CHAPTER FIVE
he following morning, Daphne trudged into the dining room, her head in a fog. Returning home after her unexpected encounter with Adam—in an alley, of all places—she hadn’t possessed the energy to do much more than fall into bed after undressing. She’d done that bit herself, not wanting her maid to see her chafed inner thighs, or the bite mark left behind on the side of her neck. With the candles doused and the coverlet pulled up over her head, she had squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find escape in sleep, to sink into darkness and silence and forget.
With startling predictability, Adam’s phantom presence refused to allow it, his face filling the insides of her eyelids, and his voice, rough and raspy as he laughed at her—taunted her—seemed to echo from the walls of her chamber.
Despite her best efforts, she had been unable to put him out of her mind, or stop reliving their frenzied mating in the alley over and over again. She could still feel him—his mouth on hers, his tongue shoving its way between her lips, his hands clenched around her wrists, his big body pinning her against the rough, stone wall. Her cunt ached, throbbed with each beat of her heart, the tender flesh swollen from being so brutally used after months of abstinence.
His scent had clung to her clothes, but even after taking them off, she could still smell that unique combination of cedar and musk, the spicy aroma of the last cigar he’d smoked layering over it all. It clung to the strands of her hair, and even seemed indelibly ground into her skin. It had taken hours of tossing and turning before she could fall asleep, but it had not been restful. She’d awakened several times throughout the night, her heart pounding, skin tingling and breaking out in a sheen of sweat.
As if some part of her had been awakened—the part that sensed she was being hunted, stalked for the kill—and now, she could not put it back to sleep. She half expected to open her eyes to find him on top of her, holding her down and rasping ‘little dove’ into her ear before forcing his way into her body.
Equal parts relief and disappointment flooded her upon waking up alone.
Now, the sun had risen, and she could not rest, no matter how exhausted she was from lack of sleep. So, she had left the bed and dressed, determined to carry on with her day—with her life. However, as she settled into her seat at the head of the small dining room table, waiting for a footman to pour her tea, Adam’s words from the night before echoed through her mind.
I came for you, little dove.
She could not fathom why. They’d had an agreement and had both met their ends of the bargain. It did not matter that she’d begun to see him as a victim instead of a villain—that she’d begun to understand him in a way she suspected few people did. Nor was it of any consequence that her heart had softened toward him, so much so, that by the end of their time together, she’d begun to think …
No, she could not do this to herself yet again. She would not fall prey to delusion. Adam had made it clear the morning of her departure that he had finished with her.
If that were the case, then why was he here?
I came for you, little dove.
Blinking, she glanced down to find that the footman had not only poured her tea, but placed a plate arrayed with offerings she was known to like in front of her. All while she’d sat woolgathering like some cotton-headed fool. Glancing up to find the man now standing in the corner of the room like a sentinel, she gave him a tentative smile.
“Thank you.”
The footman nodded at her, but did not speak, nor did he return her smile. Sighing, she turned her attention back to her breakfast. She could not hide from him forever, but she would take this day to recover before going out, prepared to confront Adam once again. This time, she would make it perfectly clear that if he’d come to London for her, he might as well pack his bags and return to Dunnottar. She did not appreciate him turning up without warning and attempting to upend her life.
That decided, she helped herself to toast and tea, lamenting that she was not enjoying Mrs. Russel’s flaky scones. She made do, and ate her fill while perusing a copy of the Morning Post. She had just polished off her second cup of tea when another footman entered the room, bustling over to the butler, who stood watch near the sideboard. The two whispered in hushed tones for a moment, before the butler turned to Daphne, clearing his throat.
“Pardon me, my lady, but there is a caller.”
She gestured for him to approach the table, and he obeyed, extending a calling card to her. Her throat constricted when she laid eyes upon the name etched onto the card in elegant cursive.
Lord Bertram Fairchild.
She had not seen her brother since the night she had returned to London and made her way to the flat he shared with their father. Memories of that night, of the moment she had looked her brother in the eye and seen him for who he truly was, made her stomach churn.
“Shall we show him the door, my lady?” Rowney asked when she did not immediately respond.
Shaking her head, she forced her limbs into motion and slid her chair back from the table. “No. You may show him into the drawing room, and I will be there directly. And, Rowney?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“He is not to be served refreshment,” she declared. “He will not be staying long.”
“Of course, my lady.”
The butler left, the footman trailing after him. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed a stray strand of hair back from her face. While she refused to cower and hide, she did not relish this visit. Three months had passed since her return to London … three months since the night she’d written off her father and brother forever, vowing to herself that they would never see so much as a ha’penny from her. Nor would she become a part of their so-called ‘family’ ever again. If it had been within her power to change her surname, she would have. She wanted nothing to do with either him or her father, and she intended to tell him so right now.
Squaring her shoulders, she swept from the room, determined to keep her composure no matter how much she might wish to assault him. Attacking him would accomplish nothing, and besides, her brother had already paid for his sins—continued to pay for them as his reputation sank further and further into the gutter.
Entering the drawing room, she pulled the door closed behind her, not wanting servants listening in. When she glanced up, it was to find her brother lingering near one of the windows, staring out at the street. Daphne folded her hands before her and cleared her throat to gain his attention.
For a moment—at the exact second he turned away from the window and the light of the sun enveloped him from behind—he looked like the young man she’d known and loved. The charmer who could turn a stranger into a dear friend with nothing more than a smile. The person who had seemed to understand her better than anyone else. His hair glowed the same auburn shade as hers, and he cut a dashing figure in his morning coat and breeches, his form long and lean.
But then, she blinked, and he began to approach. The light that had clung to him receded, and the true Bertram showed his face. She almost gasped at the ghastly sight he made—pale, gaunt, blue eyes lifeless and surrounded by dark circles. His hair stood on end and did not hold the same luster it once had. A figure that had once been lean and sinewy now seemed downright emaciated. His clothing was threadbare, his coat a few more wears away from needing patches, his boots scuffed and worn.
If it weren’t for the things she knew he had done, she might have pitied him. Instead, a part of her was a satisfied as a cat after a saucer of cream. Seeing what Adam had reduced him to brought a smirk to one corner of her mouth.
“Bertram,” she said coolly, inclining her head at him. “How may I help you this morning?”
Scraping a hand through his disheveled hair, he scoffed. “Well, good morning to you, too. Is this how you greet your brother?”
A bark of sarcastic laughter came out before she could stop it. “Brother? I have no brother.”
“Dash it all, Daff,” he snapped. “Must you always be so bloody dramatic? I realize you are angry with me, but that is no reason—”
“But, I am not angry with you,” she told him—and it was the truth. “I am not angry, or sad, or, really, anything at all when it comes to you, Bertram. I am simply … done.”
Gesturing around her simple but elegant drawing room, he snorted. “Obviously, you are, if it pleases you to live in the lap of luxury while Father and I are practically starving.”
Pursing her lips, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Starving, Bertie? Now you are the one who’s being dramatic. I seem to recall the pair of you receiving the substantial sum of ten thousand pounds—”
“Not nearly enough for men of means to live off of,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.
His flippant dismissal made her blood boil, her palms burning with the need to slap him. “It was enough to pay for the loss of my maidenhead!”
He gestured toward her with one hand, then once again indicated the room they stood in. “Apparently, the man very much enjoyed what he sampled, given your sudden financial independence.”
Despite knowing he’d meant to anger her with that little jibe, she couldn’t help but grin. “What bothers you more, Bertram—that he paid me at all, or that I earned several times more the amount he paid you?”
His face fell, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “How much more?”
Brushing past him, she stomped toward the window, needing to occupy herself, to keep from bashing him over the head with the nearest vase. She stared out at the street, watching as carriages and people on foot came and went. Narrowing her eyes, she spotted what she thought might be a familiar figure.
Large, broad, masculine. Not Adam … someone else with the same proportions and build.
Niall.
“That is none of your affair,” she snapped, trying to keep her voice even and not let on that Adam’s butler appeared to be loitering across the street.
“None of my affair?” Bertram blustered. “Has your self-righteousness caused you to forget familial loyalty? Every family of the ton has secrets, Daphne, many of them far more scandalous than ours.”
Glaring at him over her shoulder, she shook her head. “Do the secrets of other families weigh upon your conscience? I can tell you … yours, Father’s, Uncle William’s … they weighed upon me every day that I spent at Dunnottar. They consume me still.”
He made the mistake of approaching her again, reaching out to take her arm. “And now that he’s here, what will you do? Will you go on letting him use you to tarnish our family name and make us look like fools?”
Her nostrils flared as she reached the limit of her patience. She fairly shook with rage when she thought of the things she’d endured for his sake.
“Hartmoor’s presence in London does not frighten me nearly as much as it seems to have terrified you,” she lied, even as her stomach twisted at the mention of his name.
I came for you, little dove.
“My involvement in his little vendetta has come to an end, and so has my association with you—both public and private,” she added. “If you wish to know what he might be up to, might I suggest taking it up with him yourself?”
Bertram blanched, as if even the mere notion made his blood run cold. As well it should.
“You disappoint me, Daphne,” he murmured, releasing her arm. “I had hoped you might at least wish to help restore our reputation, as mine and Father’s are directly linked to yours. Do you not understand? If we are social outcasts, then so are you.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I have always been different, and we both know it. I was never a part of their world.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But we all have to live in it.”
Turning to leave, he muttered curses under his breath, and something that sounded vaguely like ‘spoiled, ungrateful little bitch.’ If he still held any power over her, she might have allowed herself to react to that, to rage and cry and scream. But as she took in his haggard appearance, she realized that in the end, she had truly won. She had gained her freedom, and it was far more valuable to her than the naiveté she’d once hidden behind.
Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back at her. “By the way … Robert is in town. He arrived not long before Hartmoor, but of course, a mere baron’s son does not garner quite as much attention from the papers.”
Her mouth went dry, her pulse fluttering as she thought of the man she had almost married—the first man she’d ever loved. However misguided, her feelings for him had been real … though not strong enough for her to wed him, to allow herself to settle for a mediocre and passionless marriage. Oh, Robert had awakened her sexual cravings and taught her a woman’s pleasure … but he could never be the sort of man who satisfied her, who read the truth in her eyes and unlocked the deepest of her secret desires. He just did not have it in him.
“Oh?” she replied, keeping her voice light.
“He called upon Father and me and asked that I deliver this,” he said, retrieving an envelope from his coat pocket and holding it up for her to see. “I do think he’s still in love with you, Daff … enough that the scandal will not deter him from pursuing you. My advice might not mean much these days, but you ought to consider it. He is respectable enough to salvage at least your own reputation.”
He placed the letter on a small decorative table near the door and turned away once more.
Before he could leave, she took a step toward him, a sudden need compelling her.
“Bertram, wait.”
He paused, turning back to her with a hopeful expression. It gave her great pleasure to rob him of it immediately by blurting out the question that had been on the tip of her tongue from the moment she’d discovered the truth about him.
“Why did you do it? Olivia, Cassandra … the rest. Why?”
Furrowing his brow, he shook his head, his eyes darting as if he searched for the answer himself. As if unable to explain his despicable behavior, even to his own self.
“Those women were teases,” he said after a moment. “A man can only take so much before he grows weary of such games. If they didn’t want it, perhaps they ought to have kept their skirts down and their bodices up in my presence.”
She gasped, her eyes stinging with hot, angry tears. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she shook her head, unable to believe what she had just heard. Of course, she should have expected such an answer … but truly, no response at all would have been better than that one.
“You are vile,” she spat, venom lacing her tone as the warm tears fell, splashing her face and neck. “And I am glad that we are ruined, that I was able to take part in ruining us. You deserve far worse for the things you have done.”
Her words hardly seemed to faze him, and he simply reached up to adjust the lapels of his coat before turning to leave, throwing his last words over his shoulder.
“If you think he is any better, you are sorely mistaken and in for a rude awakening.”
Turning back to the window, she watched as he appeared on the sidewalk, perching his hat upon his head before setting off down the lane.
Using both hands to mop the tears from her face, she took a deep breath and pulled herself together. She refused to shed another tear for him. He was not the man she’d thought he was, and never had been. Bertram himself had proven that just now, giving her what she’d needed to let go of her last shred of affection for him. Even the boy who had once nursed her through a near-fatal fever was dead to her.
Turning her attention back out to the street, she noticed the figure of Niall again—this time, moving off in the direction Bertram had just taken. She was certain it was him, recognizing the way he held his shoulders and the swagger in his walk—with a slight limp, as if he’d sustained an injury to one of his legs but knew how to compensate.
Upon first spotting him, she had assumed that he’d been watching her, but seeing him go after Bertram eased her mind. Perhaps she had been wrong, had misconstrued Adam’s intention. He was here for her brother, to finish things once and for all. It had nothing at all to do with her.
But then, Adam’s ominous words came back to her yet again.
I came for you, little dove.
She shuddered, despite the warmth of the fire in the nearby hearth, and wrapped her arms around herself.
Of course, this had something to do with her. It had everything to do with her.
Adam would be astute enough to realize that his being anywhere near her would ruffle Bertram’s feathers. Estranged or not, she was a member of the Fairchild family, and his making a spectacle of her made one of her brother and father by proxy. The gossips were undoubtedly already in a frenzy trying to determine what his motives might be and if they had anything to do with her. The moment she was seen with him in public, word would spread like wildfire.
It would be like rubbing salt in an open wound, and Adam was sure to see this. Once again, she would become a weapon, a tool in his hand, just as she’d been before.
“No,” she whispered, turning away from the window and striding for the door.
Last time, she had unwittingly fallen into his trap, seeking redemption for her family and being manipulated into becoming their destruction. This time would be different. She would not allow herself to be used.
Heading up the stairs, she decided that some time out of the house would do her some good. Her chances of avoiding Adam were nonexistent, as Niall’s presence out on the street proved he knew where she lived. She would simply make sure to be on her guard, to be prepared for him to accost her as he had last night.
This time, she would not run.
Daphne’s afternoon passed with a surprising tranquility. After a brisk walk, she had indulged in an ice from Gunter’s before turning back to go home. She had taken her time, enjoying the fair weather and hoping it would extend through the week. She’d grown weary of the damp and cold. Her mood had lifted, as it seemed she would make it home without being accosted. With no sign of her brother or her tormentor in sight, she practically skipped up the front steps, already looking forward to the pot of chocolate and warm fire she’d decided would be just the thing.
The moment she stepped inside, her heart plummeted into her belly, and a cold frisson of dread raced down her spine. It was as if the very air around her cried out that something was not as it should be. There was something amiss in her home, this haven she had carved out in the world for herself. Handing her redingote off to a footman with shaking hands, she gazed about for the source.
But, she already knew what it was, had already detected the faint notes of a certain scent lingering in the vestibule.
Cedar. Cigar smoke. Some aftershave she could only describe as smelling quite masculine.
Adam.
Rowney’s approach confirmed it. The man was in a state, his brow broken out in a sweat, his face flushed, his lips inched into a thin line.
“My lady, there is a gentleman awaiting an audience with you in the drawing room,” the butler declared. “He came with no calling card, but declared himself the Earl of Hartmoor and demanded to be allowed to wait for you to return home. I was not certain how you might wish me to proceed, so I allowed it.”
Daphne read clearly what the butler did not say. He had not wanted to risk angering an earl by throwing him out, or angering her by doing it without consulting her first. While Rowney would have been firmly within his rights to eject him from the premises, she was glad he had not tried it. Lord knew what Adam might have done if he’d been slighted in such a way.
It was better for them to get this over with in private as opposed to an alley where anyone might happen upon them. Nodding resolutely, she smiled to reassure Rowney.
“You did the right thing,” she told him. “I will see him now. Please ensure we are not disturbed.”
The butler nodded, his expression melting into one of relief. “Very good.”
Turning toward the closed door of the drawing room, she clenched and opened her hands several times, and tried to school her face into a passive mask. It was for her own sake that she did so, as he knew very well how his arrival had thrown her life into chaos. There was not much she could hide from this man.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, her gaze immediately drawn to the dark, hulking shape of him seated near the fire. Slouched in the chair, his elbows braced on the arms, he met her gaze with a slow, lazy grin. Her belly quivered at the sight of his teeth, her skin tingling as if recalling their bite.
“Welcome home, little dove,” he purred, speaking as if he hadn’t sat here waiting for her for hours, likely growing bored in the process.
“Yes,” she said, raising her chin. “This is my home. Which is why I cannot understand what you are doing in it.”
His smile softened into a smirk, the sort of expression he wore when she amused him. “I will admit, my presence here serves more than one purpose. The first of which is to assuage my curiosity over how you’ve spent my money.”
“It became mine the moment you delivered that bank draft,” she reminded him.
He chuckled, his gaze leaving her to observe their surroundings. “Aye, that it did. I must admit to being impressed. You’ve got quite a nest here. Far better than your previous cage, I assume.”
She would not give him what he wanted … she would not thank him for making it possible for her to escape said cage. To be free of her family. Not when she’d earned that money herself, paid for every pound out of her own flesh, and on one night, with blood.
“As well, this particular room turned up some very interesting reading material,” he added, reaching into his coat pocket and coming out with something white.
Something white, which revealed itself to be an envelope.
An envelope with a broken seal, which she had left upon a table in this room.
Robert’s letter.
“What are you doing with that?” she growled, her jaw aching from how hard she clenched her teeth, her fingernails biting into her palms.
“I had to find some way to amuse myself in your absence,” he replied, waving the envelope about before giving her a knowing smile. “Quite entertaining, this letter from our dear Robert.”
She took a step toward him, her entire body vibrating from the anger boiling in her veins. “Give it to me.”
“You know, the usual sentiments,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “My dearest Daphne … still love you as much as ever … your circumstances mean nothing to me … please call upon me at your earliest convenience, so we might talk in person … et cetera, et cetera.”
Her feet moved her another step, despite the small voice in the back of her mind reminding her how dangerous it was to be within arm’s length of him.
“You have no right reading that,” she spat.
He scoffed, tossing the letter aside and keeping his gaze on her as it fluttered to the floor. “Have you not learned by now that I do not need the right?”
That gave her pause, keeping her from coming any closer. As it was, she stood near enough to see the flecks of green in his eyes, the dark rim of brown edging the molten amber center of his pupils. His scent had grown stronger, that enticing, masculine aroma that never ceased to make her mouth go dry.
He dressed in the height of fashion now that he was in London, his hair pulled meticulously back from his face and tied at his nape.
“Your other purpose for coming here?” she insisted. “Please state it so that you may take your leave.”
That smirk of his was back, stoking her annoyance, reminding her that he actually preferred to be challenged. He liked nothing better than for her to fight so he could break her. That didn’t stop her from wanting to fight, from needing to fight.
“It is quite simple, little dove,” he declared, sitting up straight in the chair. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
She frowned, genuinely baffled by his words, as well as his behavior. He had seemed to want nothing to do with her once their contracted time together had ended. Yet, here he sat, proving the exact opposite.
“We agreed to thirty days and nights,” she reminded him. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain, and you compensated me, as promised. There is no other business between us.”
He stood, the sudden movement making panic spark in her gut. She backpedaled with a gasp, catching herself after it was too late. Noticing her skittishness, he chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath, the sudden rush of blood having her ready to fight, to run. She had told herself she would not, but when faced with him, her body seemed to act on instinct.
“Are you certain?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “Last night, I heard you quite clearly challenge me to match whatever price you might require … and I have come to do just that.”
She flinched as if he’d struck her, equal parts confusion and anger making her head spin. “What the devil are you talking about? I never said—”
“You quite clearly stated that I could never match the price you’d require to let me back in your bed,” he interjected. “I’ve come to put that to the test.”
Her mouth fell open, and for a moment, words failed her. She floundered, vacillating between annoyance that he’d twisted her words to suit his needs and anger at herself for saying them in the first place. In the midst of it all, her rage grew and swelled, every offense he’d ever committed against her adding kindling to the flames.
Reaching into his coat once again, he came out with another slip of paper—this one, she recognized as a bank draft. He held it up, turning it so she could see his signature at the bottom, as well as the other details neatly filled in.
All except the amount.
“Name your price, and I guarantee I can meet and probably even exceed it.”
The fragile thread of her control snapped, and she forgot to exercise caution, her instinct for self-preservation dissipating. She lunged at him with a snarl, hands raised to pummel him, scratch him, slap him … to tear at him the way he tore at her with nothing but words.
“Bugger you!” she cried, bashing up against his unrelenting body. “I am not a whore! You cannot buy my body like some cheap trinket!”
He wrestled her into submission so easily, it was laughable, taking hold of her wrists and gathering them in both hands, then wrapping an arm around her waist. When she began to kick and flail, he simply grunted and bore it, refusing to let go of her even as she punished his shins.
“Was that a refusal?” he growled into her ear, nuzzling her neck and abrading her tender skin with his rough stubble.
She squirmed and flailed in his hold, acutely aware that her nipples had gone hard, chafed by the wool of his coat, and all the blood in her body seemed to be pooling in her core. This was when Adam could be at his most dangerous—when he was forcing her to feel all the things she’d tried to stifle … all the things she tried to tell herself she didn’t want.
“That was a refusal, as well as a ‘sod off’,” she muttered, arching her back to try to put some distance between them.
That put her face clear of his, but only served to press her tighter against him, mashing her breasts into his chest and her pelvis against the hard ridge between his legs.
“Oh, little dove,” he rasped, going down to the floor with her. “You always know how to make things more fun for me.”
The panic she’d tried to tamp down previously made a resurgence, and she bucked beneath him, kicking, flailing, trying to roll away. He let her turn onto her stomach, but simply straddled her, clamping his knees on either side of her body to keep her still beneath him.
“Please,” she begged, knowing that once he began to touch her in earnest, she would be lost. There could be no fighting him. “You were supposed to let me go … I was free.”
She heard the rustle of clothing, but despite trying to crane her neck to see him, he remained out of her line of sight.
“That is the thing, little dove,” he murmured, the harshness of his breath telling her what his words did not—she affected him, too. “I was prepared to let you fly … I truly was. But hours after you’d left, and in the days and weeks that followed, I realized something.”
He went silent for a moment, and suddenly, a flash of white material appeared before her eyes. It was his cravat, she realized, being lowered over her face. She twisted her head, trying to avoid it, but he managed to work the fabric between her lips. A low whimper became trapped in her mouth, lodged there by the makeshift gag.
His weight shifted, and before she could even think to try to wiggle away, he had flipped her onto her back. Moving down her body, he reached out and took hold of her leg, stopping her from kicking him square in the chest.
“Have you ever heard of the way opium can affect a man?” he asked conversationally, as if he were not removing her slipper and tossing it across the room, then sliding a hand beneath her gown to grasp the edge of her stocking. “I know you’ve encountered laudanum, which is a weak liquid made from one of the most addictive substances in the world.”
She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, wrestling to keep hold of her senses as he pulled her stocking down, his fingers stroking the inside of her thigh and calf as he did. He repeated the ritual with her other shoe and stocking, then held up both the silk undergarments, trailing them between his hands. Her stockings looked vulgar in his hands this way, caressed by his calloused fingers, pristine and white against his sun-darkened skin.
“Men are said to become addicted to it after just one taste … one sip of opium tea, one inhalation through a pipe,” he continued, using one of the stockings to bind her wrists together, then leaning over her and using the other to tether her to the leg of the nearby sofa—a piece too heavy to budge no matter how she squirmed. “Is it that men are so weak, or simply that opium is far too potent, too delicious, too goddamned perfect in the oblivion it offers?”
She sucked in a sharp breath when he abruptly snatched up her gown, revealing that she wore nothing beneath. Just as she had the night he’d accosted her on the street. Just as she had during her time at Dunnottar. She’d grown accustomed to going without them, enjoying the freedom of leaving off corsets and chemises—which now made her feel heavy and cumbersome. Yet now that Adam was back in her life, being without them made her more vulnerable, defenseless, easy prey.
Lying on his belly on the rug, he pressed his face against her thigh, moving his head so that his stubble tickled her skin. She mewled through her gag, trying to close her legs. He simply held them open, continuing to rub himself against her like a cat seeking a scratch on the head. Or a lion playing with its food before taking the first bite.
“I thought I’d had enough,” he said, his breath tickling the curls between her thighs as he moved higher, his lips trailing a fiery path upward. “I thought I’d gorged myself and would be glad to be rid of you.”
He nuzzled her mons, and she choked on a gasp, her chest burning as she held her breath and waited for the exquisite moment when his lips and tongue would find her.
Inhaling deeply, he released his breath on a ragged sigh, the sound tinged with a tortured moan. “But it wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.”
He brushed his lips against her, then opened his mouth, letting her feel the insides of his lips, the racing of his breath. Her back arched, and she dug her heels into the carpet, searching for him, begging silently for what she wanted … what she needed.
“Opium, little dove,” he whispered just before his tongue flicked against her.
She issued a strangled moan, her legs trembling with the force of her need.
“Potent,” he sighed, lapping at her between words, swirling his tongue over her clit. “Addictive … fucking perfect … opium. That’s what you are … and I’m here … for a taste.”
She bit down on her gag and tried to muffle her moan when he put his mouth on her, sucking with ravenous pulls of his lips and tongue. He slipped his hands beneath her and cupped her buttocks, holding her at just the right angle to drink from her. He lapped and sucked, scraped her with his teeth and chuckled when she cried out from behind her gag.
“There’s my little dove,” he whispered against her intimate flesh. “Stop fighting and feel me.”
Her eyes sank closed on their own accord, as if they, too, could not help but obey his every command. Her body disconnected from her mind, from thoughts of what it meant to surrender to him, and she simply allowed herself to revel … to feel.
He moaned against her, as if the wetness smearing his lips were ambrosia, as if he’d never tasted anything sweeter. She made an answering sound deep in her throat, the early flutters of a climax beginning in the place where his tongue touched her body. The muscles in her stomach clenched, and she stiffened before falling apart, trembling and groaning around her gag. He sank a finger into her and slowly pumped it in and out, strengthening her finish, drawing it out and making it last.
She fell apart, her body going limp as she sank to the carpet, no longer fighting his hold or the tight squeeze of her stocking around her wrist. On the heels of her fading spasms, a new hunger awakened within her—the need to have him inside her. He had stoked the embers left over from their encounter last night, and now, she was on fire again, going up in smoke and ash.
Glancing down with heavy-lidded eyes, she watched him unbutton his fall, feasted on the sight of his cock revealed inch by inch. First, his flared head, swollen and angrily reddened, seeping with moisture, then the long shaft, thick with pulsing veins and covered in skin she knew to be smoother than silk. But he was all hard on the inside, just like the rest of him—hard and straining toward her.
Daphne raised her hips and made a small, helpless sound in the back of her throat, silently begging him to give her every inch of his cock. Smirking at her, he chuckled, coming up to straddle her hips, one hand wrapped around his prick.
“You want this,” he declared, stroking himself with slow, rhythmic pulls that made her inner channel clench in tandem. “Don’t you, little dove? Tell me you want it.”
She released her breath on a frustrated huff, but answered him the only way she could, her head moving in a jerky nod of confirmation. He grinned, moving further up her body, his legs now on either side of her shoulders. Reaching down with one hand, he snatched the gag from her mouth, letting it fall to hang around her neck. She licked her lips to moisten them and stared up at him, knowing what he intended without needing to be told.
“You so rudely refused my generous offer, so you do not deserve to be fucked,” he said, reaching down to grasp a handful of her hair. “But I do believe I once promised that if you did not mind those impertinent lips of yours, I’d put them to better use. Open, little dove.”
He thrust toward her face, the blunt tip of his cock forcing her mouth open. He met the resistance of her teeth, but tugged her hair hard enough to spur her into action. Her scalp tingled, her teeth parting to allow him inside while his scent and taste overwhelmed her palate. There was no going easy on her, no taking his time and letting her grow accustomed to the invasion of his length or girth. He shoved toward the back of her throat while pulling her hair again, tipping her head back and opening her up for him.
She choked, struggling to catch her breath and catch up with him, but he did not allow it. He fucked her mouth the same way he would her cunt, taking what he wanted, first with long, slow thrusts, and then with short and swift ones. His breath quickened, his chest heaving and his legs trembling on either side of her as he adjusted his position, angling himself deeper, his hips thrusting him in and out of her mouth. She tightened her lips around him and let her tongue stroke his underside, forcing a guttural groan from deep in his chest. A few more spasmodic thrusts, and he seated himself in her, holding her head in place and spilling down her throat in a rush.
She swallowed around him, and he issued a hoarse cry, throwing his head back and rotating his hips, grinding against her as if wringing out every drop of seed he contained. He slowly shrank against her tongue, pulling his sated cock out of her mouth once he’d given her the last of his climax. Rolling from on top of her, he fell to the floor, bracing himself up on his elbow as he caught his breath. She had no choice but to lie there, her arms stretched up over her head, breasts heaving and legs shaking.
He’d let her climax, but it hadn’t been enough. She needed to be filled, stretched, torn open and pounded until she splintered. But, the hard glint in his eye when he came up on his knees and began buttoning his fall told her she would not get what she wanted—not today.
Once he had tucked in his shirt and straightened his waistcoat, he crouched over her, pulling down her gown, untying his cravat from around her neck, then releasing her hands. He rose to his feet as she slowly sat up, rubbing at her wrists and working the blood back into her hands. She glared at him, her channel throbbing and yearning, her heart hammering in her chest. She could not decide whether to attack him or wrap her arms around his leg and beg him to bend her over the nearest piece of furniture and stuff her full of his cock. Biting her lip, she suppressed the urge to do either.
“You may as well cease fighting me, little dove,” he urged, extending a hand to her. “I will get what I want from you, one way or another … and we both know it.”
Ignoring his hand, she managed to stand on her own, backing away so that they did not stand quite so close. The scent of sex hung in the air—his musk mingling with the tang of her arousal. A heady aphrodisiac that made a mess of her senses.
“What do you expect from me, Adam?” she challenged. “To allow you to come in and out of my home whenever you want to fuck me? I will not play your mistress.”
“There are far worse things to be in this world,” he retorted, inclining his head and scowling in response to yet another refusal. “As my mistress, you would be protected, provided for … well-fucked.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she raised her chin. “I can protect myself, provide for myself … and if I want someone in my bed, I can have him.”
He edged toward her, that dangerous glint returning to his eyes, making the amber and green swirl together like flickering flames. “And you’ll go to sleep every night unsatisfied, longing for things no other man can give you. You will still dream of me, and miss me, and want me. Why suffer needlessly?”
“Because to let you back into my bed is to suffer,” she spat. “Especially when we both know you only want me because it gratifies you to debauch Bertram Fairchild’s little sister.”
His jaw tightened, nostrils flaring as if he barely kept a grip on his tempter. “You do not know what you are talking about.”
“Oh, but I do,” she replied, edging farther away from him toward the drawing room door. “Just as I know that I would be mad to allow you back into my life when all you seem capable of doing is destroying things … people. Go home, Adam. Go back to Dunnottar, and to Olivia and Serena. I am happy with my new life and grateful for what you gave me, but we are finished. Please … just leave.”
Pushing open the door, she stood aside to allow him through the opening. Just outside, Rowney lingered, waiting to open the front door and allow their guest out. She did not meet the butler’s gaze, not wanting to see the censure in his expression if he’d heard what had gone on in this room.
Scowling at her, Adam stomped toward the door. He paused in the opening and glared down at her, his jaw jutting out stubbornly as he ground his teeth. One hand flexed at his side as if he wished to wrap it around her throat. She almost leaned into him and tilted her chin up, offering her vulnerable neck.
And that was why she had to stand her ground. Adam was dangerous to her in every possible way—her body, her mind, her soul. She had barely survived their last arrangement.
“When you finally fold, I am going to punish you for this,” he whispered. “The longer you put me through this—the more you refuse me—the more creative I will be in making you pay. And, little dove, you will fold. You always do.”
With that, he sauntered out into the corridor, giving her butler a sardonic smile before blowing past the man and letting himself out.
Ignoring the questioning glance of the servant, she slammed the drawing room door and leaned against it. Her legs gave out, and she sank to the carpet, hands coming up to cover her face. They shook violently, and her pulse thumped at the base of her throat. Apparently, her body would need time to recover from the encounter.
She hoped Adam would heed her words and give up his pursuit. For her own sake, but also for his. She had seen the way revenge had consumed him, had witnessed the evidence of how it had changed him. Now that it was over, they would both do well to move forward and put all this behind them. Nothing good could come of their being together in any way … even if a part of herself longed for it with every fiber of its being.