Chapter 26
Jake rounded yet another leafy corner and found himself facing a hedgerow identical to the one he’d just left behind. He was late, not having accounted for the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to find the labyrinth’s center. Olivia would know it like the back of her hand.
A memory from last night stole in: her hand feathering across his bruised chest before pressing her lips to it. That kiss had penetrated all the way through to his heart, and he still felt it there, filling him to bursting. No longer was there room for the hurt, shame, and regret that had plagued him for years. Before him lay a future different from the one he’d envisioned since setting foot in London.
And he was free to pursue that future. If he could ever find her.
Fifteen minutes ago, he’d watched her duck out of the ballroom, champagne flute in hand, wobble in her step. Since it wouldn’t do for them to leave together, he’d stood in affable silence for a full five minutes while a lively matron extolled the virtues of her daughter, who stood quietly to the side, eyes cast down to the tips of her white satin slippers. The girl couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Mina. The idea of selling Mina off to a man old enough to be her father churned his gut.
He’d offered the pair a succinct bow and excused himself, taking a different exit from Olivia, in case curious eyes tracked their movements. One couldn’t be too sure with these people.
He snorted and shook his head to clear it. Here he was: a formerly capable man reduced to prey for the ton. He made a sharp right, and stopped dead, the breath frozen in his chest. Suddenly, he stood inside the labyrinth’s center, his future laid out before him.
Awash in moonlight, luminous and sublime, lay a supine Olivia stretched atop a marble bench, gazing up at the night sky, champagne flute lolling gracefully at the end of an outstretched arm. A vision of aristocratic elegance, her ball gown cascaded toward dewy grass that stretched across the space between him and her. The statue of a long-forgotten saint stood vigil, poised to grant a special indulgence only for her, this Aphrodite.
He stepped forward, snapping both a twig and Olivia out of her reverie. She shot up and swung her legs around, eyes flashing, lips drawn in a straight line just turned down at the corners. She resembled less amorous Aphrodite than vengeful Hera.
This wasn’t at all the mood he wanted, or expected, for the question he would ask.
“In the excitement of the ball, I forgot to ask you a question that has been bothering me since this morning.” The glare beneath her furrowed brow intensified. “Why were you really at Jiro’s studio?”
Her question struck him like a swift left hook to the jaw. An inauspicious beginning to say the least, but one he must address if he was to salvage a night that had begun to slide away from him. “Jiro”—The name came unstuck from his throat—“knew of Mina from Japan.”
Olivia’s head canted to the side. “Knew of Mina from Japan? I thought she was a few days old when she left.”
“She was.”
“Then what would it matter to Jiro that Mina is in London? Were you acquainted with him in Japan?”
Jake stilled, body braced for a blow from a larger opponent. “I’d never spoken to the man until today.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Either you’re talking nonsense or the champagne is dulling my mental faculties. And, for the record, while I think it could be the latter, I’m leaning toward the former.”
“I didn’t know he was here until I saw the sketches.”
She leaned forward until she perched on the very edge of her seat. “What sketches?” she asked, her voice a low and hard mirror of the cold stone beneath her. Dread stole into the air and hung about her in heavy waves.
He must speak the words aloud. “The ones I knocked from your hands.”
“What is it to you that either the paintings or Jiro are in London?”
“Have you ever noticed the group of young women in the final painting of the set?”
“Bottom left corner.”
“One girl stands slightly apart, reading.”
“A book.”
“Pardon?”
“A Western-style book.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. She knew.
Her eyes narrowed. She knew.
“If she looked anything like she does in the painting, Clemence was really quite lovely.”
“Quite.” It was possible the moment could go soft and pliable, and he might be able to slip inside it.
“Then what?” Olivia asked.
“Pardon?”
“After you saw my sketches. Then what?”
“How do you mean?” Sometimes in the ring, it was necessary to shuffle around, to avoid an opponent’s blows, to regain one’s bearings and devise a way forward.
“What incredible serendipity that you and I travel in the same circles.” Sarcasm laced her every syllable. “What fantastical serendipity that our needs happened to align so neatly.”
The moment closed with a snap, firm and definite. He shifted on his feet, absorbing the impact of her words.
“The Duke’s mentorship”—She began ticking items off a list, finger by finger—“The house hunt. Seeing Mina placed at school. Those were all secondary to . . . what?”
“I needed to get closer to you.”
“You needed to get closer to me? Well, you certainly succeeded on that front.” Her sharp laugh sliced through the air. “What is so important about Jiro and the paintings?”
“They were stolen from the most powerful family in Nagasaki, the Kimura.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “And Jiro—”
“Stole them.”
Sudden understanding dawned across her face. “He could know the truth about Mina.”
Jake nodded. Again, he felt that the moment could grow soft, that opportunity, fragile and skittish, was presenting itself.
“Why didn’t you simply ask me for his direction?”
He inched forward, his footsteps muted by springy grass underfoot, encouraged by the direction of their conversation. “I couldn’t risk anyone connecting him to Mina. I didn’t yet know the sort of man he is.”
A loaded heartbeat passed. “Or the kind of woman I am?” she asked, steady and controlled.
Too steady. Too controlled.
Jake stopped cold. Separated by a few feet, the chasm that opened between them spanned the boundless sky.
“Did you think I would betray her?” A note of hurt ribboned through the question.
“I couldn’t risk her.”
“I wouldn’t have risked her.”
He knew that. But he couldn’t say it. Not now. It would only sound like so many manipulative words.
“Jiro wouldn’t have risked her. He’s not that sort of man.”
“Olivia,” he began, anxiety curling through him. The sort of anxiety when it sank in that he’d lost a fight, but must stay in the ring and take his pummeling like a man. “His name isn’t Jiro. He is Kai, Mina’s—” He hesitated, the next word twisting his throat into a hard knot. The truth would become more definite, final, spoken aloud.
Olivia’s pupils flared, pushing her irises into thin, blue rings. “Father,” she spoke for him.
Another layer of betrayal slipped between them and pushed the chasm wider. She glanced at the half-empty glass in her hand as if wondering how it got there. She lifted it to her lips and downed the champagne in two great swallows. With a simple flick of her wrist, she tossed the empty glass into dense shrubbery. She cleared her throat. “You used me.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Thoroughly.”
“Yes.”
“And now”—She heaved a great sigh and came to her feet—“Jiro isn’t even Jiro anymore. He is Kai.” A mirthless laugh escaped her. “Mina’s father.”
She closed the remaining distance between them. Fortunately, she wasn’t required to travel far or in a straight line. She tipped her head back to hold his gaze and poked a finger into his chest. Despite the fact that she was undeniably three sheets to the wind, her eyes held his with clarity and control. He would take whatever punishment she chose to dole out, anything she threw at him until she was finished.
“But there is one question that remains unresolved.”
“Ask.”
“How did you find Jiro . . . Kai?”
There would be no use in hesitating. So he didn’t. He ripped the bandage off in one swipe, swift and sure. “I followed you.”
~ ~ ~
Her body went numb at the confirmation, even as her heart doubled its erratic beat. “Followed me?” Betrayal and exposure blossomed, robbing her of breath.
He’d used her. He’d lied to her. He’d followed her.
Her afternoons spent roaming the East End were part of an intimate life that no one had the right to violate. How dare he?
“You bastard!” She reared back her right hand and swung it around to slap his lying face.
Except her hand never made contact. He caught her wrist and held it fast, suspended in the night air. His gaze pinned her in place, and her body flushed hot, her focus concentrated on the point where his gorgeous, capable hand wrapped around her wrist.
A succession of thoughts flowed in a rapid cascade. She could ignore his scent . . . his warmth . . . his powerful body . . . his piercing eyes . . . his gorgeous, capable hands. They needn’t affect her as they had in the past. But . . .
How closely her body was positioned to his . . . How their breath mingled together in a ragged cadence of uncertainty and . . . Was this anticipation making her heart race? Anticipation of . . . what?
At once, she was certain of a single, irrefutable fact: more than she wanted to slap his perfidious face, she wanted this man one last time.
Every time was supposed to be the last time. Yet it never was.
Tonight was different. Tonight, he didn’t have to be more than a body, his only function to be a source of pleasure for her. They didn’t have to solve anything between them to do this temporary act. They both wanted it. She saw the truth of that reflected back at her in his eyes, irises flared black with desire, surely a mirror of her own.
Oh, he wanted her. And she would have him.
She reached up and touched fingertips to the dimple in his chin, traced the outline of his stubbled jaw until she found the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his sun-kissed hair. Gently, insistently, she tugged, pulling his face down, even as she rose to the tips of her toes, her mouth reaching, straining, toward his. In a final push of the sweetest anxiety, her mouth took his . . .
~ ~ ~
. . . In a kiss that ravished, urged, insisted, left nothing in reserve, left Jake no doubt how this night would end.
Her tongue pushed inside his mouth. Her body carnally rubbed up the full length of his, her intent clear. He released her wrist, and her hand snaked between their bodies until it reached the laces of his trousers, already strained to their limit by the bulge of his swollen cock. The cool tips of her fingers feathered down the hot length of his shaft, once, twice, a taunt, a tease.
A growl, rough, demanding, sounded from the back of his throat. He needed . . . “More, Olivia.”
“When I say.”
Her palms pressed flat against his shoulders, and she pushed his yielding body onto white marble, his hard cock exposed to the night air and the avarice of her gaze. She took her skirts in hand and slowly lifted, exposing ankles, calves, thighs . . . mons pubis. He heard an animal moan and realized it came from him.
The knowledge of Eve lit within her eyes. “I know what more you want.” Her tongue grazed her crooked tooth. “And what I want.” She braced her hands on his shoulders and straddled him, her naked, wet quim poised inches above his cock, another taunt, another tease. Her lips met his ear. “Beg,” she whispered.
“Olivia, if I could take back—”
“Not for forgiveness.”
Relief, dirty and wrong, pulsed through him. He didn’t want her forgiveness. He wanted her hot, slick cunny wrapped around his cock. He throbbed, he ached, for her to . . . “Fuck me.”
She pulled away and met his eyes. “Did no one ever teach you how to grovel?”
His gaze fixing hers in place, he allowed a heartbeat to pass, then another. “Please.”
A triumphant smile curved one corner of her kiss-crushed lips, and her hand wrapped around his length one deliberate finger at a time until she held him firmly. It was all he could do to keep his hips still, to not press up and into her, to keep his hands fast at his sides and let her control the situation. This night was hers to use him as pleased her.
Unhurriedly, she lowered her body, her bare flesh brushing his throbbing head before lowering to take him in, inch by slick, agonizing inch, until he was fully immersed in her. She went still, her breath ragged, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes drifted shut, intoxicated by her own private nirvana. She’d never looked so unbound, so unknowable.
Eyes closed to any world outside her own, she rose up, then down, a slow, intentional rhythm with every rise and fall of her hips, his shaft a tool for her pleasure. His hands clenched the back edge of the bench as she took him.
Her eyes fluttered half-open. Desire darkened their luminous blue into opaque navy. She reached inside his shirt and gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in deep. Blood surely mixed with the sweat trickling down his spine.
Lust, hot and swift, ignited, and he reached the limit of passive endurance. His fingers found her hips and squeezed. Her legs wrapped around his waist, allowing him further entry until he pushed against the core of her.
“Harder,” she moaned, wild abandon freeing her, him, of the past, the future, freeing them to this moment, this pleasure, pure and raw, blazing and demanding. He thrust his hips and drove inside her in a swift, slick stroke, relentless. Her moan encouraged, begged, pleaded with him, for more, for all he had.
Her head arced back, and her body tensed, suspended, still, except for the relentless thrust of his cock. Her breath came and went in staccato bursts as her body broke and pulsated her release atop him, her quim fluttering in rhythmic pulses around his manhood, all but begging him to follow her lead.
But he wouldn’t. Not yet. He wasn’t done.
In a quick, sure movement, he tightened his grip on her hips and lifted her up and off him. Confusion crinkled her brows together. “But you didn’t—”
He pressed a silencing finger to her lips. “Turn around,” he demanded, more imperious than he had the right to be.
Dark, fierce lust flared her pupils, her irises a thin blue ring, and she obeyed, bending over and bracing herself against smooth stone, her luscious, heart-shaped derriere naked and waiting for him to take her again.
He took his cock in hand, slick and sweet with her, and guided himself into her, and she released the longest, most sultry moan ever to cross a pair of lips. He stroked in, then out, her moans sliding into gasps. Her hands gripped the edge of the stone bench, her back arched, and her sex bloomed more with each thrust of his hips, ready for more, harder, faster.
He and she were nothing more than animals, devoid of reason or concern. This was fucking. They took from each other what was needed. He wanted her to take from him until he had nothing left.
Her gasps became short, hard bursts, as if she’d wound herself into a knot. He drove inside her, again and again. Only he could release her, unbind her. Gasps transformed into aching groans, and he felt her unfold beneath him as her wet, hot pussy seized her, quaking its release around him. This time he had no choice but to follow her to the precipice and over its edge.
He came hard, spending his seed deep inside her, each thrust an intentional branding, a claiming, animal, primitive. She was his. He would have her any way he could get her.
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and his animal nature began to recede, reason and reality, heartbeat by beat, reasserting itself. He glanced down and found himself still joined with her. He never wanted to separate from her. Yet he must.
He stepped back and slipped out of her. With one hand, he reached for the laces of his trousers, and with the other, he tugged her crushed gown over her pale bottom. The fine muscles of her back contracted, one by one, and she straightened. Her dress fell to the ground in a soft shush. It was almost possible to convince himself that what had just happened hadn’t. But why would he want to?
She turned around and braced herself against the bench before sliding to the grass in a graceful cloud of gold and ivory silk, her back supported by white marble. He’d never seen her so gorgeously and thoroughly spent.
“I wish you’d allowed me to land that slap.” Her voice carried to him across crisp night air swirling with the vibrations of a distant raucous mazurka, the antithesis to the quiet and unsettled mood pervading the space around them.
“No, you don’t.”
“Don’t I?”
He lowered his own spent body and settled back onto his elbows. Her gaze seemed determined to fix on the patch of night sky beyond his right shoulder. Now, in the quiet of this rare moment, he must ask a question. “Olivia?”
She must look at him.
“Olivia,” he repeated.
Her gaze, wide and wild, flashed to meet his.
“Marry me.”
Ephemeral emotion flickered across her face.
“Not replying isn’t an option. You cannot run from this.”
A laugh, sudden and mirthless, emerged from her parted lips. “No? But I am so good at it.”
“Olivia—”
“No. The answer must be no.”