Chapter 22

Langdon was not a thief. He’d never taken what belonged to another. If he hadn’t learned about Hollingsworth’s betrothal,

his steps wouldn’t be quickening, and he wouldn’t now be on the verge of taking this woman as though she belonged to him.

They reached the door that led into the other wing. Without hesitation, she reached down, released the latch, and shoved open

the door. He carried her into the entryway that wasn’t quite as grand as the one leading into the main portion of the residence.

If he continued down the hallway, he’d pass a number of small parlors, reading rooms, and libraries that were available so

guests could make themselves at home and have a bit of privacy. He considered going into one and grabbing a bottle of spirits

to take with them up the stairs but nothing he drank was going to be as intoxicating as Marlowe.

He crossed over to a table where a lit lamp threw their shadows onto the walls. “Grab that,” he ordered her, surprised by

the raspiness and fervor he heard in his voice.

She did as he bade. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you set me down, so I could walk?”

“I’ve thought about carrying you like this since the night of the storm.” He started up the stairs.

“You did carry me. How else would I have gotten to your bedchamber?”

“Not like this. I carried you as I would a sack of potatoes, over my shoulder. I could have kissed your bum, it was so near.”

She released an indignant squeak, and he laughed, definitely glad he’d brought her to the other wing and not to his bedchamber.

He had no desire whatsoever to keep her quiet. He wanted her squeals, sighs, and moans. He wanted her calling out his name.

He wanted to be surrounded by all the sounds they could elicit together.

If this was to be their only night together, he wanted nothing held back. And if he could convince her to give him many more,

he wanted tonight to be the start of it all, to begin as he intended for them to continue.

Having finally reached the landing, he turned into the first bedchamber, kicked the door closed, and set her on her feet.

He took the lamp from her and placed it on the nearby dressing table. It revealed a room that was more shadow than light.

She was limned by moonlight pouring in through the large window.

If she wasn’t still healing, he’d take her in his arms and slash his mouth over hers.

“Would you care for a fire?”

She shook her head. “I have a feeling you’re going to be warming me.”

“I intend to set you alight.”

He heard a rush of breath escape her. “I know I shouldn’t be nervous.”

He stepped forward until the toes of his boots touched the toes of her slippers. “You have held me enthralled since the first

moment I saw you. You have fueled my fantasies.”

As if in disbelief, she shook her head. “I’m likely to disappoint, then.”

“I very much doubt it.”

And he lowered his head.

She didn’t know how it had come about, but as he laid his mouth against the curve of her throat, it was hotter than when they’d

been outside. Wetter. More intoxicating. Of its own accord, her head dropped back, giving him easier access, as her hands

slipped inside his jacket and slid up his chest, over his waistcoat and shirt.

She rather wished they were back on his island, where neither of them would be wearing much in the way of clothing. His mouth

trailed down and followed the outline of the path designated by the low cut of her borrowed gown. Her breasts seemed to swell,

reaching for his attentions. Her nipples puckered and became far too sensitive, begging for release and not to be flattened

against the irritating fabric.

While she suspected he was accustomed to being in control, she couldn’t imagine that he wanted a docile coupling from her.

He would want an equality between them. To give and to take similarly.

Therefore she didn’t hesitate to skim her fingers along his waistcoat buttons and begin giving them their freedom. She took satisfaction in his encouraging groan. His hands left her as he shrugged out of his coat and then his waistcoat. She unknotted his neckcloth and pulled it free. Then she went to work on the buttons of his shirt. She’d barely seen to three of them before he was tugging his shirt over his head and casting it aside.

He spun her so her back was to him and he draped her hair over one shoulder before he began loosening the lacings on the gown.

His mouth took a journey over her nape before he shoved the shoulders of the gown down her arms, then down her body until

she was able to step out of it.

Her petticoats and underthings came next until she was soon covered in only moonlight. He placed his hands on her shoulders

and slowly turned her around.

In spite of the shadows surrounding them, partly layered over him, she could read the appreciation in his eyes. She thought

of all his books. Her memories would be like them, stacked and scattered about, and she’d often return to those from this

night, but she thought the way he was looking at her now would always be her favorite moment. She didn’t know how anything

could make her feel more... fancied. She dared not consider loved because a woman who had traveled along her path was certain to be denied such an incredible gift. But it didn’t mean her

own heart wouldn’t fall. And she was beginning to fear that where he was concerned, it already had.

“My God, but you are lovely. Perfection.”

“You really didn’t look the night you found me in the storm?”

“I saw bits. There was no way to avoid it. But not the whole. And the whole is... remarkable.”

He reached for her, and she jumped back. He stilled, his face suddenly somber. “You’ve changed your mind?”

“No. Now I want to see the whole.” She arched a brow. “Although I did get a view of your lovely backside when I awoke on your settee

that first night.”

He laughed. Deeply, richly. “I had a sense I was being watched.”

“But when you turned, the front was already covered so”—she waved a hand impatiently—“get on with it. Show me what I’ve yet

to see.”

He dropped into a nearby chair, tugged off his boots, and tossed them aside. He shoved himself to his feet. With arms outstretched,

he approached. “You seem to enjoy loosening buttons. Have at mine.”

She swallowed hard. Let him give you what I, of late, have failed to deliver , Hollie had told her. She’d been frightened then and angry. But hurt, so hurt when Langdon had tossed down his cards, and

she’d realized what he’d done. To avoid being with her, she’d thought. Yet here he was, confessing the loveliest of accolades.

As she slowly ran her hand up the fall of his trousers, she realized his body was offering its own accolades to her.

He’d wanted her then and he wanted her now. And perhaps in between. And he’d resisted until this moment. And now she was his.

Completely. Absolutely. At least for tonight.

These hours she would hold close, the memories to be relived when doubts surfaced and the need to be loved overtook common sense.

Her mother had loved and it had ruined her life. Marlowe certainly wasn’t going to make that mistake. She was mistress of

her fate.

And for tonight she was Langdon’s mistress.

She almost chuckled at the absurdity of her musings, but he was straining against his trousers where her hand had come to

rest, his breaths easing in and out in shuddering pants. She didn’t know if she’d ever possessed this much power. Oh, certainly,

there were swells in London who fell at her feet, who promised her the world if she would leave Hollie to become their mistress.

No one promised what she wanted most: to be loved and respected, to escape her past, to embrace a life that the little girl

inside her still innocently believed was possible to possess.

This man had come the closest. Removing her drenched clothing and not gawking sleazily at what was revealed, touching only

with permission. Preparing her eggs, bringing her fish, sitting beside her and sewing her balloon. Talking with her about

things that didn’t involve sex. Looking at her as though he would devour her and make her glad he had.

Pressing her hand more firmly against him, she reached around and squeezed his backside. His eyes closed as he groaned low.

“The buttons. You’ll like squeezing it with no cloth in the way.”

She did laugh then, taking care to open her mouth only a bit, just enough for the sound to escape. She didn’t want to delay the cut’s healing. Because she would get that kiss he’d promised, one way or another.

Her fingers were trembling when she released the first button from its mooring. The next and the next. As the material parted,

he sprung free. It was her breath suddenly shuddering. She moved slightly so the lamp could cast its glow over him. She’d

long had an appreciation for the male form. His didn’t disappoint.

He rid himself of his trousers before drawing her up against his body, his mouth just a whisper over hers as it skimmed down

to her breast, his tongue circling her nipple, eager yet gentle, then lapping at her skin before his mouth closed over the

sensitive flesh. She wove her fingers through his hair and held his head, keeping him there until she’d had her fill of the

sensations.

Languorously, his mouth open, leaving a trail of dew in its wake, he moved to the other breast and gave it the same intense

attention. He was masterful, licking, nipping, sucking. All the little sounds she couldn’t hold back seemed only to spur him

on to lingering and continuing the assault. She cursed her mouth for the injury that would prevent her from teasing him in

the same way.

With one hand still on his head, she slid her other one down his ribs, counting as she went, along his flat stomach before

wrapping her fingers around heated velvet-covered steel. He groaned low and deep, the sound reverberating through her.

She would not compare him with Hollie, and yet already she knew she would be experiencing something she hadn’t before. He was so much more passionate, so much more attuned to her needs.

And then it was as though he’d been dark clouds on the horizon, warning of what was to come, holding himself in check, giving

her time to prepare—

Because suddenly it was as if the tempest was upon them, and they were caught in a storm of desire that would leave nothing

as it had been.

He swept her into his arms, carried her to the bed, lowered her to the mattress, and followed her down.

“I don’t think there is so much as an inch of you that isn’t beautiful,” he said on a rasp, his hands trailing the length

of her, down to her toes and back up. “But you know that already.”

“Still, a woman likes to hear it.”

“But you are more than your beauty, Marlowe.”

He straightened until he was able to hold her gaze with such intensity that it was almost frightening to behold, his palm

cupping her jaw. No one had ever looked at her as if his soul was striving to meld with hers, as if where they touched was

only wrapping, while the true gift inside was waiting to be revealed. “You intrigue me. Your strength, your daring. Your confidence.

I can’t imagine you doing much cowering when you realized you’d be overtaken by a storm. I suspect it was the storm cringing

when it realized it had you within its grasp.”

She laughed lightly but was also deeply touched, and no doubt blushing because of the sort of praise that had never before been heaped on her. She wasn’t accustomed to men looking below the surface, and yet it seemed he was an expert at exploring more deeply than most. “I’m not that formidable, I’m afraid.”

“You kept your wits about you, well enough to know your clothing was a liability. You did what had to be done, regardless

of propriety. I know women who would have swooned at the first stirring of their hair by the wind. Men as well, to be honest.”

And then he became the storm.

Langdon was accustomed to bedding gorgeous women. Like most men, he had an appreciation for beauty, and he couldn’t deny that

Marlowe reigned supreme when it came to physical perfection. He suspected most men, being what men were, looked no further

than the blue of her eyes, the small nose, the rounded chin, the sharp cheekbones, and the long golden eyelashes. They might

not recognize that what made the surface so remarkable was everything within her, like hot springs, where what was hidden

bubbled up to make them valuable.

He couldn’t be sure that even Hollingsworth realized what he had.

And she brought all her confidence and daring to the bed, matching the intensity of his passion and desire. No passivity with

her, and yet he’d known there wouldn’t be.

She was fire, molten and scalding, with the most wicked hands that knew where to touch, how to touch, in order to make him

beg. “Yes, more, you’re driving me mad.”

He imagined that if her mouth was healed and added to her arsenal that he might not have the strength to survive the onslaught of pleasure.

It mattered not where she stroked. Every part of him jumped as though struck by lightning. She left behind sizzling nerve

endings. That she was aware of her power over him, relished it, served to enhance the prelude to their eventual joining.

Her skin was silk, gliding over his as positions changed. Rolling to their sides, his back, her straddling him, rubbing her

sultry, lavalike core along the length of him, flagrantly teasing the tip of his cock with an introduction to what awaited

him between those sweet lips he’d kissed the night before. He knotted his hands into the sheets with the pleasure that engulfed

him with so shallow a touch.

He bucked his hips and she lifted hers with a raspy, “Not yet.”

He doubted there was a torture device at the Tower of London that could cause more torment than he was presently experiencing.

To want with every fiber of his being—to experience excruciating pleasure in the waiting to possess.

With her, even when everything was fast and frenzied, there was a slowness, a savoring... a knowing that ultimate indulgence

hovered on the horizon. A thunderstorm that couldn’t be quieted or tamed. That would have its way with them and make them

grateful it had.

Marlowe cursed the split lip. She could take only small nibbles, tiny tastes. But when she touched the tip of her tongue to the head of his cock, he jumped with such force as to nearly throw them both off the bed.

“Have mercy,” he ground out.

She lifted her gaze to his, smoldering with such intensity, she was surprised it didn’t ignite the room. Never breaking eye

contact, she nibbled her way down the length of him, taking so much satisfaction in his strained features that she almost

experienced her own release.

Suddenly he grabbed her, tossed her on her back, and settled himself between her thighs. “Two can play at that game.”

And then down he went.

With the first stroke of his tongue, a strained whimper escaped and she squeezed her eyes shut. Last night had been the first

time she’d ever experienced this particular method of receiving pleasure. She’d never even imagined it, but she supposed her

reaction had indicated that she thoroughly enjoyed it. Yet everything with him, even the things she’d experienced multiple

times, seemed... novel. Perhaps it was the method of his delivery. It was as if he possessed her, owned her, controlled

her.

Yet she felt that she did the same with him.

Each striving to ensure the other experienced the ultimate in ecstasy.

And together they ensured they would.

He took hold of her hips and raised them to his feasting mouth, and she very nearly came undone. So many sensations. So deep.

So lasting. So incredible.

It was obvious he was enjoying it as well... or at least her reaction to it. His moans and groans served to amplify her enjoyment. She was close, so very close.

“Langdon.”

Without ceasing his attentions, he captured her gaze.

“I want you inside me when I fall apart.”

“Christ.” It was more a feral groan than an exclamation.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of one thigh and then to the other before easing up, bracing his arms on either side of her,

hovering over her. “Guide me home.”

Oh, God. She might not have been able to smile with her mouth but the rest of her grinned with giddiness—like receiving on

Christmas morning something she’d been lusting after all year. She wrapped her fingers around him, angled her hips, and brought

him to the cusp—

With a tortured groan, he slid deeply into her and stilled, as though savoring the closeness achieved. She wrapped her legs

around that incredible backside of his, squeezed.

And then they were moving in tandem. Him thrusting, her meeting those thrusts with equal fervor. The pleasure building, rapidly

climbing to impossible heights—

Untethered, she soared, crying out, tightening her hold on him. His guttural groan echoed around her as his back arched with

his final thrust.

Breathing heavily, he lowered himself to his elbows, buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, and pressed a kiss to her damp, and still singing, flesh.

He was resting on his back, Marlowe draped over him. She’d thought she was a woman of the world, and yet he was teaching her

things, showing her things, making her feel things she’d never imagined possible. She’d never realized what she lacked in

education.

“There’s a hell of a lot about being with you, Marlowe, that I’ve not experienced with another woman. I’m trying to convince

myself that it’s an illusion because it’s been months since I’ve been with anyone.” She was very much aware of him going so

still she wasn’t certain he was even breathing. “But I don’t think that’s it.”

He shifted them both until they were lying side by side, facing each other. He threaded his fingers through her hair, resting

the heel of his hand against her jaw. His voice was low, sounding almost confused. “I do know I don’t want to take you back

to Hollingsworth.”

She knew she didn’t want him to take her back. But neither did she want him to ask her to be his mistress, and she suspected

it was all he would offer. He was decent and proper; his family was decent and proper. And she was anything but.

“I don’t suppose”—he closed his eyes, opened them, and held her gaze—“you’d consider becoming my mistress? I would give you

twice whatever he gives you. A larger residence, more servants, a more generous allowance.”

Why did it hurt so bloody much to have her suspicions confirmed? From the moment Hollie had taken her in, she’d worked to be flamboyant, eccentric, noticed. And she had succeeded beyond her wildest imaginings. Unfortunately, she’d also managed to create a trap for herself. She had taken what Hollie needed her to be, embraced it proudly, refusing to cower before those who looked at her with disdain, as though she had fecal matter spread over her face.

Only Langdon wasn’t looking at her with disdain. He was looking at her with something akin to hope and woven within it were

need and passion.

But being invited into his parents’ residence had awoken something within her, something she’d forced into the farthest corners

of her mind, where it could remain dormant. However, tonight it was lumbering through her thoughts like a brown bear disturbed

from its hibernation. And it was hungry. For all the things she’d been told she’d have when she grew up: a lordly husband,

children, love. But she wouldn’t attain them with Langdon. She would be to him as she was to Hollie: something to be taken

out on occasion and flaunted.

“I should probably make my way to my bedchamber now to avoid getting caught later.”

She started to roll over, but he stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. Why did it have to be so hard, so large, so powerful?

“I take it the answer is no,” he said somberly.

She gazed at him over her shoulder. “I don’t know that I want to be another man’s mistress.”

“Even knowing how things would be between us?”

“Is that what this was? An audition?”

“No.” He abruptly sat up, the sheets falling to his hips, his upper torso bared. How she wanted to run her fingers over every inch. Had she no pride? “No,” he repeated. “But if you can have something wondrous with me...”

His voice trailed off, his expression a bit thunderstruck and confused, as though he suddenly found himself immerged in a

quagmire, the mud pulling him under, and he had no idea how it was he found himself in such a dire predicament.

“Everything isn’t always about sex,” she said quietly. She shifted and scooted until she was sitting up with her back pressed

to a bedpost at the foot of the bed. “Three years ago, when I was nineteen, the thought of being a courtesan sounded exotic,

bold, and daring. But it came at a cost I’d not considered. I’m no longer content, and I don’t yet know what will make me

so. But I know I won’t find it with you, as your mistress. And you can’t have me any other way, can you?”

He looked away, shifted his position, like someone who’d been given a problem to decipher and was without the means to work

it out. She knew the truth: if they’d been in London his family never would have welcomed her into their home. But this place,

so far away from everything, was safe for doing what one ought not.

“I’m weary, Langdon. Is there a trick to getting to my bedchamber from here or do I just go out the way we came?”

“We can get there easily from here. I’ll escort you. But at least let me hold you until dawn.”