A Rogue by Any Other Name (41 page)

She took a deep breath at the pleasure he wreaked, at the way his eyes tracked his fingers along her skin, and said, “You want me.”

Hazel darkened to brown, and his voice turned to smoke. “I do.”

“It makes me feel like I could have anything.”

He tugged gently at the bow that kept the bodice of her dress tight across her breasts, the movement loosening the ribbon and causing the fabric to gape. His finger dipped below the hem of the fabric, hinting, teasing there. “I would give you anything you want. Anything you ask.”

Love me.

Not that. That, she knew, he wouldn’t give her.

But before she could trace the thought, he was lifting her hands and unbuttoning her gloves, sliding them off slowly, the lush stroke of kidskin against flesh ensuring that she would never again be able to think of the donning or doffing of a glove as anything other than a sexual act.

He slipped one hand into her gaping bodice, beneath the edge of her chemise, to cup one breast and lift it from the fabric. She gasped at the sensation, and he leaned in to capture the sound with his kiss. “I want to lay you down in the light of The Angel and make love to you.” The words were punctuated with the rough stroke of his thumb across one nipple, and the scrape of his teeth down her neck. “And I think you want it, too.”

She could not stop her nod. Or her confession. “I do.”

As long as it is with you.

He released her, turning her to face the massive painted-glass window. She looked out on the floor of The Angel, teeming with people, as he worked at her buttons, releasing them methodically. “Tell me what you see,” he whispered, his lips pressing hot and soft along the curve of her shoulder.

“There are . . . men . . . everywhere.” Penelope gasped and clutched the fast-loosening fabric to her chest.

He reached her corset and made fast work of the laces, releasing her from the bone-and-linen prison. She sighed at the sensation, and his hands stroked across the cotton chemise, soothing the skin beneath. One hand came up to the window to hold her steady at the sensation, so welcome against her worried skin.

He seemed to understand the sound, and he licked at her ear, his hands sliding beneath dress and corset, stroking, leaving a path of pleasure in their wake. “Poor love,” he whispered, the words like fine brandy. “You’ve been neglected.”

And it felt like she had been. It was as though her skin ached for his touch alone. For his kiss. For the long, warm strokes that brought her nearly excruciating pleasure.

“Only men?” he whispered, snapping her attention back to the room through the mottled glass that defined Lucifer’s beautiful, corded neck.

His hands came around to cup her breasts over her chemise, lifting them and shaping them with his warm palms before he took the aching tips between his fingers and pinched just barely, just enough to send a spear of pleasure straight through her. She gasped. “Answer me, Penelope.”

She forced herself to focus on the tableau before her. “No. There are women.”

“And what are they doing?”

She focused on one woman in a lovely periwinkle silk, her black hair piled high on top of her head, curls falling down around her. “One is sitting on a gentleman’s lap.”

He pressed against her then, rocking his hips into her bottom, and Penelope wished they were not separated by layers and layers of clothing. “What else?”

“She has her arms around his neck.”

He took the hand that braced her against the window and wrapped it behind her, around his neck, affording him better access to her lovely curves. “And?”

“And she’s talking in his ear.”

“Coaching his card game?” His fingers pinched again, and she gasped, closing her eyes and turning toward him.

“Michael,” she whispered, wishing he would kiss her.

“I love the way you say my name. You’re the only one who calls me Michael,” he said, before he gave her what she wanted, his tongue stroking deep and smooth until she was squirming in his arms, pressing her breasts into his magic hands.

“You hated it,” she protested.

“You’ve worn me down.” He sucked gently at the soft skin of her neck. “Tell me more about the woman.”

Penelope turned back to the window, struggling to focus once more. She watched the woman lean forward, allowing her partner a view straight down her bodice. He smiled, leaning in to press a kiss on her collarbone before one of his hands slid over her thigh and along her calf before finally disappearing beneath the hem of her dress.

Penelope arched back, against Michael. “Oh, he’s touching her . . .”

His fingers lightened at the words, the caress barely there, its softness making Penelope wish they were both naked in the dark room. “Touching her where?”

“Beneath her—” She paused as Michael’s hand moved downward, toward the place where she ached for him. She sighed the next word as his fingers found her core, stroking softly. “—skirts.”

“Like this?” Despite the fabric of her skirts, Michael’s knee found its way between her thighs, spreading her wider as his hand slid into the heat there, the heel of his palm rocking against her.

Her head fell back against his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“What do you think?”

“For her sake, I hope so,” she whispered, as he stroked her.

He laughed, the sound a low rumble behind her. “And I for his.”

She closed her eyes as his hands moved in concert, one at her breast, toying, tempting, there and the other between her thighs, stroking masterfully. The caresses went on for several long moments before Penelope sighed, relishing the feel of him against her, pressing herself back to fit as perfectly as possible to him. He rocked into her movements, hissing at her ear. “If you keep up with that, darling, you shan’t be able to watch them much longer.”

“I don’t want to watch them, anymore, Michael.”

“No?” The question was curious at her shoulder, where his teeth were scraping across her skin.

She shook her head, tilting to afford him better access. “No,” she confessed. “I want to watch you.” His fingers did something wonderful between her thighs, and she sighed. “Please.”

“Well,” he said, and she heard the teasing smile in the words. “Since you asked so nicely . . .”

He turned her to face him, his eyes flickering over the place where she still held the fabric of her dress to her chest. “Let go of the dress, Penelope,” he ordered, the words liquid smoke, and her grip tightened.

“What if—”

“No one can see you.”

“But . . .”

He shook his head. “You cannot imagine I would let anyone see you, my glorious darling. You can’t imagine I’d allow that and not murder them.”

The words were so possessive, she could not help the pleasure that coursed through her at them. No one had ever called her glorious. No one had ever seemed the least bit interested in possessing her.

But in this moment, Michael wanted her.

She watched him carefully for a long moment, loving the way his eyes begged her to bare herself to him, before she released her grip on the fabric, letting it drop to the floor, leaving her bare, save for her stockings, to the dim light of the room . . . and to her husband.

He went still, his eyes roaming over her body, finally settling on her face before he said, reverently, “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He was at her feet, removing her boots and pantalets, leaving her in nothing but her stockings. He stroked up her legs along her stockings, lingering at the place where silk met skin. When she gasped at the sensation, he licked at the skin there. “I have a weakness for stockings, love. Smooth and silk, like the softest part of you.”

She blushed, not wanting to admit that she loved the feel of them against her skin, not wanting to tell him that since their wedding night, she’d savored the stroke of the satin along her legs, pretending that it was his touch.

“You like them, too, I see,” he teased, and she felt the curve of his lips against her thigh.

“I like
you,
” she whispered, one of her hands settling on the back of his head, her fingers stroking through his soft curls.

He stood at that, leaving her stockings on, kissing her, rough and wonderful. “You’re all perfect curves and soft skin,” one hand stroked up, palmed the underside of her breast, “so lovely and full.”

His words were destroying her sanity. They were more damaging than even his touch. She arched toward him, into his kiss, and he stole her breath and words and thought, his lips and tongue stroking along hers, promising more pleasure than she could possibly imagine. When he stopped the kiss, she sighed, forgetting her protest and watching as he stepped back, removed his clothes in quick, economical movements, and stood to face her, the light from the casino beyond the window turning him into a mosaic of color and texture, all long legs and corded muscle, lean hips and broad shoulders and . . .

No.
She should not be looking at
that.

It did not matter that she wanted to. That she was unbelievably curious.

Just one, quick look.

Oh, my.

Penelope went instantly shy, her hands moving to cover her nudity. “We cannot . . . I was not . . . This isn’t what I expected.”

He smiled then, a rare wolfish smile. “Are you nervous?”

She knew she should pretend not to be—he’d likely done this with a dozen other women. But, she
was
nervous. “A little.”

He lifted her, carrying her to a low chaise on one side of the room and settling her onto his lap for a deep, searching kiss that stole her breath, and her inhibitions. She licked his lower lip, sucking it gently, and he pulled back with a harsh breath.

Her eyes went wide.

“I’m sorry . . . the lip. Temple’s jabs have a tendency to linger.”

She pulled back, lifting one hand to smooth back his hair and search his face for additional wounds. “You shouldn’t let him hit you,” she whispered, pressing one soft kiss next to the wound.

“It was the only way to take my mind off the fact that I could not go home and take you to bed.” He drew one hand down her arm in a long, lush stroke. “You terrify me.” His lips twisted into a wry smile as his fingers stroked and teased at the soft skin of her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder.

“How is that possible?”

“I can’t take small tastes of you, love. I can only gorge on you. You’re irresistible.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his tongue coming out to lave the skin there. “You’re like the rattle of dice. The shuffle of cards. You call to me until I ache with desire for you.” The words were a whisper of breath at the base of her neck. “I could easily become addicted to you.”

The words set her heart pounding. “And that is bad?”

He chuckled, the rumble of laughter vibrating against her stomach and breasts. “For me, yes. Very very bad.” He kissed her, long and slow. “And for you, too. You asked me not to touch you. I wanted to respect your wishes.”

Except they hadn’t been her wishes. Not really.

She’d always wanted him to touch her, even when she’d told him not to.

She’d always wanted him, even when she told herself she did not.

He was her weakness.

He saved her from having to speak by touching her, his fingers playing at the crest of one breast until she sighed at the sensation, her hands sliding into his hair. She pulled back and met his dark, lovely eyes. “Michael,” she whispered.

He did not move his gaze from hers as he shifted her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, running his hand down one thigh, urging her to spread her legs.

The very idea was a scandal.

A dream.

She hesitated only a fraction of a second before she followed his silent instructions, straddling him.

There was pride and pleasure in his voice when he said, “My adventuresome beauty . . .”

She knew it was an exaggeration. She was no beauty. But tonight she
felt
beautiful, and she did not even consider ignoring his request. The new position gave her access to all of him, to his broad, firm shoulders, to the wide chest that rose and fell with his breath, and she could not help placing her hands upon him, this marvelous, handsome man who was her husband.

He groaned his pleasure at her touch and lifted her until her breasts were at the level of his mouth, and he was blowing air across their tips in one long, steady stream. She followed the direction of his gaze, so intent upon her, watching as her nipples tightened—first one, then the other—unbearably hard and aching.

She wanted his mouth on her.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

He was already there, licking and sucking at her until she thought she might die from the wicked, wonderful pleasure of it. Her hands threaded through his hair, holding him to her until he pulled back and set his mouth to the other, neglected breast, licking in long, lovely strokes before closing his lips around her and giving her precisely what she wanted.

She writhed in his arms, in time to the pull of his lips, the lick of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth. Dear heaven. He wielded pleasure like a master, with art and skill. And she never ever wanted it to end.

He pulled back, finally, lifting her higher, closer to him, placing one warm kiss to the soft skin of her torso before sliding her down his body and taking her mouth once more. His knees came up beneath her, holding her tightly to his chest as his fingers tunneled into her hair and sent pins flying this way and that, lost to the floor of the decadent room.

His mouth moved to her neck, where he licked at the delicate skin above one pulse point, and she sighed his name once more, feeling drugged with pleasure.

Pleasure she hadn’t known existed before him.

Pleasure she would never have found if not for him.

“
Michael.
” She sighed his name.

He smiled, a self-satisfied, utterly masculine smile, one hand moving from behind her back, sliding between them.

She turned her gaze to that wicked, marauding hand, transfixed by its movement, then his fingers were brushing against her, at the core of her, ever so lightly, as though they had an infinite amount of time to explore her. She had never wanted anything so much in her life.