The Proposition (34 page)

God help him.

He wanted a woman who could talk about horse auctions and Van-whatever-they-weres, who could teach a man to talk till his friends hardly knew him. Yes, God help him, he thought.

Because all he could think about was how to get this woman back further into the dark.

Chapter 22

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T
he back door of the Bull and Tun gave onto a little alley lit only by the tavern sign's gaslight on the street, an illumination so faint Winnie hadn't noticed it till her eyes had gotten used to the dark. She stood at the edge of the alley, in front of a small, one-step stoop. There was a similar stoop down thirty feet, its door giving into another part of the public house, the dim filtered glow from it indicating it was a kitchen. Behind her, she didn't know what Mick was doing or why he'd stepped back. She turned, rubbing her arms, trying to find him in the shadows. He'd stooped. She couldn't see his movement. Then she realized he was anchoring the door open with a rock, letting some of the heat out for everyone else. The pub had become a furnace inside. How considerate of him, she thought. She waited, her neck feeling bare for his having left it, her arms and back cool from his absence, but she knew he wouldn't leave her here alone for long.

He'd brought her outside to kiss her, and she didn't even have to ask.

The music was softer here in the alley, though the rhythm was just as toe-tapping. Winnie felt a surge of happiness as a breeze blew her chemise flat to her; it clung to her corset where it was wet from the perspiration of her body. She turned to stare back into the tavern a moment, through the doorway, grateful to be out of the humid heat of bodies.

Another wave of good cheer came over her. She felt lucky all at once, though she couldn't have said why. She felt fortunate somehow, blessed by life. The breeze whipped up again, cool, blissful on her skin. She could look up and down the alley; it was open, a little pass-through delivery road at the back of the Bull and Tun. A smell wafted on the wind. Winnie located it vaguely in the dark—ten feet away was a huge bin of bottles and pub accouterments, not the kitchen bin but the bar bin. Its smell was as yeasty as a brewery, earthy in a way that wasn't bad yet was strong enough to encourage her to move away.

She had to laugh at herself. Lucky. Lucky to be standing in an alley, damp, not quite wearing enough clothes for the night, while smelling old beer bottles and tap tubing.

Oh, yes, and this: Lucky to be caught around the waist by a long, muscular arm. She let out a delighted, long laugh as Mick took hold of her again.

"Come here," he said.

He pulled her into the dark that he'd made by opening the door. It cut off the light from the tavern sign at the street, while the light from the kitchen wasn't enough to make it into the corner between stoop and wall. Oh, yes, so considerate. He'd made them a private, invisible niche.

This was where he first kissed her in earnest, really kissed her. He took her by the hips and guided her, backing her up against the bricks, putting her where he wanted, into this wedge of lightless space. Then he bought his body, his mouth up against her. No sight, Mick blocking off the all light. There was only the feel of him and the heat from dancing hard and the rich, organic taste of his mouth, malt blended with hops.

Oh, glorious, she thought, as his tongue touched hers. He pressed her mouth open, and she didn't even have to tell him she wanted him to. But she did, oh, she did. He kissed her openmouthed again, as he had that time in his bedroom. Exactly right, without asking. Oh, yes! It was perfect. A big, lush kiss with the full of his mouth, his hands down her back, his body pressed to her. How strange, how right. She didn't know what she was supposed to do from here, but she would let him figure it out, let him lead the way. She wanted more. More, Mick.

* * *

While Mick thought, What naiveté. He could feel her willingness to go beyond a kiss—just as he could sense her ignorance of what "beyond" meant.

He tried to tell her. "Winnie." He pulled back from kissing her neck. "Do you know I want your skirts up again? I want your skirts up and these"—he pulled at the ribbons and lace at her shoulders—"all these"
—
she wore all manner of covers and corsets and liners and lace—"down. I want your clothes around your waist."

His honesty took her aback, though she laughed at it. "You can't have that," she said.

"I think I can. That's what I'm saying. The time to change your mind is now."

She laughed again, so confident of herself in her innocence. "Fine, then," she said. "Let me go. I'll go in." When he said nothing, she said, "You agree not to then?"

"I agree not to make you do anything you don't want to."

This reassured her. Though he kept her pinned there in the dark corner between door and wall. He knew what business he was about.

Oh, he wanted to lick her body, gently bite the insides of her thighs—taste them, eat his way up. He had no idea what he was going to do exactly. He only knew that the flashing images in his mind were full of sexuality; he was steaming with it. He suspected he would shag her here, that when they went back inside, it would be without her virginity. She didn't take him seriously though.

So much for warning her. He kissed her again. Again, she opened to it; she warmed to his deep kiss, a woman of growing experience.

He should be warning himself, he thought. God bless, the large, bold physicality of tall Winnie. So undeniable in sheer physical presence. If she had any idea how appealing she was, it would give her far too much the upper hand. He'd never tell her, he promised himself. She'd never guess. He'd never let her know the degree of attraction he felt.

As if he could keep it a secret. Delicately, as he kissed her, he rubbed his thumbs along the bone of her shoulder, till he managed to slide lace and ribbons and gauzy stuff down. Flesh. He shivered. He bent his head to kiss her bare shoulder. Then she jumped and caught her breath as he peeled the neckline a fraction lower and exposed a firm little breast.

"O-o-oh," she said in her soft upper-class voice. "Oh-h-h." As if exclaiming at a tea party. He loved the sweet, proper sound of her.

He loved making nonsense of it. Her breast jutted over the top of her rigid corset. It was tiny in his large hand, soft against the calluses at the inside of his knuckles. Kneading it made her go into a panting kind of flurry, not one of prohibiting him so much as trying to take all the newness of it in. He squeezed and tugged the nipple between his thumb and palm. So sweet. So small, and soft as down. God, how lovely she was.

She put her hand to his, trying quietly to inhibit it as she murmured complaint. "Too small," she said. Her breast embarrassed her.

"Just right. A mouthful." He bent his head and swallowed it up.

She leaped, started with a kind of mild, willing panic. He could feel her heart. It beat so hard he could count the thuds through his lips when he took her breast all the way into his open mouth, pressing his lips to her chest. All the while, she whispered a kind of litany into the dark, "Oh, God. Oh god, Oh god, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod…
"

From here, he tried to raise her skirts, but she wouldn't let him. She still had enough presence of mind to say, "No," quite clearly. It echoed softly in the
dark.

All right. He pulled her floundering hands to his shoulders, laying them at the back of his neck to show her what to do with them. He bent his head again, suckling and nipping at the one breast, then, pushing the gauzy fabric and ribbons off the opposite shoulder, he exposed the other to the night air and his mouth. He wet first one, then the other with kissing. Her breasts, two perfect little bon-bon-sized bites he tormented with his tongue.

"Lord," she said, then repeated that, too, as if her mind when aroused were prone to sticking like a needle in the groove of her gramophone. "Lord. Lord, lord, lordlord, lordlord…
"

She became unintelligible, guttural, just sounds in her throat as he teased the soft little tip with his teeth.

She arched, knocking her head on the wall.

"Easy there," he whispered.

"Oh, stop, Mick. I can't—I don't—"

He used his knee to open her legs—and she helped, a tentative little piece of cooperation. He leaned into her and, even with all their clothes between them, his body found the right place. Through their clothes, it dropped into the small cove of her sex, as if it had found home. He let out a long, deep groan, growl-like in his attempt to keep himself from calling out. God in heaven, he'd found paradise.

He wanted the impossible. More. "Straddle your legs." He breathed out soft laughter at his own nerve at what he was willing to say to Win. But he wanted it. "Do it," he said. "As if there were a horse under you. Make your legs wide, loovey, and bring one up. Here."

She let him find the back of her thigh through her dress, then lift her leg up and around his waist. He wrapped her long, luscious leg around and behind him, then pressed her heel into his buttocks. "Like that," he said. "Ooh, yes, like that." His head swam in carnal pleasure. He reeled from it.

If he could have gotten her skirts up, fine gentleman that he was, he would have had intercourse right then. He'd have plunged in, burying himself in her. Instead, he-didn't-know-how-many layers of fabric, skirts, petticoats, trousers prevented it. He was left with pressing his erection along her, rocking, stroking the full length of his penis in the slight depression of her female sex, through clothes and all.

He stroked himself, up then back, driving himself along her, till he throbbed, hot and swollen, almost painful. He let out a groan, and it could have passed for anguish.

In a way, it was. "Aa-a-h!"

So harsh, their passion. So strong. If he could ever get her to release herself into it, they would climb mountains of it, sink into oceans of it, cleave the earth, if they weren't careful. The attraction between them was huge.

He tried to raise her skirts again.

"Someone will see," she protested.

Not unless someone walked outside, he thought, who could see in the dark.

He made note though: her objection was no longer her own, but belonged to "someone" else.

He might have simply proceeded from there to have her. In his arms, she trembled and shook. He sensed her will shift.

He owned it.

But the word
alley
sobered him. A miserable, rational voice said, Listen, Gentleman Mick, the reality is: you don't take a virgin for her first time, a kind, gentle lady who's been sheltered most of her life from the facts of men and women, in an alley behind a tavern. Whether you love her or not, you don't do it. If you love her, especially you don't.

Right. Yet another voice demanded, Now. Have her now. Just a little coaching, a little wooing, and she's yours.

Reality. He hated it. Someone truly could see, if they came out with a lantern. No, he should walk her back inside. He should be satisfied for now—Winnie had surrendered. Out of respect for that, he should take her home and make love to her properly, where there was privacy and dignity and sweetness.

Yet something prevented him from letting go of the moment. Somehow, now, right now, it wasn't enough. His body—no, his spirit felt arched, taut and bent to the point of breaking. A voice howled, Not enough!

Before he could move from this place, he wanted to possess her in some way. He felt hungry for it, famished, emaciated, needy. Like a beggar in the street; give me. Like a thief; I want.

He began to make promises to himself. And to her. "Let me touch you," he said, gathering her skirts again slowly, trying not to frighten her into shoving them down. He put his foot on the edge of the stoop to better support her raised leg. "I want to touch you, then we'll go."

Winnie mumbled something. She made no sense. Her leg grew slack, relaxed over his. She was trying to pull the shoulder of her camisole up, but only succeeded in pulling the ribbon out of its casing. She wasn't able to pull herself together. And despite all good intentions, Mick didn't want to help her.

Not enough. It was heaven to hear the sound of her fluster. Winnie, undone, breathing like a woman aroused, talking like a woman in a stupor. Touch her. The thing he hadn't been allowed to do before. Do it now. Touch her between her legs. And not just through her knickers. Touch her, really touch her.

What insanity. What an outrageous thing to want of her in an alley. As a token. Yet he'd never known her as she was, without her lists and organization and proper demeanor. How to keep her like this? How to never let her back into the safe place of her propriety?

Take her now. Yes, that would do it. You have her where you want her. Take her now. What if whatever had changed her here tonight is gone tomorrow? Or, worse, is gone by the time you get her into the carriage? What if it disappears between here and home? Take her.

No. No. Though, as a kind of compromise—a reward for his heroic self-denial—he kissed her again while, through her skirts, he grazed the front of her body. Through fabric, he touched across the private female place with the tips of his fingers. She jumped, but she didn't pull her leg away from him. He kissed her deeper, and she dug her heel into his buttocks, moaning softly.