The Redemption of a Rogue

by Jess Michaels

  “I want you to make me come,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Please, please make me come.”

  His pupils dilated to an impossible blackness. He cupped her chin, and this time when he kissed her it was rough. Demanding. Like stripping her control had somehow taken his own. She moaned against him, lifting into the devouring pressure of his tongue, warring with him in a battle for need and release and connection.

  At last he broke from her mouth and panted down at her. He looked…angry, almost. Though she felt no fear for herself. But he didn’t speak as he returned his hand to the place between her thighs. He laid the flat of his palm there, just covering her, and she ground into him out of instinct and desire.

  “Don’t push me,” he growled. “Just let me. Close your eyes and let me.”

  She stared up into his face. Dark and intense and focused in the dying firelight. She could refuse him and she believed he would back away, exit the room, and they would probably never speak of this again. She didn’t have the sense he was the kind of man who would force or even punish.

  But he was still demanding trust. Trust a stranger who could hold her perfectly still with just a glare. Trust a stranger who was waiting, she would say almost patiently, for her to respond to his harsh order.

  She settled back, dropping her hands away from his body, and shut her eyes. He grunted, almost another low laugh but not quite. What would he look like if he smiled?

  She didn’t get to think further because his hand moved against her sex. He peeled her open slowly, revealing her. Even in the dim light, he’d be able to see her. She felt heat flooding her cheeks and lifted toward him.

  “Don’t make me teach you how to behave,” he breathed, but there was a catch in his voice that told her he was as wrapped up in the power of this as she was. If he drowned her, she at least forced him to take on water.

  That was power in its own way, even if he was holding her down as he traced her entrance with his fingertip. She was wet already, felt herself close to dripping as he swiped his finger through her excitement a second time.

  “Very nice,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

  She opened her eyes and watched as he licked the proof of her desire from his fingertip. “Oh my God,” she grunted, almost against her will.

  His gaze narrowed and he held her stare as he dropped his finger back to her entrance, and this time he gently pressed himself inside. Inch by inch, to the first knuckle, to the second. He stretched her with his fingers and she flexed around him with a gasp of pleasure.

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” he whispered.

  “Y-Yes,” she gasped. “I was looking for a protector but hadn’t advanced this—this far with anyone yet. I only…with my hand…”

  “Don’t think about that,” he whispered as he flexed his fingers and sent a jolt of sensation through her. “Just think about this.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “This.”

  He nodded. “I’m going to make that wait worthwhile.”

  He curled his finger inside of her, and she gripped the covers as a bolt of pleasure as hot and fast as lightning tore through her. He held her stare, punishing, hot and hard as he kept working her, grabbing her pleasure and pulling it from her with such expertise that she felt like a novice even after years of marriage that had been anything but celibate.

  She flexed against him, gripping him with her body as she reached for more. For release. For everything.

  He shook his head and settled his thumb against her clitoris, grinding against her there as he continued to pump inside of her, adding a second finger to stretch and tease her further.

  She could no longer make coherent sounds as he forced her pleasure. As he created in reality what she had fantasized about when she touched herself in the bath what seemed like a year ago rather than a few hours.

  And when the orgasm hit her at last, it was far more powerful than that release had been on her own. She bucked against him, grabbing for his arms, digging her nails in as she keened out all the pleasure. Wave after wave rocked her, too intense, too powerful, and never-ending because he forced her to continue to ride it out. He tormented, never letting up, making the moment last far longer than she’d ever imagined it could.

  Only when she was limp and sated, still twitching, legs still shaking, did he withdraw his fingers from her. He never broke eye contact as once again he licked them clean of her essence. She shuddered as she watched. The man was a virtuoso and she wanted to be his instrument until he tired of her.

  She opened her legs farther, ready for him to slake his own need by taking her. He obviously wanted her. That was clear by the way his cock tented out the silky fabric of his dressing gown.

  But to her surprise, when he touched her thighs, it was to close them. He rolled her on her side so her back was against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. His breath was warm against her neck, her ear, as he whispered, “Sleep now, Imogen. I won’t leave. Just…sleep.”

  She wanted to argue. To ask him why he wouldn’t take what he so obviously wanted. She wanted to grind back against him and test the remarkable restraint he so obviously contained.

  But she hadn’t slept well in months. Certainly not in the last week or two. And with his arms around her, his warmth encircling her, her pleasure still thick in her veins, the exhaustion began to overwhelm her. All questions faded, all desires simply pulsed rather than throbbed.

  And she slipped into sleep at last, with no answers, no certainty and nothing but pleasure and his body to keep her warm.

  Chapter 7

  Imogen jolted awake, and for a moment she had no idea where she was. She stared up at the intricately carved ceiling, so different from her own worn, leaky one, and it all returned to her in a wave.

  She was at the home of Oscar Fitzhugh, the man who had drawn her to shattering orgasm not so many hours ago. But he was gone. She was alone in the comfortable bed, covers tangled around her bare legs.

  She hadn’t stirred when he left, which was a shocking thing because normally she slept so lightly that the tiniest sound or movement could disturb her slumber. She moved to the window and threw back the curtains, flooding the room with light from the sunny day. For a moment, the briefest moment, her troubles faded a fraction. Here, at least, she was safe. Here in these halls, she wasn’t…afraid. Or at least she was less afraid.

  She had Oscar to thank for that.

  She worried her lip and got up to ring for the maid who had been helping her. Mary stepped into the room a few moments later, and her bright chatter as she helped prepare Imogen for the day put her at ease a little. Made her feel more herself than she had in a very long time.

  “Mr. Fitzhugh is in the breakfast room,” Mary said at last when Imogen had been curled and primped and buttoned and looked presentable.

  “Thank you,” she said, smoothing the skirts that weren’t her own. Trying not to blush or make it too obvious what she and Fitzhugh had been doing late into the night. She smiled at the maid and slipped from the room before she did anything to make it so.

  As she meandered her way downstairs, her mind raced. On a good night’s sleep, it was easier to think. To ponder both this specific situation and her life in general. Ponder what she should do and how she should interact with the man who had allowed her to take refuge in his walls.

  She entered the breakfast room with a bright smile, ready to make the best of it all, but the smile faded as she stepped inside. Oscar was at the table, a paper in one hand, a plate before him. As she stepped inside, he lifted his thumb to his lips and sucked a smudge of jam from it.

  Her body flexed, almost against her will. That was so much like what he’d done last night after he’d pleasured her. Licked her release away like it was as delicious as jam.

  “Are you going to join me or gape at me all morning?” he asked, finally looking up from his paper.

  She caught her breath, thrown off by him as usual, and hustled into the room. “Join yo
u, of course,” she said.

  He motioned to the sideboard, and she moved there to peruse the wonderful selection of breakfast treats. “I’m sorry I started without you. I didn’t know when you would rouse yourself.”

  She nearly dropped her plate, for she had been certain she heard him say arouse before realizing her mistake. She cleared her throat and went back to plating her food. “You owe me no disruption of your schedule,” she assured him as she sat down at the place beside him and smiled. “You’ve had enough of those thanks to me.”

  He was staring at her as she spoke. His dark eyes focused on her face so intently she worried she had something on it. Or that he had suddenly decided he didn’t like the angles of it. Or something equally terrible judging from the thinness of his lips at present.

  “I asked you here,” he said at last, and folded the paper and set it aside. “It’s no trouble.”

  She laughed as she began to eat. “You are a very good liar, but a liar nonetheless. I know it’s a great deal of trouble having a dramatic stranger in your house, demanding you take time away from your own business, calling out with nightmares in the night, dragging you from your own bed to—”

  She cut herself off with a blush.

  “It’s no trouble,” he repeated, this time his voice rougher.

  She wrinkled her brow as she looked at him. He had held her against the mattress last night and taken her pleasure so easily. He had cradled her so gently afterward, comforting her enough that she could sleep for the first time in what felt like forever.

  Today he certainly looked at her with the same intensity, but he made no attempt to discuss what had happened. Or push her to do the same.

  Did it mean anything to him at all? Or was she just a reasonably attractive woman in a bed down the hall from him who fulfilled whatever needs a man like him possessed?

  Only he hadn’t taken her. He hadn’t come. So what need had been fulfilled?

  “You are staring at me again,” he said, this time with a hint of humor to his voice, even if he didn’t smile. “Do I have something on my face? Hate my beard? Wondering if these are my real teeth, or are they wooden?”

  She bent her head and couldn’t suppress a laugh. His teasing eased a little of the tension. “You don’t have anything on your face. And I know your teeth are not wooden because we…er…that is we…”

  “Kissed,” he said softly. “We kissed, Imogen. That’s the word for it.”

  “Yes, it is,” she whispered.

  “So it’s the beard then,” he said, leaning forward.

  “No. The beard very much suits you.” She fought the urge to lean up like he did and smooth her hands over the neatly trimmed whiskers. To trace the lines of white amongst the brown, just as she wanted to do with the gray at his temples. “It isn’t much in style, though, is it?”

  “I never cared about style,” he said, leaning back.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t. I admire that. Style is sometimes all that is expected of a woman like me. Substance is considered a liability.”

  He draped an arm over the back of his chair. “By your husband?”

  She shrugged, pushing away the pain of that question and the answer that would follow. “You live in the same world I do, Mr. Fitzhugh. My husband saw me as a decoration in his life. But so did my father. So does any man who considers me. That I am more is almost none of their business. I have substance for myself, not for anyone who cares only about style.”

  “You should find a man who appreciates substance,” he grunted, but before she could respond, he pushed to his feet. “I have some matters to attend to, I’m afraid.”

  She swallowed hard. “About me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “About you. And other issues. I’ll be gone most of the day, but you ought to explore the house at your leisure. The garden behind is a bit wild, but it should also be sheltered enough to be safe for you. My staff has been told to provide anything you might require.”

  She pushed to her own feet. “Anything?” she repeated.

  His dark gaze dilated further. “Within reason. I’ll see you later tonight.” He moved to the door and there he paused, turning back toward her and letting his gaze roll over her in a slow wave. “Good day, Imogen.”

  “Good day,” she repeated to his retreating back.

  When he was fully gone from the room, she sat back down at the table with a thud. She was utterly confused. Fitzhugh was seductive and something close to kind, but he also shut her down with an ease that spoke of practice. He apparently had no interest in discussing what had happened between them the previous night. She had to assume that also meant he didn’t wish to repeat it.

  A fact that left her a little empty.

  “A great deal empty. Foolish girl,” she corrected herself out loud as she reached across the space and grabbed for the paper he had abandoned. She smoothed its wrinkled edges and tried to focus as she lost herself in the news of the day.

  If he could be so nonchalant about the entire thing, so could she. It just might take a little practice.

  Oscar stepped through the doors of Fitzhugh’s Club and nodded to the butler who handled all the greeting and vetting. “Good afternoon, Goodworth.”

  “Sir,” the man said with the stiff bow Oscar’s patrons loved and he couldn’t have cared less about. “Very good to see you again.”

  “How are things?” he asked. “I realize I was not here the past two nights.”

  A brief hint of curiosity passed over Goodworth’s face, but he didn’t pursue what had caused that unusual occurrence. “There is nothing of great interest to report, sir. The past two nights have been mostly quiet. A spirited card game last night, but nothing coldhearted.”

  “Excellent.” He stepped from the neat foyer into the larger study where his patrons did their meeting in the late afternoons, their smoking and gaming in the evenings. It was perfectly put together, of course. That was what he expected.

  “Is Will here?” he asked as he moved to the next room, the library. A footman was rearranging books that had been misplaced during the previous afternoon, readying the room for opening in an hour or two.

  “Mr. White is in the private office,” Goodworth said. “Awaiting your arrival, I think. He requested coffee—would you prefer tea?”

  “No, coffee is fine,” Oscar assured him. “Thank you. I’ll have some things to discuss with you after I meet with him, I’m sure.”

  “I will not be far then,” Goodworth said with another of those short bows before he strode away.

  Oscar drew a long breath as he made his way down the hall. This was clearly what he needed, and he was glad he’d come, no matter how hard it had been to leave Imogen a short time before. But this was his life, not the stolen moments with her.

  That was just fantasy. He had to remember that when her moans were stealing his senses and her bright smile was making him feel lighter. God, that smile. She hadn’t flashed it until earlier at the breakfast table, and God’s teeth but it lit her up. Made him feel like the sun had burst through the doors and into his house. Bright enough to burn everything in his life down.

  He’d best be careful not to let her.

  He opened the study door and let himself into the room. It was as fine as the rest of the club, though perhaps a little less ostentatious. Neither he nor his partner, Will White, were the kind of men who needed to show off for each other.

  Will was sitting at his desk on one side of the big room, head bent over a ledger. Numbers had always been his strong suit, so he took care of all the books, from membership to financial. Oscar smothered a smile at the way his friend’s gray hair was stuck up at an odd angle, probably from running his fingers through it while he concentrated.

  Will was twenty years older than Oscar. Oscar had known him almost all his life, since he was eight and Will had briefly taken on the role of his mother’s protector. While he often resented the men in and out of their home, ones who normally ignored him or were actively hostile…Wil
l had been different.

  Will had become a friend, a father figure. A partner eventually, when he asked Oscar to take a place at his side at his club. They’d renamed it Fitzhugh’s, mostly because White’s was already rather famously taken.

  But Will was the heart of the place.

  “Do you ever rest?” he asked as he entered the room.

  Will looked up, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Do you?”

  “I’ve been away from the club for two nights, I will tell you,” Oscar said as he sat down at his own desk across the room.

  Will’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Oscar. Even halfway across the room, he felt him judging. Reading. Will had been one of the few in his life capable of doing so. One of the few he trusted enough to allow it.

  “You’re troubled, not rested,” Will said, getting up and crossing to him.

  Oscar set his jaw as he tried desperately not to think about the reasons he wasn’t well rested. Why he was troubled, as Will put it. But he couldn’t help letting his mind wander to Imogen. To drawing her pleasure from her until his entire body shook with wanting her. To being taken in by that smile this morning.

  He blinked to clear it all away. “I suppose trouble is a constant, isn’t it?”

  Will shook his head. “Not like this.” He leaned forward. “What’s going on? Club issues?”

  “No. You run all the true matters so perfectly that I’m hardly more than a figurehead. The club is fine,” Oscar said.

  Will’s lips parted. “Something with your mother, then? Is Joanna not well?”

  Oscar smothered a smile. Will and his mother had parted ways decades ago, but Will had remained a friend. Perhaps the best one his mother had. He appreciated that. “Mama is fine. You probably saw her yesterday, yourself. You would know better than I her state of mind.”

  Will shifted slightly, but then his gaze refocused. “If it isn’t the club or your family, then what is it?”

  Oscar sighed. Will knew a great deal about his life. He’d always been a dependable confidante, and since what Oscar was doing might very well impact their shared business, he felt he owed it to him to be honest.