In Bed with a Spy (9 page)

“Indeed?” she mused aloud. He had seemed difficult to read, his thoughts hidden behind a wall of charm and the impassive mask of a spy. Apparently he had lost his ability to hide his thoughts. Desire was something she recognized plainly enough, and it sent a wicked thrill singing through her. It was good to feel that way again, however fleeting.

It wasn’t the brandy that caused the reciprocating desire coursing through her. She’d found him attractive before. The brandy only stripped away her better judgment. Falling in lust with Angelstone—a spy—would be the height of folly.

At the moment, it seemed the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Do you know the worst part of this entire situation?” After setting down her glass she moved slowly forward, watching him watch her.

“I can’t imagine.” Tawny eyes gleamed, stalking her every move.

“I spent six years of my life making love to a man, and I barely knew him. I don’t know if his love for me—his
desire
for me—was real or an act.” She couldn’t move backward in time to find out. But she could move forward. She
needed
to move forward. She needed to erase six years of uncertainty. Angelstone was just the man to do it.

“It would be a mistake.” He pushed his chair back from the desk, but didn’t stand. His eyes held no shock, only intense focus. His gaze skimmed over her breasts, down her hips, then back up to her face.

Heat swirled in her, rising up and sending her blood pumping. “Yes. It would be a mistake.” She didn’t care just now.

She came around the desk to stand in front of him, settling herself just beyond his reach. Her eyes followed the long line of his body, appreciating the glory of lean muscle and strength. He was relaxed in the chair, a little slouched, legs outstretched, his fingers playing idly with the chair arms. His cravat had gone the way of the gloves at some point and his collar lay open, exposing the hollow of his throat. She imagined pressing her lips there, where his pulse beat.

The brandy swirled in her head, in her heart, in her loins. She was hungry for love. Hungry for something she could pretend was love, even for a short time. And she was no longer married. There was nothing holding her back but loyalty to the dead husband who had lied to her.

So she sent him a long, slow smile and stepped between his knees. Her skirts brushed against his breeches, then her leg bumped against his. Even that small contact sent a jolt through her.

“Are you seducing me, Lilias?” His deep baritone slid along her senses. He looked up at her through his lashes.

“I am. What say you, Angelstone?”

H
IS JAW WORKED
once before his eyes fell to her lips. Held there. He did not speak, but she could see he was weighing his decision.
It is only sex
, she wanted to say.
Nothing more.
She would not let it be anything more. But she did not say the words. She could only will him to give her the elusive something she craved.

Then his legs opened wide, making room for her between his muscled thighs. The breath she’d been holding sighed out of her in a delighted exhale.

“I would say that’s answer enough.” She laughed, light and low, as a thrill stole through her veins. “We’ll both regret this tomorrow, Angelstone, won’t we?” His thigh was hard under her finger as she skimmed its length. The muscle beneath flexed. She reveled in that little relinquishment of power.

“Lilias.” He reached for her hand, lifted it. His lips brushed her knuckles. Gold eyes fastened on hers. “You are beautiful.”

“Angelstone—”

“You
are
beautiful. And desirable.”

Her legs trembled beneath her skirt. Her breath quickened. How could he know what she felt? How could he know she needed reassurance to anchor her?

“What happens between us here, now,” he said, “will be separate from the rest.” He stared at her, eyes glinting. She could not read those depths, and was not certain she wanted to. “There is no espionage here. No memories. There’s only a man and a woman.”

“Do you think that will stop the regret?”

“No.” He set his hand against the curve of her waist. Fingers slipped over her velvet-clad hip. His touch was gentle, even wondering, as though his fingers touched a woman for the first time.

Pleasure radiated through her body, starting at those light spots of pressure. Four fingers curved just around her side, a thumb pressed against her abdomen. She drew a deep, jagged breath as his touch moved up, thumb feathering over her belly. She let her head tip back, losing herself in the sensation of having a man’s hands on her. It had been so long.
So long.

“I don’t care, just now,” she whispered. “I don’t care if I have regrets tomorrow.”

Approval growled low in his throat. “I don’t care, either.” He gripped her hips with both hands. Harder now. He looked up at her and she thought again that he looked like a wicked angel. His sensuous lips curved in a grin. “Seduce me, then, Lilias.”

Exhilaration coursed through her, centering between her legs. She would match the wickedness in that grin. Would bring it inside her. She needed something to fill that empty space within her. “As you wish, my lord.”

Bracing herself on the arms of the chair, she bent and took his lips with hers. Softly at first, running her tongue against his lower lip. They did not touch anywhere else, simply their breath mingling, lips meeting. His mouth opened, so she danced her tongue against his. He tasted of brandy and of man. Of the forbidden.

He drew her in, sliding his arms around her back and bringing her close so she sat on his thighs. Heated fingers played with the bare skin at the nape of her neck. She could feel each place where they touched as though a brand lay between them. Buttocks to thighs, fingers to back, lips to lips. Her hand cupped his cheek as she angled the kiss. Stubble roughened her hands, the rasp of it tingling her skin.

How could the need for a man be so primal? But it wasn’t just a man. If it was not Angelstone, it would not be anyone. Not just now.

“I need—” She didn’t know how to name this
thing
that gripped her. It left her vulnerable and yearning. “Make love to me.”

She felt his control snap. It whipped through his body like a blade through the air, whistling quick and sharp. His hands suddenly molded her breasts, his teeth nipped at her lips. She fisted her hands on the lapels of his coat and matched his fervor with her own. Insistent mouth, demanding tongue. She plundered, taking his mouth with all the hunger washing over her.

It was not enough. She wanted to feel his skin, to feel the weight of him above her. To be filled by him. Deft fingers released the buttons of his jacket and splayed it open. The buttons of his waistcoat followed before she yanked his shirt from his waistband. Running her fingers across the hard planes of his stomach, she reveled in the feel of hot skin stretched tight over muscle. She had not touched a man this way in two years. That was a long time to be alone.

Angelstone’s head tipped back and he groaned as she moved her hands beneath the shirt. A quiver of muscle, the jagged edge of his breath. Ah, that was desire. That was need. Her hands moved up his chest, slid beneath linen to feel the hard contours of his shoulders. Her fingers skimmed the ridge of a scar, a thin, hard line that ran from shoulder blade to bicep.

It reminded her of what he was. Of what she was. But the pulse beating in his throat called her. She nipped with her teeth, then feathered hot kisses against the hollow between his collarbones. The beat of his blood pulsed hard and fast against her lips.

More
.

Pulling herself away, she looked at him. He sprawled in the chair, legs outstretched, lapels crushed from her hands. He watched her with hooded eyes, a half smile hovering on his lips. He was gorgeous. Golden and lean and so, so male.

The intensity of his gaze drew her in. She couldn’t look away. God, she wanted him. Wanted with a breathlessness that sent her head spinning. So she gathered her skirts with a rustle of velvet. She set her knees on either side of his hips so that the core of her pressed against his arousal. He was hard and hot beneath his clothing, and she could feel the weight of him against that most intimate place. She ached there, ready and wanting to simply be touched.

When he opened the flap of his fall front trousers, she raised herself so that she was poised just above him. She sank down slowly, her body accommodating his heat and strength. She had forgotten what it meant to be joined with a man, to have him fill her. It was a simple matter to accept him, a thrill as he thrust into her.

Then they were joined. He did not withdraw, but simply filled her as deeply as possible. His muscles strained as he paused—but no. That was control, not strain. He held himself still. Hands gripped her hips. Then,
yes
. A long stroke as his hands guided her hips up, then down. Petticoats swished and pooled around them as they moved once more.

He pushed them out of the way and his eyes flashed down to the stockings riding high on her thighs. His gaze went dark and she heard that quick intake of breath she was beginning to recognize. Rough hands slid up her thigh to linger on the place where silk stockings met skin. Fingers dipped beneath silk, a quick stroke that matched the rhythm of her movements on him.

Her eyes drifted closed. His fingers held magic as they drifted higher, skimming thigh, hip, then that juncture where everything met. All sensation, all heat, all desire spiraled to a single place. Suddenly her thighs did not work. She could not raise or lower herself. Only her inner muscles clutched around him.

“Angelstone.” The word became a sigh as his hand pressed against that small center of her being. She had not been touched there since—but she could not think. Her mind fuzzed as her body bowed back. She rose high on those clever fingers and let their devastating skill overwhelm her.

Her fingers searched for purchase, found solid shoulders to anchor her. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. She did not wonder if he desired her. She did not need to. The deliberate focus of his gaze, the movement of his chest, his thrust inside her. They were truth.

Her body tightened unbearably as he continued to pleasure her until she pushed over the edge of reason. A thousand thoughts crystallized, then broke apart. Regret and release spiraled together and she let her head fall back.

Then his hands were sliding up her body to cup her cheeks. He drew her down and ravaged her mouth. His finesse turned to hunger. Satisfaction was a dark edge on his moan. But her mind was a step behind, lost in morality and fidelity and widowhood.

Her bodice seemed to simply slip beneath her breasts under his swift hands. A quick tongue flicked at her nipples, one, then the other. Any thought of morality and fidelity dissipated.
Please, just let me forget.
Her head fell back again as she fisted her hands in all that thick, gorgeous, golden hair. His tongue slid between her breasts, up, drawing a line to her lips.

“Lilias.” The ridged calluses of his thumbs brushed her cheekbones. “It is only me here. Me.”

She gasped, her breath coming in sobs. “Angel.”

“I know there is a void in you. I know you need to fill it.” His lips pressed against hers, wreaking havoc on her control. He drew back and rested his forehead against hers. “But there is only me and you here. No one else.”

She knew what he was asking, even if it was not a question.

“No one else, Angel.”

And then there was no one else. Only Angel. Hot skin beneath her hands. Firm mouth. Strong hands, with those calloused fingers building sensation upon sensation, touch upon touch. Thrust upon thrust. The scent of his skin, the taste of him. A hand against her cheek, another playing with her thigh just above the stockings.

Body to body, she rode him. Lost herself in heady sensations until he drove her to the peak and over a second time.

When she felt him withdraw from her and heard his sigh of satisfaction, then felt the wetness of his seed on her leg, she dropped her head to his shoulder and wondered why she wanted to both laugh and cry.

S
HE DREW A
deep breath and turned her head so it rested on his shoulder. She ignored the trembling of her hands and gripped the back of the chair.

Fool. Utter fool
. Closing her eyes, she studied the play of candlelight against her lids. Her body felt loose and limber, quite satisfactorily used, in fact. But her heart was still heavy. It was silly of her to think sex would ease all that anger and need and grief in her.

“Regrets already, Lilias?” he whispered near her ear.

Her eyes flew open. She leaned back to look at him, half reclined in the chair. His cravat was still lying about somewhere, and his shirt was open to reveal his throat and the fine hairs sprinkled across his chest. He looked exactly like what he was—a man who had recently been seduced.

He cocked his head. “Do you feel better?”

“Not particularly.” She lifted herself up, started to move away from him, but he was using his handkerchief to clean up his seed. Quite matter-of-factly. The gesture made her heart stutter. It was embarrassing, and yet . . . and yet.

“I didn’t think you would.” An amused, self-deprecating smile spread across his face. The handkerchief dropped to the floor beneath the desk. “Are you sure? Not even a little? It would be a blow to my pride otherwise.”

“A little better, perhaps.” Strange. His teasing lightened her heart more than the sex itself. “You’re an exhausting lover.”

“I had a need for you. Such fierce eyes.” He leaned over and brushed his lips against hers, just the lightest touch. A residual flutter of desire bounced around in her belly. Then again, perhaps it was new desire. She tipped her face up and met his kiss. He was an expert, nibbling and tasting as though he hadn’t just had his fill of her.

She sighed when he finally drew back. “A mighty weapon, that mouth of yours.”

He grinned and gripped her hips to guide her to standing. She settled her skirts down, and when she looked at him, the front of his trousers was already buttoned. He stood and picked up his gloves from the desktop, then retrieved the cravat from the floor where it had fallen.

He straightened, and his face turned serious. “
Do
you have regrets, Lilias?”

She couldn’t answer. She didn’t know.

He watched her, eyes full of secrets. Then he turned away to pick up her cloak from its heap on the floor. Wrinkles clung to the wool. He spread it out for her, an unspoken offer of assistance. All she had to do was step into it. With a sigh, she stood and turned her back to him. He slid the cloak over her shoulders, hands lingering.

“I have no regrets.” He spoke softly in her ear. He feathered a kiss at the nape of her neck. “No regrets.”

—

H
E LIED.
Q
UITE
convincingly, in fact. He had all sorts of regrets.

There is only me and you here
. He had almost deceived himself into believing it was only the two of them. It wasn’t true. She’d used him to exorcise the ghost of her husband. They both knew it.

If he hadn’t looked into those blue eyes and seen pain and uncertainty, he would have said no. He didn’t like sharing a woman, even with a ghost. But he
had
looked into those eyes. He’d seen a lost warrior. A woman who’d fought her demons years ago and won, and now had to fight them again.

It was her eyes that had pulled him in. If she had maintained that sensual awareness, the knowing, confident woman, he could have resisted. But the pain deep inside had simply shattered his resolve. Gemma had always said he was an easy mark for troubled women. She’d been right.

The thought didn’t cause him the pain it usually did.

The uncomfortable idea flitted into his mind that perhaps he was exorcising his demons just as Lilias was exorcising her own.

He looked over at her. She stared out the carriage window. Lamplight slipped across her face, gilding the curve of her cheek. Full lips parted as she breathed slow and steady. He could see the outline of her cloak rise and fall with her breasts, leaving just a hint of pale skin moving between the shadowed depths.

She was lovely. Beautiful and sensual and full of passion. Whether that passion was on the battlefield, the dance floor or in bed. Well, a chair, at any rate. Just watching her now, his body stirred to life.

God help him. She was a lead to the Death Adders. The closest he’d come to finding Gemma’s killer in four long years. He’d prepared himself to use her for information. But damn if he didn’t like her, even with all that stood between them.

“If you think of anything else about your husband—” he began.

“I’ll come to you.” The words echoed in the carriage, a stark reminder of his mission. She turned to look at him. A lock of hair had fallen from its pin and brushed her cheek.

“The information you’ve provided is a start. But I need more,” Angel said. There was no getting around the Death Adders, even if he wanted to forget about them in favor of a beautiful woman. “I need to know routines. The company he kept. Weapons he carried.”

“I’ll give you everything I know.” Her breathing sharpened. Small exhales of anger to hang in the air between them. “I already told you I would.”

Why was it that women—any woman—could make a man feel like some slinking animal that bellied across the ground? But perhaps it was not her. Perhaps it was himself.

“If you think of something, come to my bachelor townhouse. If I’m not there, Jones will send for me.”

The carriage rolled to a stop and the echo of the horses’ hooves faded away. They were at the corner of the square, as she had requested. Fairchild House was tucked in the middle of the row of townhouses. Windows were dark, the street was empty. Even those members of the ton
who had stayed through to the last ball had now sought their beds.

“I have a key to the rear door,” she said. “I don’t wish to be seen.”

“I’ll accompany you.” He pushed open the carriage door, letting in the cool evening air.

“You don’t need to.”

“But I will just the same. I’m still a gentleman.” He shot her a conciliatory grin. “Mostly.”

Her slow, knowing smile heated his blood. “At least you admit it.”

And just like that, they were on even ground again. She set her hand in his without hesitation when he offered to help her from the carriage. Tucking her arm beneath his elbow, he led her through the mews. She moved quietly beside him, her footfalls as soft as his own. When they arrived at the rear door of Fairchild House she tugged her arm free. Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out a slim key. Her breath puffed in, then out.

“I don’t regret anything, Angel.” The hood of her cloak shadowed her eyes. The moon sprinkled silvered light on her mouth. “But it was still a mistake.”

That lower lip called to him. Plump and smooth and shining in the moonlight. He ran his thumb across it. “One we’ll likely make again.”

“Are you so sure?” That full lip curved up beneath his thumb.

He captured her mouth, sinking into the softness. The taste of her was beyond tempting. He caught her lip between his teeth. Nipped. Her breath tumbled out, a quick gasp as she opened her mouth, tongue tangling with his.

He cupped her cheeks, skimming his fingers over her skin. Soft as flower petals. “We should have nothing to do with each other, beyond the investigation,” he whispered.

“We’re fools, Angel.” Still, her mouth sought his. “This is madness.” She pulled back, stared at him. Her eyes were colorless in the dark, but no less compelling.

“A happy madness.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Go to bed.”

She gave him one quick, hard kiss before slipping the key into the lock and disappearing through the door.