Notorious Pleasures (19 page)

With a last pat for Rambler, he climbed the front steps of his town house and let himself in. He kept only a small staff at his London residence since he did no entertaining here. A cook, a few maids, a bootblack boy, and Deedle were quite sufficient for his needs. The price for such laxity, however, was that there was often no one to meet him at his own door.

Griffin threw his hat at a hall table and didn’t bother to pick it up when it fell to the floor. He began climbing the stairs. God, he ached like an old man. Another night awake was added to the fight and the ride to and from St. Giles. Now all he wanted was a hot bath and bed. Not necessarily in that order.

But Deedle knew well his master’s ways.

The manservant poked his head out of Griffin’s room as soon as he heard his steps in the upper hall. “I’ve got the water boiling, m’lord. We’ll ’ave a bath ready in two ticks.”

“Bless you, man,” Griffin said. He sat upon his bed and began drawing off his boots as the maids hurried in with steaming kettles.

Twenty minutes later, Griffin winced and then sighed as he lowered himself into a tub of hot water.

Deedle fussed about for a moment, putting clothes away. Then he picked up Griffin’s muddy boots. “I’ll take these down to the boy, shall I?”

Griffin, eyes closed, waved a hand.

The door shut behind the valet.

He’d already soaped the smoke from his head and body, but the rising steam was wonderful. Griffin lay there, soaking, and let his mind drift. He’d left orders for Nick to find more men—if there were some to be had at any price. The Vicar wasn’t just targeting Griffin’s stills. Overnight there’d been news of two different fires destroying other gin makers. At least one man was dead in the flames. Could he keep his business going?

Griffin snorted softly. Lady Hero would certainly be happy if he went under. One less gin maker among hundreds—if not thousands—in St. Giles. But then maybe she was right to disapprove of his business.

The thought of her disapproval brought other thoughts of her as well. He remembered the little line that knit itself between her delicately arced brows when she lectured him. The way her pale rose lips softened when she listened to his response. And how her lashes had drifted closed when he’d kissed her neck.

Griffin groaned and his hand drifted along his thigh to his cock, already half erect. He brought up images of those sweet little breasts, the red nipples large in contrast and somehow unbearably erotic. They’d been drawn hard and tight for him, and he imagined biting gently down on them. He could almost hear the moan she’d make at his touch.

He grasped his cock in his hand, pulling up, feeling his own hardness, the exquisite sensitivity at the tip.

He’d draw the laces from her stays, bare her fully for his own enjoyment. And under her skirts, there lay that sweet, warm, wet—

Downstairs, someone began pounding on his front door.

Griffin groaned. Surely there was someone to answer it. He didn’t have many servants, but he did have enough to answer a bloody door. Or perhaps the caller would give up.

But the knocking continued.

“Hell,” he spat, letting go of his now-rigid cock. The visitor might be Nick Barnes with more news.

Griffin climbed from the tub, splashing water on the rug, then swiped a towel across his body and pulled on breeches and a shirt. He ran down the stairs barefoot and stomped across the hall floor to fling open the door.

“What?”

He found himself glaring into Lady Hero’s startled gray eyes. She glanced down the length of him, making him very aware of the damp shirt clinging to his chest and the breeches covering his half-aroused state.

Her gaze snapped back up to his. “Oh!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, thank God!” she said low. “I’d heard reports this morning of a gin still burning in St. Giles. They said a man was dead.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” he said, not very graciously.

“I can see that.” She cleared her throat. “Might I come in?”

He looked up and down the street. No one appeared to be paying attention to them. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, and yanked her inside his house.

Lady Hero stumbled in with a squeak. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to salvage your reputation,” Griffin muttered. He turned and stomped into the library without bothering to see if she’d follow. “What do
you
think you’re doing visiting a bachelor’s residence—unaccompanied—in the middle of the day?”

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she said from behind him. “And I need to talk to you.”

Griffin grunted. The damned woman no doubt wanted to continue her harangue about the still. He picked up a decanter of brandy and splashed some into a glass. He turned with the glass in his hand and found her frowning at the scatter of papers on his desk. Probably disapproved of the mess.

He tossed back some of the brandy. “About what?”

She turned, still frowning. “I’m sorry?”

He gestured with the glass, spilling some of the brandy onto the floor. “What do you want to talk about?”

She pursed her lips in a fussy little moue that only served to draw attention to her mouth. He had a sudden image of her mouth pursed and filled. His cock, ever at the ready, came to full, raging arousal.

Griffin slammed back the rest of the brandy.

She opened that luscious mouth. “I—”

“Perhaps you wanted to chat about the weather?” Griffin said silkily. He refilled his glass. “That would be an appropriate topic of discussion for an early morning call.”

She blinked. “I—”

He held up a finger to stop her and took another gulp of brandy. It burned going down, but his shoulder, which had been aching from this morning’s fight, began to loosen.

“Should you be drinking so much before noon?” she asked disapprovingly.

“Yes.” He glared and took another sip to prove his point. “I always drink when I’m half dressed and entertaining ladies.”

She flushed a becoming pink. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”

“Oh, no.” He set down the glass with a crack and stalked toward her. “You’ve interrupted my bath, interrupted my quite
pleasurable
pursuits there, in fact. You might as well tell me what you want to say.”

She stared at him, mute.

“Perhaps you wanted to take me to task for my gin-making ways yet again, hmm?” He leaned over her, not caring if he intimidated or even frightened her. “Or chide me for fucking too much.”

She flinched at the word but stood her ground bravely.

He narrowed his eyes viciously. How dare she stand there like a martyr when he ached—literally
ached—
for her? He snapped his fingers as if remembering something. “But you can’t chide me for seduction when you’ve fallen victim to my lewd advances yourself, can you? Not so saintly now, are you?”

Her eyes widened, and he thought he saw a shimmer that might’ve been tears. He wouldn’t give ground now. Not when he might finally drive her out of his house, out of his life, and out from under his skin.

Griffin bent and murmured in her ear, “But perhaps that’s what you really came here to discuss—seduction. Perhaps all that stuff about gin making was merely an excuse you seized upon to come see me. Perhaps you want me to kiss more than your sweet breasts this time.”

Lord Reading’s warm breath washed over her bare neck, scented with brandy, and his wicked words sparked something deep within her. It might be—definitely
should
be—shame, but she very much feared it was something else entirely.

“Is that what you want?” he purred. “My hand on your belly? Stroking down until my fingers tangle in your maidenhair? I’d wager it’s as soft as a kitten’s fur, your hair down there.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, pressing one hand to her stomach. He shouldn’t say these things. She should make him stop. She should leave. Except… except she wanted with all her heart to stay. To meet him on equal ground—just this once.

To be a woman to his man.

He didn’t touch her, simply stood over her too close and whispering those shameful, shocking, seductive words. “But what’s below is even softer, isn’t it? Your sweet petals, all wet and silky, blooming open for me. I’d find your secret bud hidden in among them, and I’d circle it just so. Never hard enough to hurt you—oh, no, I’d not hurt you—but not so soft that you couldn’t feel it. For I want you to feel it, Hero. I want you to feel
me
.”

She moaned, and she couldn’t help it—didn’t want to help it anymore. She turned her head toward him. His face was inches from hers. His eyes were a pale, implacable green, arrogant and sinful. If that was all she saw in his gaze, she would’ve walked from the room.

It was the hint of vulnerability that made her stay.

Her gaze dropped to his lips. They were curled in a sneer, but the lower one was still wet from the brandy. The sight sent a rush of warmth low in her belly. “Griffin.”

He groaned and muttered something vile under his breath. Then she was caught in his arms, not gently at all, and his mouth was on hers, wild and needy.

“Hero,” he muttered as his lips feasted on hers. “Hero.”

He’d seemed to have let slip some essential control. His movements were jerky and ungraceful, starkly primitive in their intent. He knocked her hat to the floor. His mouth bit along her jaw and down her neck as he grappled with her wrap, tearing it from her arms. He swore and lifted his head, staring down as he got her bodice off and began rapidly unlacing her stays.

She should be horrified. Frightened and appalled, but instead his savagery seemed to feed some need within herself. Her hands were helping his; she was stripping the clothing from her limbs as fast as he. The room was hot, her breath was coming in gasps, and the scent of brandy and need filled her nostrils, making her feel faint.

Her skirts suddenly dropped, and then she stood in only her chemise, stockings, and shoes.

He blinked, his eyelids dropping to half-mast as his movements suddenly stilled. For an awful moment, she feared he might come to his senses and stop.

Instead he slowly moved his hand to the chemise’s edge at her shoulder. He fingered the fine material gently, his gaze locking with hers. Then, his green eyes holding hers, he twisted his fingers in the fabric and pulled sharply downward. A seam ripped, something gave way, and he tore the fragile fabric from her body.

She gasped, shocked, standing there nude before him. She’d never revealed herself to a man. She was aware of her nipples, pointed and red in the chill air of the room, and the knobbiness of her knees. Except—dear Lord!—he wasn’t looking at her knees. Her chest heaved and his eyes rose to her breasts. His mouth twisted in a smile. Before she’d even completed the thought, his hands flashed out to shackle her wrists.

“No.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving her body. “Let me look. Let me
feast
.”

She shuddered. Her whole body was hot, prickling with sensation, as if his eyes physically touched her. This was almost torture, standing nude before him, letting him look at her without even her hands to cover herself with.

He chuckled, low and dark, and then, still holding her wrists, he swooped down and covered her right breast with his mouth.

She jumped and her head fell back helplessly. His mouth was hot, sucking hard on her flesh. She wanted to feel more, she
needed
more, and her hips of their own accord jerked toward him.

“Oh, not yet,” he whispered over her wet, sensitive nipple. “Not nearly yet. I’ve been thinking of this for a long time.”

What?
she wondered wildly.
What could he possibly have been thinking about?

He sank to his knees before her, and she lifted her heavy head, blinking down curiously at him. What was he…?

He let go of her wrists to place his hands on her thighs and force her legs farther apart. Her dazed mind stuttered to life. He was too close to her center. He could see and, more importantly,
smell
everything.

He lifted one of her legs—her foot still shod in an elegant heeled slipper—and draped it over his shoulder, which placed him squarely underneath her.

“No,” she said frantically. “I don’t—”

He looked up at her, and his pale green eyes seemed to glow. “
Yes
. Hold on to the back of the settee, and whatever you do,
don’t
let go.”

And then, before she could move or think, he dipped his head forward and licked across her folds.

She gasped and grabbed wildly for the settee behind her. She’d heard whispers of this, but in no way was she prepared for it. He was kissing—no, worse,
licking—
her intimate flesh. It was the most extraordinary thing she’d ever experienced in all her life. His tongue was hot and faintly raspy, stroking firmly over and over, burrowing deeper until he did indeed find what he’d called her bud.

She puffed out air and bit her lip. Her eyes squeezed tight. She mustn’t scream, mustn’t make a sound, but, dear Lord, it was hard not to. He was licking delicately, exquisitely, over and over again. She felt him pull apart her folds with his thumbs, and then he set his mouth directly over her center.

And sucked.

She gasped, the sound loud in the room. It was almost painful it was so sweet. She felt tremors rock her legs, and for the life of her she couldn’t help it.

She peeked.

His dark, shorn head was between her thighs, his thick lashes shuttered over his eyes as he ministered to her. One brown hand was splayed on her pale hip, the difference in their skin tones in shocking contrast. He was so big, so masculine, and he was servicing her. This must be wrong, must surely be a sin, for it felt too, too good.

His eyes suddenly flashed open, and he was looking up at her, green eyes intent as he kissed her between her thighs, in that place
no one
but she had ever touched.

The sight was too much. An implosion started at her center, sending out sparkling waves. She bit her lip and shut her eyes, unable to hold his gaze while suffering this final, intimate pleasure. It was shameful. It was wonderful. She shuddered and quaked beneath the shattering release, and she did it all in front of
him
. She thought he would draw away, but he continued with tiny, intimate kisses, making the aftershocks go on and on until her legs trembled and she feared she would fall.

Then he was surging up her, catching her about her waist and setting her on the settee. He threw her clothes on top of her, and before she could wonder what he was about, he lifted her high against his chest.

She clutched at his shoulders as he strode to the library door, and she realized what he meant to do. “You can’t!”

“Watch me,” he replied.

She feared servants, but no one was about as he ran across the short hallway and up the stairs. He strode down an upper hall and shouldered open a door at the far end. She just had time to see a full bath, a few crumpled towels, and a huge bed with atrocious flaming orange drapes, and then she was bouncing on the bed.

Griffin flung her clothes rather cavalierly to the floor, stripped off her slippers, and then stood looking down at her.

She held her breath, wondering what he expected of her. She’d never done this, hadn’t planned it, and was in no way prepared. She started to prop herself on one elbow, but he slowly shook his head.

“Stay there.” He raised his hands over his shoulders, grasping the back of his shirt. “Stay still.”

He drew his shirt off over his head and doffed his breeches.

She’d seen naked males before. Statues, pale and entirely denuded of hair. A few living boys or even young men, their shirts removed for labor.

She’d never seen
this
man nude, though. He was brown all over. What she’d taken for skin tanned by the sun was instead naturally olive toned. His shoulders were wide and square, and in contrast to those unliving statues, there was hair upon his body. Sprinkles of it, dark and curling, from one brown nipple to the other, a bare patch between chest and belly and then a gradually widening line of dark hair from his navel to the bush about his genitals. The hair there was thick and black, and his penis rose ruddy and dark from it, a strange, foreign,
male
thing.

She looked and looked and felt herself clench internally at the sight, the wonder, of being free to inspect his nude body. She’d held that part of him in her hands, but she’d never seen it. It rose almost vertical to his belly but stood away from his body. Thick veins twined about its length, leading to a fleshy cap, swollen past his foreskin. It gleamed faintly in the candlelight, reddish purple and ready. It was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen in her life—and the most frightening.

“Do you like it?” he asked, grasping himself.

She watched, mesmerized, as he pulled the skin down the shaft and then up again, cupping the head in his palm. Her eyes rose to his, and she could only speak the truth. “Yes.”

A corner of his mouth kicked up, though he looked far from amused. “Good. I’ve heard of virgins running screaming from the sight.”

She bit her lip at the word
virgin
.

“You are, aren’t you?” he said in a voice that in any other man she might think gentle. “A virgin?”

She nodded. A virgin. She was about to lose her virginity. This was wrong. This was a sin. This was—

“Don’t think,” he ordered. He stepped forward to place a knee on the bed, making it dip beneath his weight. “Don’t think, don’t wonder, don’t worry. Only feel.” He lowered himself, his hands on either side of her head, his body suddenly heating hers. “Feel
me
.”

And she did. He pressed his legs between hers, widening her thighs until there was a place for his hips, and settled himself on her. She could feel the rough hair of his legs sliding along hers, the hard slab of his belly, and above all, the hot iron rod lying across her mound.

She looked up at him as he lowered his head toward hers, murmuring,
“Feel me.”

His lips were gentle but not soft. He inserted his tongue into her mouth, and she knew now how to suckle upon it, how to tilt her head so that their mouths fitted together perfectly. His hands were in her hair, pulling pins out, burrowing beneath the tresses to palm her scalp, and she realized suddenly that she could explore as well.

She lifted her hands along his sides, stroking, touching his warm skin. His back was smooth, a little damp now from his bath or perhaps the heat they made between them. She skated up and felt the muscles of his shoulders move beneath her palms. This was so intimate, so quietly special: to touch a man’s naked back, to feel him as he made love to her.

He muttered something and lifted away from her, breaking their kiss. He rocked to the side a bit and reached between them. She felt his fingers sliding through her maidenhair. Then he was pushing his penis against her folds, swirling the head in her wetness, pressing against her apex. She watched his face, seeing the grim set of his mouth, the slight furrow between his brows. Sweat shined on his forehead, and it occurred to her that though he’d no doubt done this innumerable times before, he was taking
this
time very seriously.

That gave her comfort.

Then he shifted and looked up, and at the same time she felt the tip of his cock at her entrance.

She gripped his shoulders in sudden doubt.

He ducked his head, catching her eyes. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

And he flexed his hips.

She expected pain, but there was only a strange sort of pinch. She panted, waiting for more—pain or pleasure, she wasn’t sure.

He slid a little way out and then farther in.

Her lips parted as she realized that he was not fully sheathed in her.

“Relax,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth.

He withdrew and shoved again, this time only a little more inside. The pinch had lessened, but the stretching, the pressure was still there, not a painful sensation, but not entirely pleasant either. He shifted then and brought her legs up, wrapping them about his waist. Suddenly there seemed to be more room. He slid partly out, his penis rubbing against her, and then shoved forcefully, his hip bones meeting hers.

She looked up at him, so full of his flesh. Was this all there was?

He seemed to understand the question in her eyes. He lay against her, his upper half braced away from her on straight arms. He smiled again, this time rather grimly, and grunted, “Feel.”

Then he slid against her, his penis slowly pistoning out and into her. She gasped. He did it again, his eyes watching hers, and swiveled his hips, grinding down on her.