Lady Meets Her Match (27 page)

Quicksilver eyes perused her body in leisurely fashion, lingering on the crux of her thighs as though he was determining where and how he'd touch her. The idea sent more dampness to her drawers' convenient opening between her legs, where cool air brushed bothered flesh. Her legs pressed close together, a blush of modesty dusting her skin.

“No.” The word cut the silence. “Don't close your legs to me.” A faint smile creased his face. “I know what I'm going to do to you.”

Her limbs turned heavy with those words—good thing the table supported her. Cyrus stood watching her, shirtless, with black breeches on and little else, just as he had in the fighting ring. But tonight was a battle of a different nature.

He set his hands at his hips, his broad chest expanding with each inhale. The view of him—hair untied and cut cheek—was how he'd have been if fate hadn't changed his life from bare-knuckle brawler to man of commerce. His watching her sent little quivers across vexed skin.

Of course, she had an idea what they'd do; she'd done this before and was no novice. Or was she?

“What do you mean?” She blinked when Cyrus angled his body beside hers. He stood so close, his hair spilled over her shoulder.

“I know how I want to touch you.” His big hand tugged loose the corset's ties.

His lips caressed her shoulder, her neck. Cyrus teased her, his tongue grazing her flesh while he worked the last lacing free. Between his nearness and the sensual kisses, her brain worked piecemeal on what he said. Words connected in listless fashion, taking their time to form…even longer to reach her tongue.

She leaned against the table, and he dropped the silk and whalebone corset beside the jumble of his shirt and waistcoat on the floor. Her chemise hung loose, slippery silk and hot man invading her senses.

Cyrus kissed her deeply on the mouth. His hands slinked over her hips, and he nudged her closer to him. He gathered the bottom of her chemise little by little, his mouth never losing enticing contact with hers. He whisked the chemise high and broke their kiss when the flimsy garment touched her chin.

She shivered. Cold air grazed her back and her breasts, a shock to her system. Her forearm made a protective line across her chest, a last reserve against the sensual tide of Cyrus Ryland washing over her. This was like falling into a wide swath of black velvet. And she remembered his words:
I
know
how
I
want
to
touch
you.

“Do you want me to lie down? On the bed?” she asked between kisses. “Then my body receives you?”

Cyrus's sweet, rough laughter vibrated on her lips. “Is that what you want me to do?”

He pulled away from her mouth, his breath laboring against her neck between small pecks and big kisses. She arched her neck and swallowed hard. Heat and craving crackled inside her. The room's timbered ceiling was hazy in her vision.

Cyrus asked his question as though she had some say in what they'd do, but his distracting hand wandered over her body, his palm rubbing her ribs. The air was cool; his hands were hot.

She squirmed under his slow, claiming hand, her thighs scuffing silk together. He inched an agonizing trail down her torso, toward the only cloth covering her.

He filled the space beside her, around her, letting her slump into him. Her arm became too heavy to shield her breasts. Cyrus pulled her arm away, exposing her. She liked the chill air touching there; her nipples, tight pinched points, begged to be touched. She liked being bared to him.

Her back arched with invitation. The wanton ploy wasn't planned; she simply moved. No thought—only feeling.

She looked up, giving wordless appeal. Their gazes locked with a mysterious, powerful connection. His hand splayed on her torso, inching higher. She shivered from the slow caress maneuvering toward her breasts, and closed her eyes.

“You didn't answer me, Claire.” He spoke muffled words into her hair. “Do you
know
what you want me to do?”

“Please…touch me…”

The pad of his thumb touched the tip of her nipple, whisper soft. He made slow circles on the tender flesh before stroking the side of her breast. She moaned from the sweet ache he stirred. And then he did the same to the other nipple, driving her mad with his faint, teasing pressure.

Cyrus stopped those aching circles to stroke the valley of skin between her breasts. He turned his hand around and brushed his knuckles along the center line of her body, going lower and lower and lower.

She opened her eyes when he untied one tape securing her drawers. His other hand splayed across her back.

“What else do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice a murmur overhead.

Her lips found the crook between his chest and shoulder, kissing where those places fashioned him together.

“I…” Words stalled the more she buried herself against him, tasting his skin.

She didn't care. Right here with him was what she wanted.

Cyrus stroked the lower part of her abdomen, rousing heat everywhere. He pulled gently on her braid, tipping her head back, kissing her full on the mouth. He kissed the corner of her mouth, his tongue seeking hers. She liked this, would do this—

Distracting male fingers caressed the tuft of hair on her mons.

Her limbs bolted, stiff and shaky. She blinked, a strange haze clouding her vision. Delicious fever spread, singeing flesh not yet touched. The drawer's thin silk barrier was the only thing between his skin and hers. Against her will, her hips pumped his caressing hand.

A long, wanting moan escaped her lips. “Uhhhhhh…”

Cyrus slid one finger into the top of her cleft, pushing the silk into her wetness.

Her hips jerked off the table. His finger stirred an ember of heat, biting and enticing all at once. Her mouth dropped open, sucking air. Fireworks wouldn't shoot off so hot and hard.

“Is this what you want?” Cyrus kept his vigil on the nub of her flesh veiled by shot silk.

She tried to talk but couldn't from the engulfing, spangled fog. His breath came hard too.

“Do you know what this spot's called?” he asked close to her ear.

She looked down, entranced at the sight of his strong hand doing nimble things between her legs.

One finger circled her scorching, little nub with agonizing slowness. “This spot is the key”—then his finger slipped lower inside her most private flesh with the barest touch—“to open this door.”

She was enthralled by his big hand stroking her. Burning pressure built, shooting cinders across her skin. Every muscle wanted to tense and be loose all at once. She squirmed against Cyrus and the table, this mad craving increasing inside her. Her lids drooped. With one hand, she gripped the table's edge; the other wrapped around his shoulder.

“Gahhh.” The noise burst from her lips, followed by a keening inhale.

Searing coolness spread across her bottom smashed into the table. That hot-cool sensation blossomed, sweeping outward from wherever Cyrus's talented hand touched. Her mouth worked, unable to form coherent words.

“No secrets between us, Claire,” he uttered the words, his hand swirling faster.

Another swell of searing bliss swallowed her, the force pushing, threatening to take all of her. This time, the grip on the table wasn't enough.

She needed something more solid; she needed Cyrus. Her hand shot up, grabbing him. She needed to hold on to him with both hands, lest she float away in pieces.

“Promise me,” he whispered.

Claire's legs jerked. Every muscle tensed again with excruciating tightness. Her bottom jammed hard into the table, her feet lifting off the floor. An explosion crashed through her the same as the thunderstorms she loved. Her body bucked and another shock wave took over.

“Yes!” she cried, quivering against Cyrus.

He swept her into his arms, his mouth consuming the rest of her cries. Throbs of pleasure twitched on highly sensitized flesh. She gulped air, one side of her body pressed into him, a warm sheen and masculine hairs rubbing skin acute with awareness.

Cyrus laid her on the thick, white counterpane stretched across her bed. Rough cotton teased her bothered skin. Her heart banged behind her breastbone, and she lifted one lazy hand to scrape back tendrils stuck to her cheek.

Thought and movement came back to her little by little. She weakly hitched up on one elbow, spying a wet circle on the front of her drawers.

Time the silk came off.

Cyrus towered over her at the side of the bed, undoing the buttons on his placket. The way his gray stare ravaged her, she could have been the damsel Hercules saved. Now, the hero would claim his reward.

Muscles flexed under masculine skin that rarely saw the light of day, and pitch-dark eyes narrowing on her spoke louder than words. Claire sat up, mindful of her life changing today as sure as it had one midnight dance not long ago.

Her legs, languid with pleasure, swung over the bed, the soles of her feet finding wooden planks. The brute's hands slowed on freeing the last button, his brows arching at her movement.

She stood up to face him, swallowing hard, but couldn't look him in the eyes. No, if she did, she'd spill emotions tethered by a thread, emotions she didn't fully grasp. This was dangerous ground with a man she wanted to give heart, soul, and body to, and yet…

“You said no secrets.”

But say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.

William Congreve,
The Way of the World

Secrets revealed? Or pleasure explored?

Want swept a pendulum between two demands. Claire stood before him, her alabaster skin begging to be touched. His breech's half-open placket almost freed gleeful male parts ready to act. He was sorely tempted to ignore his better judgment and not probe what she meant.

And then she stepped close, one nipple poking his ribs. His tender temptress mesmerized him, slipping an exploring hand inside the V of his placket. His breath hissed at the invasion.

Her fingers cupped his bollocks, playing with him. He reveled in her touch, the sensation like standing in the sun, the warmth spraying his skin. Being with Claire awakened parts of him that went beyond his understanding. The want to take care of her, to love her, to protect her was a drum beat inside, but their sensual connection scorched him. And he wasn't inside her yet.

Then, his chin dropped to his chest. Her arm moved inside his breeches.

The view alone would have undone any man.

“Claire,” he groaned.

Secrets could wait.

Her exploration inched his breeches lower. She rubbed the narrow strip of flesh between his bollocks and backside. Inexpert fingers, fumbling and sweet, gently stroked skin rarely touched. Her inquisitive hand sent an elixir to his limbs.

Feminine legs rubbed his with featherlight torment. Plum-red lips sought the hills and valleys of his arm muscles, her mouth planting sultry kisses on his skin. Claire glanced at him, dark pupils filling eyes glossy with carnal need.

“Cyrus,” she said, her lashes dropping. “I know how I want you to take me.”

Was
that
it?

He caressed her shoulders, his head dipping lower, all the better to kiss her. A woman saying things like that needed kissing. Lots of kissing.

His mouth tugged on her lower lip. He'd planned to lay her across the bed and whisper words of affection and, if he dare, love, before seeking tender consummation. He was ready to tell her. But the way her innocent hands moved in not-so-innocent ways, the battle to express himself slipped into clouded climes.

Plunge into numbing bliss and save deeper emotions for another time? Or declare himself now?

Her nails grazed his bollocks with light, teasing scratches. He sucked in a quick breath, the pleasure excruciating. Claire broke their kiss, but their bodies pressed close.

His thighs clenched hard within breeches slipping to his hips. Muscles around his navel knotted when his phallus sprang free, the tip of his erection bouncing on Claire's skin. She bent lower. Her fingernails raked his backside, moving down his thighs, pushing his smalls and breeches to the floor.

Feminine eyes glittered at him a second before looking away.
A
tentative
seductress.
She stepped back, her hands hesitating at her waist. Claire's rib cage expanded and contracted with an unsteady cadence, her breaths shallow and quick. She untied the last tape securing her drawers, and the flimsy fabric dropped.

He licked his lips, tasting her kisses. Claire dipped her chin, not giving eye contact. Neither had on a stitch of clothes, yet something honest and deep grew between them.

His lids drooped over his eyes. He was lost to her soft skin and the pale gold curls between her legs. Then Claire did a curious, mind-jarring thing.

Her knees went down on the floor, and she rested her head and chest on the bed. “I want you to take me like this.”

His head snapped back at the sight. The counterpane muffled her voice, but her body's position expressed intent. A tavern wench or practiced widow would seek pleasure this way, but his proper proprietress?

This
was her secret?

His eyes refused to blink, choosing not to cooperate with the better side of him that was ready to declare brave emotions. Instead, his greedy eyes ogled her bottom's soft, white globes curving off the bed. A flaxen braid snaked the length of her back, the feathery end touching her bottom's soft crease.

Aching demand for release rushed him. For all his steadfast strength, he stood weak as an untried lad.

His prim, sweet shopgirl wanted hot, sweaty sex.

Scalding want blasted him. Holding her in his arms and tender whispers of love and affection would have to wait for a better time.

He went down on his knees behind Claire with the knowledge she had leveled him. Again. His mouth sought the skin near the end of her braid, and he kissed her. Her skin smelled of simple cleanliness, like the laundry he'd touched, something tantalizing and pure.

If softness had a scent, it was Claire.

He swept light, fevered kisses up her spine. Claire's alabaster skin shivered beneath his lips. He dug into the counterpane with both hands, her slippery wetness still coating his fingers that touched her intimately on the table.

She was prepared for him, but was he ready for her?

His erection bobbed, hard and happy, into the welcome space between her thighs. But this would unravel him. She would unravel him. He'd lose control and knew it.

“Claire,” his voice labored. “Are you sure?”

Her legs spread wider.

“I want this, Cyrus.” She turned a cheek against the counterpane, her eyes shut. “I want you.”

Her three words bound them like a cord and were as real as what he longed to say to her.

Wine-stained lips marked vivid color on her delicate profile against the sea of white. His hands palmed her bottom, resting on her sweet roundness. Then, ever so gently, he slipped the tips of his thumbs inside her bottom's cleft. Claire whimpered.

“Shhhh…” he whispered, wanting to calm her.

Claire's hand moved over the bed toward him. But the smooth, round flesh brushing his palms entranced him. Tiny pleasure bumps rippled everywhere on her quivering skin.

He sat back on his heels, sweat pricking his hairline. He didn't want to scare her or hurt her. With the utmost care, his thumbs dipped lower until damp curls brushed them. Gently, he spread her pink quim open.

Hot sensation wracked his body. The view would weaken the strongest man.

Everything in him wanted to tup Claire senseless. The need stole coherent thought, kept him speechless even though he wanted to whisper tender words.

He rose up on his knees again. The tip of his phallus slipped into her welcoming wet folds. She moaned beneath him, squirming.

Muscle and sinew jerked at her unintended tease, but he held himself in check. Barely. With one hand, he found Claire's opening, stroking as though he'd calm her. She hissed at his invading fingers, her hips bucking into him.

“Patience,” he rasped, needing the advice himself. His thighs tensed so hard, they shook.

With his other hand, he grabbed himself and rubbed her slickness. He grimaced, the slippery feel driving him mad. He needed to be inside her. Now.

Another spasm seized his body. His vision turned murky. The tip of him lingered an inch inside Claire. Caution reminded him it had been a long time for her. She was tight.

“Cyrus…more,” she moaned, her slender bottom nudging him.

Burning need won.

He grabbed her hips and pushed. She cried out, her head lifting off the bed.

Pleasure? Or pain?

“Claire.” Her name was a scrape of sound.

She flexed and arched, pushing against him. “Don't…stop.”

His hands clutched frantic feminine hips. The bed's supportive ropes creaked as he began a pulsing grind. Sweat prickled his chest, his forehead. He was out of his mind feeling this good, pumping against her.

He wanted to go slow, to let her adjust, but raging need seized him.

Slick sounds played where they joined. He looked down. Hot and fast, he slid in and out of her. Claire's white curves slammed back into him, wild with need. Flesh slapped flesh. Their bodies strained with urgent strokes. Her moans came louder by the second.

And Claire's hand sought the bed's corner.

The pink scar.

Cyrus covered her splayed hand, his fingers slipping between hers. That thoughtful lover's move was the sole tender act.

The bed rammed the brick wall. The wooden frame creaked. They were lost, thrusting faster in frenzied, primal rhythm. Claire's cries grew louder, matching his hoarse pants for breath.

Near blinded and lost as he was, he couldn't help her find her pleasure; he was too far gone to his. His peak ripped a coarse bellow from his throat, the dim haze around his vision consuming him. Eyes shut tight, he fell forward on her hot back and spent himself inside her, Claire's little tremors milking him.

He had meant to spill his seed against her thigh but was weak as a lamb, helpless to pull away from this woman he loved. That was the last thing he wanted.

And when his eyes opened, her fingers were twined with his.

Carefully, he pulled free and found a cloth to wipe them both. He was drained. Of thought. Of feeling. Of strength. Claire crawled into the small bed, hugging the white linens around her.

He smiled, aware someone needed to snuff the candles and tend the fire. This was in one small way proof that he would take care of her. On quiet feet, he blew out the few candles lighting the garret and knelt before the humble fire grate. He fed coals to the box and looked to the bed.

Claire watched him, her head propped up on her pillow. Now would be the time to declare himself, but when he stood up, her eyes turned wary. He walked to the bed, comfortable without a stitch of clothing.

“Would you like me to get a chemise for you? A night rail perhaps?”

She shook her head and pulled the bed covers away from her mouth. “What about you?”

“No barriers. I want to be as close to you as possible.”

Claire lifted the fluffy counterpane, and he slipped inside the bed with her. The linens were cool, but her body was still very warm to his touch. She smelled of sex and him. She lay on her side, facing him, her expression curiously hesitant. He stroked her hip, aware the day had taken them both from one extreme to another. Or was this the aftermath of exploring her sensuality?

She needed soothing, not an onslaught of emotions.

He yawned, the best kind of exhaustion seeping into his limbs. His lids drooped, but beneath his lashes, he watched her. He was having a hard time fighting sleepiness.

Tucked close together in the smallish bed, Claire stroked his jaw. “Good night, Cyrus.”

His face mashed against the pillow, he mumbled, “G'night.”

This was the best he'd felt in a very long time.

* * *

Door banging woke him. Cyrus jerked his head off the pillow he shared with Claire. The knocking increased, coming from below stairs. What time was it? He checked Claire. She slumbered, lost in deep sleep.

He slipped out from the counterpane and dragged on his smalls and breeches. By the table, he braced a hand on the wall, squinting out the window at Cornhill, near empty and gray with light fog. He was about to go back to bed when movement caught his eyes.

Emerson.

How
did
the
runner
know
he
was
here?

The tall thief taker walked backward onto the street, neck craning as he stared at the garret window. When he spied Cyrus, the runner shook his head, his smirk increasing beneath the rim of his hat. Thankfully, he grasped discretion, pointing silently at the New Union's door from the street.

Cyrus slipped on the rest of his clothes. For Emerson to come calling this early…had to be important. He went quickly down the stairs and through the dark shop. Beyond the window, the tall thief taker stroked the neck of a giant roan tethered to a post.

Cyrus unlocked the door with his key and let the runner inside.

Emerson looked him up and down, lowering the collar he'd flipped high. “Well, well, Mr. Ryland, what a surprise to find you slumbering in midtown.”

“I'm sure you're not here to discuss the whereabouts of my sleep.”

“'Course not.” Emerson slid onto a bench by the front window, crossing worn boots at the ankle. He dropped his hat beside him and looked across the silent shop. “Don't suppose you have coffee to offer me? Been a long night.”

“None made.” Cyrus crossed his arms, taking measure of Emerson.

The runner's queue was a windblown mess and the skin under his eyes was dark and pinched. Had he been up all night?

Emerson shrugged out of a heavy black cloak and reached inside his coat pocket, metal glinting from his sleeves. Cyrus took the facing chair, noting leather peeking from the black coat sleeve as well.

He let curiosity get the best of him and tipped his chin at the runner's wrists. “Leather arm braces? Pretty medieval of you.”

Long fingers dusted with freckles pulled back the black wool sleeve. Scarred brown leather wrapped around the runner's forearm, and a pair of knives were strapped into the arm braces.

“I prefer knives to pistols. Gets the job done quiet and clean like. No messy ball and powder.” Emerson eyed the swelling on Cyrus's cheek. “Not any more medieval than bare knuckling. What you do for sport, I do to survive.”

Cyrus folded his arms across his chest. He shouldn't have been surprised Emerson knew about the bare-knuckle bouts. The runner unfolded the paper, studying words scratched across the page.

“You found something,” he prompted Emerson.

“Just doing my best to earn the fat reward Mr. Pentree assures me you'll pay.”

The words came as though they were meant to be a jibe, but the glint in Emerson's eyes told Cyrus something different. The man was like a hound on a scent. He liked the hunt.

Why else stay up all night, searching for clues to damaged sugar vats?

“Whatever you earn will be money well spent.” Cyrus relaxed his arms, linking his hands in his lap. “I can't imagine the other Bow Street men hunting down information in the dead of night. They'd sleep first, investigate later.”