Wicked, My Love (18 page)

Randall held her hand so tightly that her f
inge
rs were smashed together. He stomped with her to the lobby. There, he jerked his head at a servant. “Hat. Coat,” he barked, his body drawn tall, assuming his imposing Lord of the Realm stance. Then he turned to Isabella and, in the same imperious tone, ordered her to stay while he jammed his hands into his gloves. Having none of that, she headed for the door.

The night air was still warm and humid. A fat, silver moon lazed on the rooftops.

“I told you to wait,” Randall barked, stepping outside, his greatcoat half on.

“I don't take well to being ordered about.”

“You're coming with me.” He grabbed her elbow.

She tried to dig her heels into the pavers, but the dratted slippers were useless and she slid along.

“You're my mistress, remember? Therefore, you have to do as I say,” he growled, drawing her into a darkened alley.

A yellow-striped cat was atop a black one amid the rotting crates, biting its neck as its hindquarters quivered. The black feline was screeching her excited mating calls to the entire neighborhood. The cats shot out of the lane as Randall pulled Isabella into its shielding darkness. Only the dimmest light escaped the bull's-eye panes of the buildings around them, lighting the contours of their faces and casting the rest into shadows.

“I'm not your mistress. You already have one, and she's stunning, gorgeous, and, I think, perhaps insane.” She tried to yank her hand away, but he held tight. A tug-of-war ensued.

“You let go of me this instant!” She tried to pry his strong fingers from her wrist.

He grabbed her other hand and backed her against the wall, pinning her on the brick. “What do you think you were doing with Harding?” His words were a blast of anger.

“Diverting him while you were talking to Spinkell,” she fired back. “What do you think, you
arrogant cabbagehead?”

He slowly nodded. “Ahh, you were diverting him.” He spun a lock of her hair around his finger. “Diverting him like this…a little flirtatious, maybe.” He unwound the curl down her neck and onto her breast, circling the exposed skin with his finger. “Or this, yes, that's quite diverting. That might border on bold seduction.”

“He—he didn't touch me there.” Despite her wrath, she couldn't deny the hot shiver rushing over her skin as her body rose to his touch, so different than Harding's, which was pleasant and heady, but Randall was another matter. His magic was powerful, primal, dark, and resonated deep in her core, quickening her pulse…and raising her anger higher.

“What did Spinkell say?” Her words came out a choked whisper as his finger dallied beneath the edge of her bodice, so close to that heated, hard tip.

“He said that he was told to deal to Powers, to bleed him. Harding may have been behind it. So, my dear vixen, you were flirting, I mean,
diverting
the very man orchestrating your downfall.”

“You said ‘may.' That's not definite. And I'm shocked you would notice me flirting, diverting, whatever Harding now that you have your luscious, mentally unstable Cecelia back. You should thank me.” She jutted her chin, pouting her lips.

He pulled his circling finger away.
No! Don't!

He moved closer until his lips waited over her ear, his body pressed against hers, his chest on her breasts, his thighs on her belly, his heat engulfing her. “Oh, I see.” He kissed her ear, letting his tongue slide along the lobe. He moved his lips down her neck, over her shoulder, lower and lower. “You're jealous.” He licked her skin. His low and sultry laugh broke something inside her. He was toying with her because he knew she couldn't resist him, because she was a pathetic spinster who fell for any male attention—including from the man who
might
be orchestrating her downfall.

She pressed her hands against his upper arms—taut with hard muscle—and shoved. “No. It's—it's about trust. You told me that we were in this together and then you left me. You
left
me, Randall, after you said you wouldn't.”

“I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” she cried. “How dare you? I have a bank that I've invested a decade of my life building. It has a thousand customers on the line. I am not a child, and I don't need protecting.” Shaking her head, she hiked the top of her dress up and turned to head to the gaming hall. “I should have left you at the r
ailway station.”

He seized her elbow. “Where are you going?”

“If you believe Harding
may
have something to do with it, then I'm going to find out.”

“Oh, now you're going to sweet-talk Harding? Don't make me laugh. You'll just get flustered and tell him about your promising openings in the l
ove market.”

She could hear her breath rushing through her flared nostrils. At that moment, she positively hated him. She wished she were a girl again, when they were the same size. She would give him a hard jab to the gut and then kick his shins. Instead, a strange calm descended as she studied his eyes burning in the darkness, the glint of his teeth beneath his lip and the scowl drawing his features. Suddenly, she read him. For the first time in her life, she could see inside him. He was primed and just needed a lit match to go off. She should be scared, but all she felt was dizzying power. She heard herself chuckle, a strange and alien sound originating from some unexplored region inside of her. The same laugh she had heard Randall give a thousand times—deep in the throat, lazy, and dripping with sarcasm—now came from her.

“Well, I might,” she said, her voice smoky and low. “After all, I'm an unattached courtesan.” She turned and started for the street, but he snatched her arm again—as she somehow knew he would—and she wheeled around.

“You don't want to be protected?” he growled. “You're not a child anymore? Not that scary, strange girl that once loomed around me? Well, fine, my lovely, unattached courtesan.” He pulled her close, until his lips were less than an inch from hers. “I want to buy you for the evening.”

“You lost your money. I should buy you!”

“Oh, but you don't want money.” He kissed her jaw again, his tongue tasting her. His scent filled her nose. His free hand rose, cupping her breast, running his thumb along the top. Oh Lord, he had trapped her again. Not with bars or ropes—she was just bound by her own desire burning between her limbs. “What did you say that night in the train station?” He began to quote her. “‘I can't help wanting to feel, to see, to
know
a man.' That you were desperate in your desire.”

“You're not being fair,” she choked out.

He raised his head, taking his kisses away, but still his fingers caressed her. She released a high, t
ight squeak.

“Life's not fair,” he said. “I would hate to protect you from that cold fact. I can't coddle you like a child, because you're a woman…a wild, beautiful courtesan.” His gaze never left her face, trapping her thoughts. “I don't want to protect you when I say that I dream about your body all day. That I want to feel you again, make you quiver with pleasure.” His fingers dipped into her gown, finding a rebellious nipple hard and straining for him. She couldn't stifle her whimper.

“If this is not what you want, lovely courtesan,” he told her, “you can walk away right now. Go
to Harding.”

He gave her tip a gentle squeeze that sent a hot, electric wave straight to her wet sex. Her lips couldn't form consonants. She arched her back, pushing her body against him. He pressed back, his male part rock hard and large against her belly.

“I want you,” he said, his teeth clenched. “But I can't have you. I can't marry you, and I can't take you under my wing. Our worlds can't merge.” He ran his free hand behind her head, tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling her mouth toward his. He overwhelmed her senses. Everything was him: his tongue, tasting of red wine, swirling against hers; his male part pushing against her belly; his heat, his scent. Her body was surging. She didn't know what she was doing, but she instinctively met his rhythm. Her sacred vessel was slick, ready to take him into her.

He tore his mouth away and hoarsely whispered in her ear, “I was trying to protect you from this simple truth: I want to pull up your skirts and bury myself inside you. I want to thrust and thrust and thrust, filling you up, making you cry out in pleasure. I want to feel your thighs shake around me until your climax contracts around my cock. I want to release deep inside you, spilling all this tension.” She raised her head and cried out, soft, high, and yearning. He grabbed her hand and pushed it onto his cock. “I want to fuck you, Isabella. I want to fuck you
so badly.”

He dropped his forehead on her shoulder. “If you weren't a virgin, I'd take you here. Against this wall. Are you scared? Maybe you don't want to be a courtesan now? Maybe you want me to protect you from this, after all?”

He flung himself back, his palms up, his chest rising and falling fast and hard. Though the night was warm, Isabella's skin turned cold now that she was separated from him. She throbbed with want. All her emotions piled on top of each other. Judith's words rang over and over in her mind, applauding Isabella for taking a lover, for satisfying her desire with no attachments. The man she craved at that moment couldn't give her a future even if she wanted it, even if she foolishly fell in love with him. But her future was so precarious now anyway. This might be her last chance to know a man before ruin—and the most handsome one in London at that. She swiped at the air, trying to draw him back, but he remained out of her reach, his eyes focused on the ground. Then a strange, unspoken knowledge bloomed in her mind. He was scared.

He swallowed, removed his hat, and raked his hand through his hair. “Come, I'll take you back to t
he inn—”

“No!” she cried. The night was changing; there was a quickening in the air, a charge, much like when the market or cards were turning in her favor. She knew better than to fight the flow of the moment. “No,” she said again, this time a whisper. She gently brushed aside the strands of hair falling in his eyes. “I don't want to marry you or be your mistress. But I'll be your courtesan for a night if you do everything to me that you dream about.”

“This is a mistake.” He tried to look away, but she captured his chin. “I can't… I shouldn't…” She placed a finger over his mouth, hushing him. She rose to her tiptoes and replaced that finger with her lips, giving him a brush of a kiss.

“Don't protect me. Don't make me feel like this and then stop. I'm dying inside. We don't like each other anyway. Why does it matter?” She pressed her mouth against his and ran her fingers down his taut back, coaxing him. He began to respond again, slowly. She never realized how wonderful it felt to touch someone, the softening and warmth inside of her. Even when her father was alive, he never embraced her. Since his death, she had been alone, cold and unconnected. Now it felt like years of isolation were floating away. She weaved her fingers in Randall's, lifting them back to her breast. He released her mouth and gazed down at where her nipple peeked over the edge of her bodice.

“Oh God.” His sigh warmed her skin. His body shook. Her hand slowly drifted down his chest and finally to where his sex strained against his trousers. She kissed his forehead. “I want to be your courtesan for the evening. Just an evening.” Her fingers slipped inside his waistband. “I want to fuck you, Randall.”

“Dear Lord.” He seized her wrist. “Come with me before I think better of this.”

***

Hand in hand, they bounded down the street like two reckless children on a wild adventure. He waved down a hackney. Once inside, he kept his fingers laced in hers. The air was crackly, like the moments before an electrical storm, when the winds kicked up.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because if-if you're not—”

“I am.”

He watched the rise and fall of her chest with her shallow breath, her breasts pushing against the edge of her gown. Her locks fell about her face, and her lips were reddened and swollen from his kisses. His cock threatened again. He tried to think about the price of wheat, Queen Victoria's speeches, and boring trade talks—anything sliding his cock inside her. He just had to get her to the flat. He just had to keep himself in check for ten minutes, six hundred torturous seconds.

His hands trembled as he assisted her from the carriage. He scooped some coins from his pocket, tossed them to the driver, and hurried her to the door. The driver called out something about wantin
g change.

“Just keep it,” Randall said. “Keep it, man.” He yanked open the door, guiding her inside. The gold light from a lamp burning in the parlor drifted into the dim hall.

“Randall,” she whispered. Her voice—the plaintiveness, the yearning—broke his last thread of restraint. He nudged her against the door. His mouth found hers and his tongue delved inside, silencing the doubts that told him he was going to regret his actions. He cupped those generous breasts that had taunted him all evening. Surrendering to the erection he had fought so valiantly, he rubbed his cock against her thighs.

“Dear God, Isabella,” he groaned, and repeated her name over and over, the same one that as a boy he had accompanied with an insult: stupid Isabella, scary Isabella, cracked Isabella. Now she was luscious, taunting, and sensual Isabella. His world whirled on its axis, a new day coming and the old, long one dy
ing away.

Her fingers yanked at his cravat. In an easy motion, he removed the knot and pulled the cloth away. Her mouth found his hot pulse beneath his ear, the tip of her tongue circling on his bare skin. He tugged at her bodice and corset, trying to get at her treasures. A loud rip echoed in the hall, and her rosy nipples finally popped over the fabric's edge.

He knelt before the stunning creations. “Sweet, lovely beauty,” he whispered, and suckled one. His tongue licked across its tip while his fingers played upon its hard sister, plucking, flicking, massaging.

Her nails dug into his scalp, her cascading curls falling over his head, as she released soft whimpers. The sound of her pleasure resonated in his chest and throat, like listening to beautiful music reverberating in the high domes of cathedrals. She took him to a place no other woman had—to the edge of somet
hing unearthly.

“Lord Randall,” he heard Mrs. Perdita call from the kitchens, breaking the spell. Isabella stiffened, but he held her tight, covering one breast with his mouth, the other with his hand.

“You are h— Good heavens!” The housekeeper released a bark of laughter, and then she scurried up the stairs, giggling all the way.

He had to relax Isabella again. He resumed the slow licks and kisses of her rosy tips, until she was writhing and catching her breath in short stops. He gave her a little nip. She whined deep in her throat and shoved herself deeper into his mouth. Her fingers interlaced with his, both caressing, pinching her nipple. He chuckled, low and dark, her breast still in his mouth.

“Don't laugh at me.” She shoved his shoulders, sending him tumbling onto the floor.

“What are you—”

She fell to her knees, ripped off her glasses, and leaned over, her silken hair feeling like feathers on his face. She sucked his lower lip, then released it. “I want to feel your body.”

She yanked back his coat and made quick work of his vest buttons. Then she lifted his shirt. She hummed as her fingers trailed along the taut lines of his muscles and his belly button. He loved how she used her touch to “see” him.

“So strong,” she murmured.

He wished he could relax into her caresses, but his cock was burning. He clasped her hand and slid it to his trousers. “Touch me, Isabella. Please.”

He swallowed and held his breath as her small hand moved under his waistband, unbuttoning and releasing him. “Oh my.” Her fingers slid along his length, exploring his head, down his shaft, to his tight bollocks, and up again. He wrapped her hand in his and guided her along, stroking the head and then down. A few drops of his hot liquid escaped onto their skin.

“I love how you feel,” she said quietly. “Hard
yet smooth.”

Her smile was tender and unguarded. Was this the same woman he had known most of his life? Why only now did her smile penetrate his depths? He slowly spun and unspun a lock of her hair near her cheek, his eyes half-closed, floating on the pleasure she induced.

He released the curl, drew a line with his fingers over her cheek, across her lips, pressing two inside her mouth to moisten them, and then back to a breast, dancing over the nipple, showing her the tempo and pressure that he desired. She emitted a little choked whimper, and her hand moved faster, matching his rhythm. “Like this?”

“Yes.” He released the last
s
like a long sigh through his clenched teeth.

She laughed, low and soft.

“Cruel vixen,” he murmured, lost in the blissful haze of her touch. “Don't laugh at me either.”

“I'm laughing because I'm making you happy, silly boy. Because…” She whimpered as he squeezed her tip, turning her voice high and tight. “I love how your pleasure feels inside of me.”

“Kiss me,” he whispered. “Kiss me, please.” She leaned down. His tongue ravished hers, wild and deep as he shoved his cock against her palm. He wanted more, to bury himself in the snug slickness of her unexplored core.

His mind was turning black, shrinking to a point. He seized her hand, pushing her away before he released. “We have to stop,” he rasped. “I'm too aroused. I want to be inside of you. I want to feel your quivering climax around me.” He yanked up his trousers and hastily buttoned a single button. He rose, slipped out of his shoes, and then lifted her. She tried to straighten her bodice.

“No, I'll have none of that. Don't you dare cover those lovely darlings.” He swooped her into his arms.

“Randall!”

He chuckled. He was too excited to take her up the stairs to the bedchamber, like a civilized lover. He could just make it to the parlor sofa. Laughing, she spilled onto the cushions—a blur of black hair, red silk, and white petticoats. Despite his jutting, burning erection, he had to stop and study her, smiling, vulnerable, and wanton. He wished he could capture this moment and keep her this way forever. The old Isabella, his critic, his enemy, stripped away, just this joyous, abandoned beauty in her stead.

She turned silent under his gaze, her glittery, unfocused eyes tensed. She reached out. He realized that she couldn't see him.

“I'm here.” He knelt at her side, taking her hand, kissing it.

They peeled off his coat, vest, and shirt. She found the button to his trousers and he rose, letting them fall. His erection jutted out at her eye level. He let her study him.

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and edged forward, slowly taking his head into her mouth, kissing him, her lovely eyes gazing up, unsure. “Yes, my angel,” he whispered, assuring her, giving her confidence. He was glad that she couldn't make out his face because she would find something there that wasn't part of their game: raw tenderness and awe. Every little thing she did, every move, every word cut a little closer to his heart.

What game had he agreed to? What would he say in the morning? Could he undo the damage she would wreak? But daybreak was hours away, he told himself, and he reached for her. “My wonderful love, let me pleasure you for now.” Using every ounce of his will, he removed his Percy from her sweet mouth. “I've got to get these clothes off you. I've got to see that beautiful body that haunts my thoughts.”

He felt her shiver as he turned her. She lifted her hair so he could undo the buttons of her gown. “Do you really think about me?”

In
the
last
few
days, almost every waking minute
, he wanted to reply. But he didn't know where their game ended and the truth began. He couldn't respond; it was far too dangerous. He just kissed her neck and licked the shell of her ear. He felt like a sculptor, chipping away button after button, clasp after clasp, knot after knot, discovering the art beneath the surface. In the end, the lamplight illuminated her bare alabaster skin, the rose of her areolas, the taper of her waist, and the glossy curls between her thighs.

“Good God, Isabella. Why didn't you tell me you were stunning years ago?”

She glanced from the lashed corner of her eyes. “Don't you mean an unparalleled paradise of beauty and delight?”

He could josh as well as she could. “I would say a delicious, unspoiled vista of heaven, except for the
se stockings.”

Her giggles turned into a gasp when he grabbed her ankle and slid her down the sofa cushions, anchoring her legs around his waist. He tried to keep up the flirtatious game as he raised her knee, taking her stocking string between his teeth and pulling, but then he caught a glimpse of her rosy, wet vulva, and his mind went blank, except for one thought:
get
inside
her
.

***

“Damn,” she heard him say. She couldn't see his face, but she felt the pressure of his fingers on her skin and cool air between her open legs, the heat of his eyes studying her intimate details.

She had never been so exposed to anyone. She hadn't expected this turn in their game. Fear flooded in, and she instinctively tried to close herself.

“No, Isabella, you are lovely.” He kissed her inner knee. “Don't be afraid.”

She hesitated, unsure. All the while, her body lay open, vulnerable to him, and the world didn't shatter like glass or stop spinning.

“Don't be afraid,” he repeated. “Just relax and let me do everything.”

Relax? Let someone else do everything? How?

He squeezed her hand. “If you want me to stop,
I will.”

No!
Let him think, let him take care of the world for a small time; let him shoulder her fears and loneliness. She had held so tight for so long in her stark existence of numbers and empty, silent rooms, desiring the husband and children that she was never going to have. The most handsome man in England—a man whom she spent years despising—simply wanted to pleasure her. This was the moment of all possibility. She could stop, but then that painful, hollow desire that kept her up at night, fevered with want, would continue unabated, driving her mad.

It's just a game, Isabella. For one night and then it's over.

He would soon find another ravishing mistress or marry a brainless Tory beauty and put babies into her belly. Would Isabella regret playing? And would it matter if she was just going to the poorhouse anyway? At least she would die having known a man.

There were too many variables to calculate the risk.

As his lips brushed the soft skin of her thigh, she realized she couldn't win. What was on the other side of her fears, the mystery that consumed her thoughts? She wanted an answer. Settling her head onto the cushion, she bit the edge of her lip and shut her lids, giving herself to him.

For one night.

Only.

“Relax,” he repeated as his finger moved along the wet folds of her sacred feminine place. Terror and excitement mingled together at being intimately known. She clutched the cushion, letting him explore her. He found that tiny mound at the top of her slit and flicked his finger over it. She gasped as spasms of pleasure jolted through her. He chuckled, dusky and knowing. His finger began to swirl in a tight circle, radiating powerful, hot waves through the rest of her body. She moved with his touch as if from some ancient memory. She released humming whines as a white intensity built inside her. The years and years of frustration transformed into heat and pleasure. If he didn't stop, she would combust, burst, or break apart.

“Please.” She begged for relief even as her body pressed against him, seeming to know some innate destination. “Please.”

He only slowed, worsening the torture. Another finger slid inside her. She cried out, rising up, clawing the air, trying to reach him. The scoundrel muttered a curse. His finger danced faster over her mound as the others pressed further into her. She fell onto the sofa, her back arching, her legs wide and trembling. She opened her mouth in an unvoiced scream.

“Bloody hell,” he hissed, and then his hands
were gone.

“No!” she begged. “Don't stop. Don't.”

He muttered something unintelligible. She was seized by the waist, pulled to the edge of the sofa. He wasn't gentle anymore, nor was he rough. She could feel the pressure of his cock at her opening.
This
is
it
, she thought.
The
mystery
is
about
to
be
solved.
She wished she could see his face, that he wasn't lost in the blur. He pushed, but her body wouldn't relent. “I'm scared I might hurt you,” he cried, fear breaking his voice.

“Hush,” she whispered, and pressed against him. She felt the pang of losing her maidenhood and then he slowly slid into her. For a moment, they were both still. She could hear his breath—hard and restrained—as she adjusted to sharing her body with his strength, his energy, his being. She hadn't realized how acutely lonely she had been until he filled her.

“My love, my love, my love,” he murmured. “You have undone me.”

She knew he didn't mean “my love,” that it was just something he said. But tonight, in this game, she would pretend that the endearment was true.

He began to move, back and forth, slowly and carefully. Her pain receded, surpassed by pleasure, more powerful and primitive than before. Instinctively, her back arched, allowing him further inside. She whimpered as she participated in this lovely dance of advancing and retreating, so easy even she could do the steps. “Oh, sweet Isabella,” he muttered, his voice syrupy with desire as he thrust deep into her. An amazing revelation unfurled in her mind: she had the power to delight him. She tightened the muscles of her sacred vessel and listened to his deep, gut-level groan.
I
did
that! I made him happy!