted in disgust. “I tore through the rubble, screaming out my horror. I knew exactly what had happened. I had been played by the company. They let me befriend those people, they used me and them to discover the secret to their cloth. And when they had it, they killed them all and left me to rot in an opium den.”

  “My God,” she gasped. “Could they really have done that? Couldn’t it have been an accident?”

  “A horrible, unfortunate accident?” he said, trying to not let mockery enter his tone. He knew that was the story, that was what everyone believed. “No,” he said softly. “We did it. You have no idea the power they have there. What people will do just because they can.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault, Brandon. You didn’t know.”

  “Merely stupid rather than evil. Tapas and all the other artisans are still dead. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since.” He swallowed, and he allowed his focus to narrow to her breath against his side. The expansion of her ribcage, the gentle contraction back. Within seconds, he was breathing with her, timing his every inhale and exhale opposite to hers. As her breath expanded, his shrunk, and the reverse. So that he could pretend they shared the most basic of functions together. And in that sweet state, he was able to explain the rest.

  “I was loud and very angry. I told them I would expose what they had done, I would tell everyone in England, I would scream their evil to anyone who would listen.”

  “They hurt you to keep you silent.” It wasn’t a question, but he looked at her in surprise. “I cleaned your wounds, Brandon. I saw the scars.”

  Fists. Knives. Even threatened to shoot him. “They could burn a factory to the ground, murder Tapas and his friends, but they couldn’t bring themselves to kill the son of an earl. Not when they had a more effective weapon.”

  He wondered if she could guess what they used to silence him. It didn’t take her long. “They gave you a title, hailed you as a symbol of England’s great charity to the Indians. Made it known here and abroad that you lost your mind in that fire.”

  “It is a small title, the lands mostly swamp. The line died out and no one cared. It was an easy thing to give me and a sensational story.”

  “And no one to believe the abuses that you saw. The horrors that were done to those poor people.”

  She understood. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in her body. He pulled her tight and pressed a kiss to her forehead. How wonderful it was to be with her like this. To tell her his sins and not be reviled.

  “You must have refused at first. I know you,” she said. “You would not have accepted anything from them.”

  He smiled. She was right. But days in jail showed him how useless his struggle was. He could do nothing from inside a cell. “Logic was on their side. The story was already out. Any objection I had would be seen as further proof of my madness. And with a title I would have a seat in the House of Lords, a place to create change.”

  “And your money too,” she said. “They would hold back your money unless you accepted. You could be impoverished and insane or titled, wealthy, and—”

  “And yet another shining example of British manhood.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Brandon, it is not like that. You are a good man!”

  His emotions were not proof against her sympathy. He buried his face in her shoulder, the shame threatening to consume him alive.

  “Brandon—”

  “They died. They burned.” He gripped her shoulder, would not let her move to look at him. “And I have a title and money. So much money.”

  “But you give it away. Do you think I have not heard? Do you think you could give away thousands of pounds in London and I not know it?”

  It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

  “The Marisa Orphanage,” she said. “Such an odd name. Was that one of Tapas’s children?”

  “His wife. There are orphans in India too. She wanted to do more for them.”

  She eased him back, forced him to face her. “A good name. It is where you really found Hank.”

  Brandon grimaced. “I should have known you would figure it out.”

  She leaned close, pressed her cheek to his and her mouth to his ear. “I know, Brandon. I know that you are a good man. I know that despite all, you deserve your title and your wealth. And that you honor Tapas’s memory by what you do and say.”

  “No one will listen to me. No one believes any Englishman could behave so vilely.”

  She pulled back just enough to look at him. “But you have a plan. You have been working on a possibility.”

  She was so beautiful, looking at him like that. With faith in her eyes. “There is a man,” he said softly. “A great man, a great orator. William Wilberforce.”

  She nodded. “The champion of the black slave.”

  “He believes me. He understands.”

  She smiled. “See. You will make good. You will—”

  “It’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

  She was silent a long moment, and he saw emotions flicker through her eyes too fast for him to follow. He saw pain, but he also saw a well of hope that had been so long absent in his life. It was what defined her, he realized. She hoped for a respectable life. She hoped that her past would not cripple her present. She hoped that he could live up to the man he wanted to be.

  “I love you, Scheherazade. I have loved you since the first moment I saw you.”

  “You didn’t even know me.”

  “I did,” he said. He stroked her face, touched her cheek, brushed his thumb across her lips. “You are hope, Scheherazade. You give me and everyone else the heart to carry on.”

  She blinked, obviously stunned by his words.

  “Let me touch you, Scher. Let me . . .” How he wanted to please her, to express his love for her in the only way he knew how. “I won’t take you, Scher. I won’t. But—”

  She kissed him. Her mouth swooped down so fast, so urgent, that he could do no more than gasp in surprise. But that changed in a moment. In less than a second, he wound his arms around her. He tugged at her gown with his fingers and took control.

  Chapter 15

  He said he loved her. Scher knew it was a lie. Or more precisely, it was his truth at this particular moment. What else would a man in his sickbed say to the woman who oversaw his care? Of course he loved her. She was the reason he was still alive.

  And yet, it didn’t seem to matter. When he gazed at her like that, Scher felt like a goddess. She felt all powerful and wholly loved. Of course she would kiss the man who gave her that. And of course she would let him open her gown and touch her however he willed.

  His kiss was so amazing that she didn’t at first know what else was happening. She knew she initiated the kiss. She stretched up and pressed her lips to his. They had kissed before, so she knew to open her mouth to him, knew his swift possession with tongue and teeth.

  Always before, he had taken his time. Toying with the seam of her lips, nipping at the edges until he slid almost slyly inside. This time he thrust into her almost before their flesh touched. His tongue delved inside, pushing against her powerfully, thrusting again and again while she arched her neck to open herself to him.

  He was taking her in her mouth, she realized. He was pushing himself inside her, thrusting—owning—every part of her mouth until she tingled with the joy of it. She nearly laughed at the wonder, especially as she began pla
ying back. She nipped at his tongue, pushed her own tongue against his teeth, and gasped in shock when he pinched her nipple in response.

  She pulled back, arching her back as she gasped for air. The buttons on the back of her gown were undone. The arms of gown and chemise had been pushed down on one side, enough that the fabric was loose around her breast. Which gave him room to pinch and abrade her nipple with the fabric.

  His hands were large as they shaped her, but she wanted to feel more. She wanted more, and so she shifted, easily slipping her arm out of its constraints so that half of her was bared to his touch. His eyes burned as he looked at her, and she held her breath. When had a man looked at her like that? With desperation and hunger?

  She felt his touch on her skin, reverent even as he pinched and teased. He felt hot, or perhaps it was her own skin that was too heated to contain. Either way she trembled at the sensation, her breath coming in short gasps.

  He rolled forward, pressing his mouth to her neck for kisses from just beneath her jaw down to her collarbone. His hands squeezed her, but it was the scrape of his nail against her nipple that kept her mind blank to all but the constant, building sensation. Each brush against her peak was like an expanding tingle that went deep into her chest. Soon every rub had her opening her front to him just to get more room to feel. She arched her head back; she helped him pull the rest of her clothing down. She wanted more and more of the blanking white sensations.

  Lightning, she thought. His touch was like lightning flashing brighter, delving deeper, and soon she would burn like the sun.

  He was drawing her higher on his body, silently urging her to rise up. She did as he wanted, knowing where he was heading. But her dress was too tight, her knees not well placed. With a curse of frustration, she undid the last of the buttons of her gown, pushing it down to her hips. But the chemise was too tight and she tugged at it in impatience to no avail.

  It didn’t matter. He pulled her forward so that his lips were finally at her breast, suckling in a rhythm that built the flashes of light in her mind. The firestorm of sensations continued at her breasts and deeper inside. Her entire body felt liquid with desire, and that liquid was quivering in a faster rhythm.

  She felt his hands bunch at her back, the muscles of his arms tightening around her. Then she heard a steady rip as he tore her chemise apart and dragged it away. She felt the fabric pull at her belly, rubbing against her skin until it was gone and she felt so free!

  She wanted him to touch her everywhere. Her belly, her thighs, her woman’s core. She had felt desire before. She had known the moistening of female flesh. But never had she wanted as deeply as she did now. Never had she felt as adored as he returned to tonguing her nipples. And the quivers inside her deepened to ripples.

  This was magical! she thought at the very same moment some sane part of her mind screamed that she ought to stop. “A little more,” she said. “Just a . . . More.”

  Her gown was in the way. It restricted her knees and interfered with her balance. She was kneeling on the bed beside him, and he pushed her backward away from him.

  “Lie back,” he urged. “Let me get this off you.”

  “We shouldn’t,” she said as she did as he bid.

  “Just feel,” he said as he worked the gown over her hips, pulling her legs up. She felt him gasp as he worked, and she belatedly thought of his wound. She tried to straighten up, to bring back some sanity, but there was nowhere to press her hand for support. His work on her dress had tipped her upside down so she was lying head down on his bed. The only place to support herself was on his hips. She had to stretch across him, to place her hand on his opposite side, which tightened the sheet across his groin and clearly outlined his rigid member.

  She had never touched a man’s member, not with her hand. And not when it was straining upward, even through the sheet. Unable to resist, she ran her hand along its length.

  “It’s so hot,” she whispered. She had not expected such heat.

  He groaned as he fell backward. She wasn’t sure if it was because he finally tossed her gown completely aside or because of her caress. She looked at his face, saw that his skin was flushed, his mouth parted, and his eyes dark.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said.

  “Lie on your side, Scher. Let me do this for you.”

  Her quivers were fading. Sanity was returning too fast. She lay naked reversed. Reversed!

  “Do you know what I want to do, Scher? Do you understand—”

  “Yes,” she gasped out. She had talked to the actresses at length. She had a thorough education in the variety of positions before she was twelve. But knowing and experiencing were vastly different. And just the idea of what he wanted to do had her face heating to flame.

  His hand was between her knees, trapped between her compressed legs. His fingers flexed, but his hand couldn’t move.

  “Have you ever experienced pleasure before? Do you know anything but pain in coupling?”

  She swallowed. “Kissing is very nice.”

  “And the rest?” he pressed.

  She looked away, slowly lowered her face to rest against his thigh. It was a surprisingly comfortable position given the awkwardness of what they discussed.

  “Scher,” he said gently. “If you don’t want to talk about it—”

  “It hurt,” she pushed out. “It always just felt big. And . . . and wrong. We weren’t married, so that was why—”

  “It has nothing to do with whether or not you were married, Scher. He took no time with you.” He leaned across and pressed his lips to the outside of her thigh. And then he did it again, opening his mouth farther to curl his tongue in a circle against her flesh.

  She liked the way it felt. She liked what he did and closed her eyes to relish it more.

  “I want to please you, Scher. I want you to feel what I can do for you.”

  She bit her lip. Oh, how she wanted it. She was wet and her legs were already relaxing. But it was wrong, wasn’t it?

  “Pull my leg toward you,” he said against her thigh. “My wound. I can’t move easily . . .”

  She pulled back immediately. And then, at his direction, she tugged on his far hip, helping him roll onto his side. “Brandon—”

  “Do you know what the scent of a woman does to a man?” he asked as he pressed his face back to her leg. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closed in reverence even as he lifted her top leg. She knew she shouldn’t allow it. She knew she should be strong and moral and respectable.

  But she wasn’t respectable. Hadn’t that been impressed upon her this very afternoon? Why not act the wanton everyone assumed she was. Why not allow what she so desperately wanted? Meanwhile, Brandon was kissing higher on her thigh.

  “Put your hand on me, Scher. Feel how I react.”

  The sheet had pulled free as he moved, so she was able to tug the fabric away. And there he was, naked except for the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. She reached forward slowly, laying the palm of her hand across his organ. Heat seared through her, and his organ leaped into her caress. The skin was softer than she expected, smooth against her palm. But beneath the thin layer of skin, he was like a rock.

  She knew the actresses engulfed their men with their mouths, but her angle was wrong even for gripping him with her hands. So she contented herself with stroking him, with exploring the length and texture of him. The mushroom head was wet and smooth. The girth was not perfectly round as she’d expected, but a little wider across the sides. And as she explored, she pretended to not notice that his mouth moved along her thigh, that he lifted one of her knees so that he could kiss the inside of her bottom leg. He was so close to her core that she ought to pull away, but she didn’t.

  He pushed her upper leg back, and she bent her knee so that she could open herself completely to him. His fingers were stroking her hair, rubbing first in a circle, then deeper. His hands were large, so it was easy for him to push her wider, and she felt her belly contract and her thighs
tighten as she scooted closer to him on the bed.

  Her breath caught on a gasp the first time he tongued her, not on her skin, but so deep into her curls. Compared to the other sensations, this was like a hard, wet push of light against her groin. A miracle of sensation, and she wanted him to do it again.

  He took his time, using his fingers again to burrow, to open, to expose. And then he did it again. A flick this time. And then two more flicks in rapid succession.

  She cried out. Her body was again that liquid pool of light, and the ripples were sudden waves with every touch of his tongue. The sensations were already so much that she could barely contain them. She pressed her face to his leg as a way to quiet herself, to contain what she felt.

  Instead, it brought the scent of his organ to her mind, and the length of him right there. Right . . . there . . . She pressed her mouth to it. She needed some way to share with him, and this was it. She opened her lips and tongued him just as he had tongued her.

  But then he was pushing her down, shifting more of his weight onto her top leg such that she had to roll back. His tongue continued to probe her, to stroke, and she widened her legs in response. Then he pulled back enough to press words into her thighs, muffled but audible enough.

  “I cannot reach you, Scher. Touch your nipples for me.”

  She blinked, dazed by what he did with his fingers as he slowly pushed one inside. It did not feel wrong. It felt so wonderful, especially as he drew it out and then pushed in again.

  “Can you touch yourself for me, Scher? Let me see it, please?”

  He sounded so earnest that she did as he bid. She put her hands on her breasts, and lifted them to the ceiling.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Like light,” she said. “Tingling light.”

  Then he pushed two fingers inside her, thick and hard. She groaned as she tweaked her nipples.

  “God, you are beautiful.”

  She didn’t see how that was possible, but she was too far gone to care. He made her feel beautiful. He made her feel exquisite!

  He rolled his thumb up and across her flesh. Oh, she had never felt that! Not like that with a thick pad high and a hard thrust inside.