He had never been more serious about anything in his life. In fact, the urge to beat Quenington and any other man who would dare to touch her rose, uncontainable, within him. He had never felt so possessive about a female before. It was bloody disconcerting, was what it was.
And troubling.
But he was not about to let her go, now that he had her where he wanted her.
“You have no right to order me about,” she argued, squirming suddenly in his lap. “And no one calls me Josephine.”
“I do,” he said, his hand going to the back of her neck whilst the other remained on her waist. The sensation of her silken skin on his bare hand stirred him. “I call you whatever I wish to call you, because until we complete your list, you are mine. Do you understand? The reason I want to complete your list with you is because I want you. I want to taste you, kiss you, be inside you. I want you in my bed. I want to take your innocence. I want to kiss you breathless. But make no mistake, darling. You are here for the same reasons. You want me every bit as much as I want you.”
She swallowed, her lips parting. “I do not want to be a mercy bedding.”
He almost laughed aloud at her peculiar phrasing. “Believe me, you would not be anyone’s mercy bedding. Any man who takes you to his bed will do so because you are desirable and beautiful and because he cannot stop thinking about how soft your lips will be beneath his, or how your nipples will feel in his mouth. He will do so because he will look at you and think about lifting your skirts, trailing his hand from your ankle, up your calf, all the way to your thighs. He will lay awake at night, taking himself in hand as he imagines what you taste like, what you feel like, how deliciously tight your cunny will be as you take his cock.”
He stopped when he realized just how much he had revealed.
Too much.
Far, far too much.
Jo’s eyes were wide. Her cheeks were flaming.
She looked so gorgeous, his chest constricted, tightening. His cock was already erect beneath her, from the combined product of her nearness, her squirming in his lap, and the trip his imagination had just taken—not for the first time, it was true. He had been thoroughly abusing himself to thoughts of Lady Jo Danvers before he discovered her list. His hunger for her had only grown after the list she had drafted appeared in the midst of the Lady’s Suffrage Society pamphlet manuscript.
Her lips moved soundlessly, as if she tried to form words but could not find her voice. And then, in the next instant, she shocked him thoroughly by slamming her mouth into his.
Her movement was so forceful, so sudden and without a hint of finesse, that the result was a violent mashing of lips and teeth. For a fleeting moment, he expected to taste the copper tang of blood. It was, undoubtedly, the worst kiss he had ever received.
And yet, it inflamed him more than any of the kisses which had preceded it. Because the raw, unadulterated desire in that kiss, in that action, was the most potent, heady thing he had ever experienced.
He lost himself as well. To the devil with kissing her the way a seasoned lover ought. He was desperate for her. Provoked to the point of madness. Her innocent kiss made him ravenous. It fashioned him into a beast who could only be sated in one manner: claiming and possession.
His hands were both in her hair now, fingers sliding into the silken mass. He angled her head and took control of the kiss, slanting his lips over hers. Decker kissed her tenderly and yet with all the savagery within, fierce but controlled. He fitted his mouth against hers and sucked her lower lip.
She made a soft, kittenish sound that landed somewhere in the vicinities of his cock and his heart both. And then she opened for him. His tongue dipped inside the velvety recesses of her mouth, tasting her, finding her.
Her arms twined around his neck, and then her nails were tunneling through his hair, raking his scalp as she kissed him back. She sucked his tongue. Her movements were choppy, inexperienced. But her enthusiasm—bloody hell, it was the stuff of fantasies. He never wanted to end this kiss. Never wanted to exit the carriage. He could happily remain here, her in his lap, her mouth on his, for all eternity.
Decker found hair pins—prim, cool opposition. He narrowly resisted the urge to pluck them from her coiffure one by one. Later, he promised himself. He did not give a damn if she returned home with her hair cascading down her back. Anything keeping him from reveling in her long, brunette locks was going to be savaged and removed when the time was right.
He did not stop kissing her. Could not stop. The carriage rocked over London roads. Her hair unraveled down her back. Her lips firmed over his. Her aggression receded, replaced by gentleness. She moved her mouth in a mimicry of his, learning, teasing, testing.
The irony was not lost upon Decker that he had bedded more women than he could count, and yet this simple kiss—begun in such inexperienced, awkward fashion—was the most erotic, compelling kiss he had ever experienced. He wanted her so much more now. More than he could put into words. His hunger for her was like an entity all its own, festering and rising inside him, demanding to be answered.
He kissed her harder, exploring what she liked. Decker kissed the corners of her lips, then the tempting bow. He sank his tongue deep again, plumbing the depths of her mouth. And she moaned. She moaned into his kiss, her tongue moving against his.
So much for the notion of him kissing her breathless. He was quite sure she had accomplished the feat in the opposite. Sweet, innocent, quiet, secretly wicked Lady Jo Danvers had taken command of his mouth and kissed the hell out of him.
And he had relished every second of it.
So much that he had lost control.
Now? He could not stop kissing her. Not if his life depended upon it. Already, he had forgotten his every carefully laid strategy for the evening. All thought had vanished into the ether, replaced by the yearning and all-encompassing desire he felt for the woman on his lap.
But then, reality intruded, as it was so oft wont to do, in the form of a rap on the carriage door.
“Mr. Decker?” asked his man from the other side of the closed carriage door. “We have been parked for a quarter hour. Do you wish to proceed, or has there been a change of plans?”
Right. Damn it all. His stupid plans.
Decker tore his lips from Jo’s, exercising every shred of control he possessed to manage the feat. He sucked on his lower lip and gazed into her face. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses, her expression dazed.
Good.
Pleased at how affected she had been by their interlude, he removed her from his lap, settling her alongside him once more with the greatest reluctance. He found her hat and returned it to her head, flipping down her veil before inspecting his handiwork, making sure she was impossible to recognize.
“No change,” he called to his driver. “We shall commence with the evening as planned.”
Chapter Six
Jo had kissed Mr. Elijah Decker.
Shamelessly.
Awkwardly.
Roughly.
Her first kiss, and she had slammed her lips into Decker’s with so much force, hers still ached with remembrance as they settled in the sumptuous chamber he had escorted her to. Though they had entered from the rear, even in the low light of the street lamps, she had seen enough of the exterior of the building to know at once that he had brought her to a new location. This was not his townhome.
An acute, intoxicating tangle of trepidation and excitement washed over her as she sat at the intimate, exquisitely carved dining table. Just as he had two evenings before, he sat opposite her, folding his commanding height into the chair with an elegant grace she could not help but to admire.
This time, there were no servants hovering about. Not yet, anyway.
“I am sorry,” she blurted, and then cursed herself when her cheeks turned to flame.
His intense stare was upon her, inscrutable. “What are you sorry for, bijou?”
Though she had been bold in the low light of the carriage, she fel
t the opposite now. Her courage deserted her. “You know.”
Sky-blue eyes seared her. “No, I am afraid I do not. Else, why would I have asked?”
To torment her, of course. The man seemed to glory in making her weak.
“The kiss,” she forced herself to say. “I am sorry for kissing you so…hard.”
He bestowed one of his rare, gorgeous grins upon her. “Why should you be sorry? I found your enthusiasm quite infectious. However, since you have yet to reach the point of breathlessness, I consider myself firmly on duty this evening.”
Had she not been breathless? She was certain she had. What else could explain the manner in which her heart had raced, the tingly feeling that refused to be banished even now, the shimmering sensation deep within her, as if she had just walked into summer after a lifetime of cold winter wind?
She blinked. What had he said?
Ah, yes.
Jo frowned at him. “I am a duty to you, then?”
“Not a duty,” he said softly, “but a pleasure. Everything about you is the height of pleasure. Never doubt it.”
She thought then, of his words in the carriage. Wicked words, sinful words, those had been. No one had ever spoken to her thus. She ought to have been horrified. Instead, she was intrigued and gratified.
“Where have you brought me?” she asked, desperate to change the subject.
The impulse to kiss him earlier after his carnal declaration had been undeniable. But now, she was out of her depths. Adrift once more. She scarcely knew what to expect from him.
“To my club,” he answered easily, as if it were an ordinary occurrence for an unwed lady to be present at the Black Souls—a club notorious for its secrecy and whispered predilection for vices.
Her heart beat faster. And between her thighs, that same insistent heat blossomed into an ache. How wrong it was for her to be here. How thrillingly delicious.
Before she could utter a word, a subtle rap sounded on the closed door.
“You may enter,” Decker called, his eyes never leaving hers.
Liveried servants bustled forth, bringing with them silver trays lined with delicacies. Desserts of every sort—cakes, marzipans, creams, tortes, a raspberry fool. Jo had not been particularly hungry, but the moment the sweet-scented arrival appeared, she could not deny the urge to try them. A crystal wine glass appeared before her and was instantly filled.
Jo lowered her head, attempting to avert her gaze. She had removed her hat and veil, not anticipating she would be seen by anyone else in the privacy of this lush room with its bold red wall coverings and sumptuous furnishings. She very much regretted that haste now.
One nod from Decker, and the servants disappeared as quietly and hastily as they had arrived, closing the door at their backs.
“You need not fear,” he said the instant they were alone. “My staff is exceedingly well paid, and each of them is aware that discretion is the most important virtue to possess when in my employ. Even if any of them had recognized you—which I highly doubt—they would not utter a word against you. That is my promise to you.”
Jo believed him. “Thank you. I know it is not your intention to put me in danger, but I did not craft the list to ruin my reputation. I have no wish to bring scandal upon my family. I merely wished to live a bit. To be free to experience life.”
He inclined his head. “A worthy desire. I cannot fault you for it. What is a life which cannot be freely lived and enjoyed? I applaud your bravery for both the list and the kiss. Especially the kiss.”
His words had her cheeks feeling scorched yet again. She had to turn her mind to something else. Something safer. Her gaze dipped to the delicacies laid before them.
“You are forever feeding me desserts,” she said, her eye upon a particularly sinful-looking chocolate torte. “No cream ice this evening?”
Her gaze slipped back to him—of course it did—to find him eying her as if she were the only dessert he wanted to consume. She barely suppressed a shiver.
“No cream ice,” he agreed calmly. “I want to see what other sweets please you.”
All of them, she wanted to say, but none as much as your mouth on mine.
Oh dear. Best to turn her mind to other matters. She was curious, of course.
“Why have you brought me to your club this evening?” she asked next.
A smile flirted with his lips. “Because there is something I intend to show you here. Now choose your first dessert, bijou. My time with you is sadly limited, and I have a great deal more planned for us.”
Us.
Why did she like the way that lone word sounded in his deep, delicious voice so much?
Jo selected the torte that had been beckoning her ever since it had appeared on the table between them. “What more do you have planned?”
Kissing, she hoped.
Breathlessness, naturally.
“Patience.” He winked.
“Is an under-appreciated virtue,” Jo added.
“The lady is learning.” His smile deepened, revealing two grooves.
Dimples.
To accompany the charming little dent that hid in the middle of his proud chin.
Why had she failed to note them before now? Was it that he had not given her a true smile until this moment? She wanted to kiss each one of those dips. To travel the small divots with her tongue. To taste his skin the same way she had tasted his mouth earlier, in the carriage.
Instead, she shoveled a forkful of decadent chocolate torte into her mouth. In ladylike fashion, of course. Sort of.
The moan of bliss that fled her was decidedly not ladylike.
Her gaze flitted back to his, finding him watching her with that same inscrutable expression. Or mayhap not entirely inscrutable. He was looking at her as if she were the dessert laid before him. No man had ever stared at her with such frankness before.
She swallowed the bite of decadent cake. “Forgive me for my lapse of manners.”
“You need not apologize for enjoying something, Jo,” he said, the intimacy in his tone intoxicating. “Not with anything that happens between us. Do you understand?”
She understood he was speaking of something beyond her ken. Jo was a novice. Mr. Decker was decidedly not. But he wanted her to comprehend what he was saying, and in that moment, all she wanted was to please him.
What a strange realization. She had thought her list was about herself, and yet, she cared more about the man seated opposite her than she did about any of the items she had written.
“I understand,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart fluttering.
Decker knew frightfully little of what made Lady Jo Danvers happy.
What a disconcerting discovery it was to realize he wanted to know more. Hell, who was he fooling? He wanted to know everything that made her happy. He wanted to be the reason for her smiles and her every exquisite moan. More of those throaty moans, please, the sort that had rumbled from her when she had taken her first bite of the chocolate torte earlier. He could have kissed his bloody chef for that sound alone.
Yes, she fancied sweets, but he could not very well spend the next few days plying her with cream ices and cakes. The inevitable finite limitation of their interactions settled in his gut like a stone as he led her from the private dining chamber at his club to another chamber entirely. This room, like the last, was also devoted to sating appetites. Unlike the other room, however, this chamber had nothing to do with sating the hungers of the stomach.
Rather, it was a celebration of the most erotic items in his possession, and along with it, his most depraved proclivities. The walls were covered in rich, scarlet damask and hung with treasures he had accumulated over the last few years with the wealth his sainted papa had bestowed upon him after cocking up his toes.
That had been intentional, of course. After all these years, Decker preferred to use the Earl of Graham’s funds to carry on with businesses, charitable endeavors, and purchases the man would have considered immoral. Su
ch a patented, born-in-the-purple, sanctimonious hypocrite the man who’d sired him had been.
“What is this room?” Lady Jo asked quietly as she began a circumnavigation of the long, rectangular chamber.
“The wickedest room in my club,” he answered honestly.
If she wanted to test the bounds of her virtue, there was no place better suited for the task. Nor was there any better man. The mere thought of her alone with anyone else, attempting to complete her list, still filled him with protective fury.
Lady Jo Danvers was his.
For tonight, he reminded himself.
For this moment.
And why the devil should he care, anyway? He always grew tired of his playthings. The novelty dimmed. The most beguiling beauties and skilled, experienced lovers had not been enough to hold his interest for more than a night after he had bedded them.
He would grow tired of Lady Jo soon. After the completion of the list, mayhap before it. This maddening obsession he had for her would fade.
She trailed her hand over the massive piano dominating part of the chamber, running a finger over the keys. “The mark on this piano—it is the same as the mark on the piano in Lord and Lady Sinclair’s music room.”
Clever darling. She missed nothing—not a spare detail. She reminded him of a kitten whose eyes had been newly opened, eager to look at all the world around her, to drink it in.
He nodded. “It is. I own a piano factory in Islington. This is one of mine, as is the piano purchased by Sin and his countess. Superior models, if I am not being too proud of my own product.”
The hedonist in him appreciated beauty in all forms, including music. He often sat alone in his own music room, playing until the early hours of the morning. There was nothing quite as satisfying as the haunting strains of an excellent piano in the stillness of the night. Well, perhaps a woman’s moans of pleasure, but that was another instrument entirely.
Also one which deserved worship, as it happened.
“You own a piano factory,” she repeated, as if she found the notion impossible to believe. Her delicate finger traced over the mark on the polished rosewood case, trailing the gilded design he had added to the pianos after purchasing the factory, which had been declining after a century of excellent business. “Nothing but a stylized letter D, just as you sign your notes.”
Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2) Page 7