Her Protector's Pleasure (19 page)

"It's a bloody coincidence that you happened to be in his office the night he was killed," Ambrose said grimly. "What did Leach know about you, Marianne? What is this
information
you wanted back?"

Her gaze shuttered, but not before he saw fear flare in her eyes. "That is none of your business."

"The hell it isn't." He advanced upon her, and the stubborn thing did not move or yield any ground even when he stopped mere inches away. Close enough to smell her jasmine-scented skin, to sense the tremor of awareness that passed through her. "I have participated in a crime to help you. I have compromised my principles because I cannot stand the notion of you being hurt."
I've endangered my family's future because I can't believe you're as wicked as you pretend to be.
His hand shot out, cupping the back of her head, holding her steady to his gaze. "Now you will give me the courtesy of the truth."

"Or what?"

The challenge brought his simmering blood to a boil. His rationality dissolved in a molten wave of anger and lust. "Or this," he rasped and yanked her to him.

His lips claimed hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. His fingers dug into her silken scalp, and her lips softened on a moan, welcoming him inside. He slanted his mouth across hers, his tongue driving into her heat. Spicy and sweet, a woman to feast upon. By God, he would have his fill—and his answers. He was done with being treated like some accommodating lackey. Clamping his hands on her hips, he lifted her onto the table and stepped between her dangling legs, spreading them wider. He grasped the neckline of her shift, and with one savage movement ripped the flimsy material from her body.

She gasped—not from fear, but arousal. He could see it in the swirling depths of her eyes. For a moment, she made a token effort to stop him.

"You're a brute," she said breathlessly, her hands splaying across his chest.

"I begin to think it's what you want from me." With ruthless precision, he reached for her sex. Primal satisfaction tightened his balls to find her slick and ready for him. "Why else would you be this wet, this hot?"

An unrecognizable sound left her as he continued to play with her lush folds. And she allowed it. Nay, welcomed it. Her hands planted upon the table, she arched herself against his touch, her eyes dazed and heavy-lidded as he petted her. His breathing grew harsh as her dew coated his fingers, flowed into his palm.

"That's my girl. Work yourself against my hand. Show me how badly you want this," he commanded.

A strangled noise left her. Her hips moved, and her wanton obedience sent another blast of heat to his groin. His cockstand strained, pushing against the thin wool of his trousers, eager to feel the pussy rubbing so sweetly against his hand. She was drenched, and he knew from her desperate wriggling exactly what she wanted. But he wouldn't oblige her that easily. Not without some give and take.

"Kent, I can't stand it," she gasped. "Lud, touch me …"

"Where?"

Her pelvis titled in answer, nudging his finger toward her straining peak. Toward that lovely bud beneath her silky floss. He circled the hood, but did not touch her where she wanted.

"Damn you, Kent. Stop teasing me," she said through panted breaths.

"You'll have your satisfaction when I have mine," he said. "What information did you want from Leach?"

Her lashes flew upward. Anger and arousal glittered in her gaze. "How dare you?"

He was quicker than she. He caught the hand that came flying toward his face. In the next heartbeat, he shoved aside the table's contents, pushing her flat onto her back. With one hand, he pinned both her wrists above her head. With the other, he continued to stroke her quim.

"Now tell me what I want to know," he said.

Her hair spread like a moon burst, she glared up at him. "Go to hell."

He pressed his thumb lightly to her pearl, and a whimper escaped her. Her breasts rose and fell with heaving breaths. "Tell me," he repeated.

When she shot him a mutinous look, he bent his head and captured one ruby nipple in his lips. He suckled hard. She moaned, her pussy pleading against his hand as he used his lips and teeth to torment her. He drew away the instant she teetered on the brink.

"I'll let you come when you tell me what you wanted from Leach."

Her eyes were glossy, her cheeks flushed. "I hate you."

"Perhaps. But you still owe me the truth, sweeting." He circled her pearl again and felt the shudder run through her body.

"The information is private." The words were filtered through her teeth.

He flicked his finger. Did it again and again, keeping her on the razor's edge.

"Something was taken from me," she gasped out, writhing against his hand. "Damn you, Kent, I'm owed, and I want what's mine."

God, she'd gotten so slick … he couldn't help but slide a finger inside, her tight, pulsing heat almost robbing him of his senses. "Tell me. Let me help you."

"I can't. I won't." She let out a keening cry as he thrust his finger deep. "Ambrose, please don't ask it of me …"

It was then that he saw the wet glimmer upon her lashes, even as she wriggled in helpless pleasure to his touch. Something in his chest went soft, his anger subsiding. She was so vulnerable, his
selkie
. So afraid despite her perfect skin. In place of fury, his determination grew to gain her trust, a thing too delicate to be taken by force and locked away.

He released her wrists, but continued to play with her with slow, easy strokes. "Tell me this one thing," he coaxed, "and I'll give you what you want."

"Wh-what?"

"Have you been involved in illegal activities?" It was the farthest he could go without betraying Coyner's confidence and that of the case.

Her brow furrowed. "I'll do anything to get back what belongs to me, I won't lie. I did break into Leach's office. But I am no criminal, if that's what you're asking."

He knew this. She had secrets aplenty, and he vowed silently to discover them soon. For now, his chest swelled with the progress they'd made—and his cock with the need to reward her for her trust. Because whether or not she acknowledged it, Marianne was beginning to let him inside ... and not just her delectable body, though God knew that was a priority. He added another finger, stretching her gently. By Jove, she was tight. Tight and wonderfully lush. Her muscles gripped his plunging fingers as her silky juices eased the way.

Her lips opened on a sigh. "Dear God, like that ..."

"You're so responsive. So beautiful," he muttered. "Are you ready for me?"

"Yes," she said, her spine arching. "Oh, yes."

"Good. Because I'll explode if I don't get inside you," he said.

He unfastened his trousers—no time to attend to his boots. He shoved the wool past his hips, freeing his throbbing manhood. At the sight of his erection, her eyes widened.

"Kent, wait. We have to be ... careful," she said in a trembling voice.

Her meaning penetrated his lust. "I won't finish inside you," he said hoarsely. To test his willpower, he gripped the base of his cock, ran the bulging head along her slit. They both groaned as her sex slid against his, coating his cockhead with her juices. Her tight channel clamped the tip of his shaft, and sweat beaded on his brow. "I swear I'll pull out if it kills me." He thought it might.

"There's an alternative. Here." Groping the surface of the table, she found a box and shoved the contents at him. "Put this on."

Despite his state of high arousal, his brows shot up at the sight of the white tube with red strings dangling at one end. "Are you always this prepared, sweet?"

"Madame gave it—oh never mind," she said. "You know how to use it?"

In truth, he'd never worn a French letter before. He was no whoremonger, and the women he'd been with had employed other means of contraception. Consequently, he fumbled a little as he attempted to sheath his turgid shaft. The scent of roses mingled with his frustration.

"It doesn't fit," he growled.

"Mayhap it is not big enough for you." The sultry note of laughter in her voice didn't help matters. His cock swelled further. "Perhaps I can lend a hand?"

Leveraging up on her elbows, she reached for his cock. The boldness of her action, the way her tongue touched her lips as she stretched the sheep-gut over his thick, veined rod caused him to spurt a little. The lubrication helped to ease the French letter into place. By the time she tightened the red strings, her cheeks were rosy.

"You're ready," she whispered.

Was he. Kissing into her open mouth, he guided her onto her back. He positioned his cock at her entrance and pressed forward. Despite her dampness, her intimate muscles resisted him. Her passage was small, remarkably snug. He went slow, not wanting to hurt her.

"Alright?" he rasped, holding himself in check as fire enveloped the head of his cock.

Her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. "I think so. Just go slow …"

Sweat prickled his forehead as he eased forward another inch. Devil and damn, it was like stepping into an inferno, flames engulfing his shaft, the heat spreading to his balls, his groin, his entire self. Gritting his teeth, he pushed a little further, and just when he thought he might die from the excruciating torture, her passage gave way. Moans left them both as he suddenly slid all the way home.

"Bloody hell, that's good," he breathed. He drew a stray lock from her cheek. "Sweetheart?"

Her lashes swept back to reveal eyes more vivid than spring. "Yes. Oh, Ambrose,
yes
."

He needed no further urging. He began to move, withdrawing and returning in slow strokes, watching her face the whole while. He wanted to see her pleasure, to know everything about her. As he made love to her, he stored away the signs of her desire: the flush sweeping over her bobbing breasts, the graceful arch of her neck as she met his thrusts. When her legs circled his hips, however, his control wavered. The dark need to possess her swept over him. He plunged with greater force, harder, deeper, wanting everything she had.

"Mmm, yes. Oh
Ambrose
 …"

Hearing his name, the wobble in her voice, turned something loose inside him. He thrust to the hilt, embedding himself so fully that her nest feathered his stones. "Like that, do you?" he growled. "Hard and deep? Will you come with my cock inside you?"

"I'm almost there," she gasped. "Make me come,
please
."

Groaning, he shoved in and out of her lush, tight hole. His thumb found her pearl, diddled it in time with his thrusts, and she went mad, thrashing beneath him. Faster and faster he rubbed her, fucking her harder and harder. Just when the heat threatened to consume him, she went rigid, her back bowing off the table. He covered her mouth, swallowing her scream and feeding her his own guttural shout as her pussy squeezed him. Hard contractions that demanded his seed, that made him shoot hotly over and again in a release that seemed to have no end.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he had the strength to rise on his elbows. Breathing heavily, he looked upon the face of his lover. Her hair lay in tangled skeins over the table; her lips were red and swollen from his kisses. Her eyes glowed with satisfaction and wonder, an expression he'd never seen from her before. His chest puffed with pride as did—astonishingly—his cock. Her gaze widened for he'd not yet parted from her.

He twisted his hips gently, and a purr escaped from her lips. He brushed his knuckles against her silken jaw. In that moment, with their bodies tucked so perfectly together, it didn't matter that he was a policeman and she a baroness, and they were entangled in an affair that could lead nowhere.

"Trust me, Marianne?" he said, giving a lazy thrust.

Her gaze grew dazed, a peachy flush spreading over her skin.

"I'll … I'll think about it," she whispered.

He told himself not to push his luck. He'd satisfy himself with that answer for the time being. Because in that moment, there was a wealth of satisfaction to be had, and he set about demonstrating that—for these stolen moments at least—he was the man to give it to her.

TWENTY

"Time to get home to the missus. You leaving soon, Mr. Kent?"

Ambrose looked up from the report he was writing. John Oldman—known universally as Johnno—had poked his head through the doorway of Ambrose's cramped office at Wapping Street headquarters. One of the four of Ambrose's crew, the waterman had a cap crammed atop his curly auburn hair and a grin on his freckled face.

"Be a while for me yet, Johnno. Sir Dalrymple wants this report on his desk by morning," Ambrose said.

"Overstuffed goat's still breathing down your neck, eh?" Johnno said with sympathy.

To say the least. Since Ambrose's return, Dalrymple's behavior had grown increasingly malicious. A big case that Ambrose's team should have handled had been given to another Principle Surveyor. In lieu of chasing down criminals, Ambrose had been assigned to making spurious revisions to reports. But two wrongs did not make a right; Ambrose was not one to encourage insubordination.

"Enjoy your evening, Johnno," he said simply.

"Plan to. Lizzie's ma has the bairns for the night, so we've the house to ourselves." Winking, the waterman hitched his satchel higher onto his shoulder. "If you got yourself a wife, sir, you'd have a reason to go home."

Not so long ago Kent would have agreed. His vision of contentment had involved a cozy cottage and his better half waiting for him inside with a hot meal and a smile. What spurred him to finish up his work now, however, was a burning impatience to investigate a solicitor's murder. All so he could protect the enigmatic, aristocratic woman whom he desired beyond all reason ... and who refused to trust him.

After their scorching encounter at the dressmaker's—he still couldn't believe that he'd made love to her in a
shop
, for God's sake—he'd escorted Marianne home. During the carriage ride, he'd attempted to learn more about her troubles. He'd asked point-blank if she was in danger: did she know of anyone who might try to frame her for the solicitor's murder? Tight-lipped, she'd given him nothing. When he'd persevered, she'd said sharply, "Don't push me, Ambrose."