A Rogue of One's Own

The house was steeped in silence, its black windows staring broodingly into the night.

He entered the small, dark alleyway she had mentioned, and when he emerged again, the low wall surrounding her backyard was to his right.

The kitchen door was easily found, too. He knocked against it with his cane, and the stained-glass panes rattled in their rotting frames.

Interesting. He’d thought someone like her would be meticulous in the upkeep of things.

His body tightened with anticipation when her face appeared behind the window, a pale heart shape in the dark and without a sound to announce her, as though she had floated across the kitchen.

He unclenched his hands. She would have opened the door.

The key turned in the lock with a squeak.

“Hush,” she said, craning her neck past him and hastily looking left and right.

She grabbed his sleeve. “Quick.”

The kitchen was a blur, traces of light glinting faintly off the wall tiles. Her scent surrounded him, fresher, more pungent than usual, as though she had just taken a bath. Utterly distracting.

Now he noticed she was clutching a robe in front of her chest: of undecipherable color in the dark and overlong, the flowing, shiny material pooling on the floor around her. He could have been intrigued. He was intrigued.

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “I shall be quick about this—”

“Yes, I would prefer that. Come.”

She turned and vanished into the shadows as quietly as if carried on wings—was she barefoot?

He cursed under his breath but followed the trail of lemon fragrance into a pitch-black corridor. A few strides ahead, orange flickers danced on the wall, cast through an open door on the left through which Lucie must have disappeared.

When he turned the corner, he abruptly came to a halt.

At the back of the room shone an isle of light, created by a semicircle of gas lamps and candelabras. At its center, before the fire roaring on the grate, she had spread out a thick layer of blankets.

She had built them a love nest.

He was not lost for words often, but he was now. This . . . complicated matters.

Lucie straightened from lighting a last candle and turned to him, a reddish glow outlining her slim form. Her hair slid freely over the sleek fabric of her robe, and he felt himself heat and stir at the memory of the smooth strands against his palms, of her weight on his thigh, the press of her soft hand on his swelling cock. . . .

Sweat dampened his brow. He hooked a finger into his collar, loosening it. “Lucie. We must talk.”

Her chin tipped up. “We have talked quite a lot, don’t you think?” Her hands rose to the knotted belt, gave a tug, and the robe parted down her front.

A flash of white, white skin.

She was naked.

He made a sound, primitive and uncontrolled.

She yanked the robe shut again, but he’d seen enough. Enough to know things he would never shake again. She was infinitely sweeter than his depraved mind had allowed him to imagine. And she was blond—everywhere.

“Now that,” he said, hoarsely, “is not fair.”

She tossed her head. “Well. They say all is fair in love and war.”

Right.

“Then war it is,” he murmured. From a distance came the clatter of his cane hitting the floor. His coat, his hat, his jacket thudded behind him as he stalked toward her; by the time he towered over her, she looked alarmed and he was on the last button on his waistcoat. Her gaze followed the deft movements of his fingers, then flew to his face when the garment had landed on the blankets with a swish.

“What,” he said, pulling the braces off his shoulders, “surrendering already, Tedbury?”

“I—”

“You will,” he promised, sank his fingers into her hair and kissed her. She gasped, and he plunged his tongue between her lips.

Finally.

For a beat, he floated, absorbed in velvety, intimate heat. He knew her taste at last, at last.

He licked deeper into her mouth, already enchanted. A last, sane remote of his mind expected her to bite. There was a scrape of teeth, clumsy rather than angry. He’d let her draw blood if it pleased her.

He gathered her in his arms and pulled her up, mouth on mouth, chest to chest. Her mewl of surprise reached him through a haze. A riptide of sensation was dragging him under at the feel of her: sweet lips, soft tongue, her lithe strength in his arms. The need to be closer was ferocious, a drowning man’s urge to come up for air.

He broke the kiss and set her down only to drag his shirtsleeves over his head.

Her gaze was on him, moving from his chest to the breadth of his shoulders, then down to the ridges of muscle on his stomach. An assessment every woman made when deciding: would it be worth it?

He hadn’t wondered whether he passed muster in years. He was wondering now.

Their eyes locked.

She looked glazed and drunk.

Good.

Because any finesse had left him, and instinct made him artless and fast. His hands were on her shoulders and pushed rather than eased down the robe. Heat swept his body at the sight of her—breasts. A gentle flare of hips. Remarkably shapely thighs.

He was on his knees.

She squeaked when he grabbed her hips and buried his face against her belly.

“Tristan—”

He kissed below her navel, then licked, and she fell silent. She bucked when he did it again, and his grip tightened, because he was drunk, too; on her nudity and her fragrance, a heady blend of citrus soap and silky skin and more intimate notes of arousal. He kissed a downward path, following these notes, the feminine scent that turned a man more animal when it was right. When his mouth brushed over the spot where all her pleasure centered, he paused. Heat pulsed against his lips, the beat of hidden places filling with desire. Oh God. It was very, very right.

He pressed the flat of his tongue against her. Yes.

He’d gladly spend the rest of his life right here, with his head between her thighs, murmuring filth and praise between his kisses . . .

A sharp tug on his scalp pulled him rudely from his bliss.

Above him, her face was flustered and flushed.

“Does it not please you?” His voice was rough.

Her eyes glittered with a million emotions. “I think yes,” she said. “I think it does.” She did not release the fistfuls of his hair. He was too hasty, he realized, shredding his reputation as a skillful lover in the wake of his greed. Greed? Or perhaps, a less flattering, more whimsical emotion—that she would dissolve in his embrace like a fae and he would never hold her again.

“May I?” His hands slid from her hips to her waist—a tug, and she tumbled down into his arms. She stared up at him wide-eyed, disoriented as though she had landed in a foreign country. A confused Lucie, naked, in his arms. A picture he knew so well from his daydreams, he could have sketched her with his eyes closed: the parted lips. The huge pupils. Her delicate throat moving in nervous anticipation.

Daydream Tristan proceeded to do dark and wicked things to her.

Daydream Tristan hadn’t expected the ache. Holding her like this ached, deep within his chest, and the sensation spread outward, squeezing his throat and locking his muscles.

He quickly laid her down and stretched himself out beside her, trapping her with a still-clothed leg over her bare thighs.

Shadows and flickers of fire danced over fine female skin.

She looked small next to him. Hurting her would be easy. Too easy.

He rested his hand lightly on the sweet curve of her belly. The beat of her heart was noticeable even there, a hectic echo against his palm.

He splayed his fingers wide. “How do you like it best?”

Her gaze met his, uncertain. Did her lovers never ask?

“The usual way,” she said, her eyes opaque.

“I am intrigued by your usual,” he said, amused.

She gave a small shrug. “Why do you not try and find out?”

She wanted him to learn her by trial and error? “My pleasure.”

He heard a mew when he put his mouth back on her again. He smiled darkly against her. She had made that sound despite herself. He lost all sense for time as he was pleasing them both by eliciting more soft noises of pleasure with his fingers and his tongue, until his back was covered in sweat and the urge to be inside her pounded in his blood like a battering ram.

She squirmed, slippery and panting. “I’d quite like for us to do it now.”

So would he. But she was still tight enough around his one finger to make him cross-eyed. Not even Daydream Tristan would have proceeded with this.

He shook his head. “We are not ready.”

Her feet drew restlessly over the blankets. “Please.”

He pushed a second finger in, perhaps too impatiently, but just then she thrust up into his hand. Her eyes squeezed shut and she gave a sharp hiss of discomfort.

He stilled.

This was not a reaction he knew. Certainly not one he liked. Not one bit.

Her face relaxed only gradually. In renewed bliss? Or to conceal her emotions altogether?

A heavy feeling stirred in his gut.

His lust diffused, the room came back into focus—the crackle of the fire. The roughness of the wool blanket against his side. Details floated to the surface of his mind: the clumsy kiss, the little gasps of surprise, the way she was clamping too tightly, too anxiously, around him . . . surely not. Hell. Surely not.

He withdrew from her gently, not daring to look.