Master of Pleasure (18 page)

“Have you?”

“Yes. More than anything, I need someone capable of embracing my son as his own.”

“I would be honored. Genuinely honored.” His voice was deep with sincerity. “I’m far from perfect, Miss Webster, but I always do my best to be honorable. Which is what every boy needs.”

Leona tried not to panic knowing it was
finally
happening. A father. For Jacob. One willing to take him as his own. One willing to— This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. It was happening too fast. Too soon. But…what if it was real and she let this pass? What was considered too fast or too soon anyway? She’d known Ryder since she was ten, which was well beyond fast and well beyond soon, and
that
ended miserably.

Maybe a new strategy was better than an old one. “Well, I…Jacob certainly likes you.” She hesitated. “When he and I were making our way over, he even asked about your marital status.”

“Is that so?” Lord Brayton smirked. “I admire the way he stood up for what he believed was a wrong and would be proud to mold him into the sort of man this world needs. As for his mother…” His smirk faded. He held her gaze. “I’m having trouble breathing around her, but I think she and I can work around that.”

Leona could feel her
own
breath waning. Their interaction was surreal and felt so, so different from what she and Ryder had shared. Her life with Ryder had been…comfortable. Much like Ryder himself had pointed out. She’d known him from the time they were ten. When he’d
finally
kissed her at eighteen, she’d been incredibly disappointed with his lack of genuine passion. He’d only pecked her on the cheek. Even during their short-lived six-month engagement, he treated her more like a sister, which wasn’t very flattering to a girl.

When she finally insisted on a full-mouthed kiss one evening after his concert, he had awkwardly smeared his lips against hers as if forced to. And when they had
finally
undressed and made love several times leading up to his abandonment, it had always been the same. Awkward. Overly tame. Overly polite. The blowing out of a candle to ensure she didn’t see anything, the gentle lifting of her skirt followed by the careful rolling of hips and reserved breathy sighs. Pleasant, yes, but nothing really exciting.

As for
this
? She sensed this man was inwardly pacing like a lion, merely waiting for permission to unleash something that went far beyond tame and polite. It was damn nice. Because she was tired of being seen as a sister to men. She hesitated, knowing there was only one way to see if this man was even capable of making her and the city burn.

All she had to do was throw a match. “You can kiss me if you want.”

He gaped. “
Now
?” he rasped.

She almost tsked. He was
too
much of a gentleman. Which was as surprising as it was disappointing. She
wanted
a kiss. “Later would rather defeat the point, don’t you think? Now go on. You have my permission. Kiss me.”

Edging back and back, he swung away. Slowly raking back his hair with scarred hands several times, he stalked across the kitchen and paused when reaching the doorway that led to the rest of the house. He crossed himself, as if speaking to God, and then glanced back at her. “I don’t think either of us are ready. I was just thinking about ripping your clothes off and breaking all of the furniture here in the kitchen with our bodies. Is that what you want? Sex, blood and bruises?”

With that, he disappeared.

Her eyes widened. Sex, blood and…bruises? She brought her hands together, noting that they were trembling. Was he waiting for her to follow? And if she did, would the ripping of clothes and the breaking of furniture commence?

She swallowed, her entire body pulsing and fluttering with anticipation.

Despite all common sense, she trailed right on after him.

Peering down the narrow corridor, only to find it empty, Leona grazed her bare hand across the expanse of the uneven walls she passed and lifted her gaze to the narrow stairwell she now rounded. She glanced into the darkened parlor which held very few furnishings along with a leather trunk.

He wasn’t there. He’d gone upstairs where the bedchambers were. He was announcing his intentions and it was now up to her to respond.

If
she was bold enough to do it.

She doubted it would be tame.

She doubted it would be polite.

And yet for some damn reason it felt…
right
.

She frantically swiped and rubbed at her cheeks to try to smudge off whatever rouge was on her face, knowing he didn’t like it. She then pertly arranged her skirts, patted her hair to ensure the pins were in place and even checked her breath by cupping her palm before her mouth.

All was good.

She dragged in several breaths and squarely faced the stairs. Too many years of sleeping alone with a deflated pillow challenged her into embracing whatever was about to happen next. Gathering her calico skirts, she made her way up the stairs. They creaked beneath each step as if scolding her into recognizing her folly. She winced at each creak that announced to Lord Brayton she was coming.

On the landing, she pushed out another breath and turned to find only one door was wide open. The second door to her right. She entered the room and paused beside a lumpy mattress and coverings that were unceremoniously laid on the floor without a bed frame. She blinked and was astounded to find Lord Brayton had already removed his coat, exposing the bulk of his muscles that strained his linen shirt and waistcoat.

It took her a moment to realize the removal of his coat hadn’t been done in the name of seduction but to allow for better movement of his arm. He was carving strange, squiggling symbols into the wall.

He scraped and dug into the wall with the tip of his blade, his features tight and focused. “You shouldn’t have followed. I’m
trying
to restrain myself.”

She knew that. “I’m afraid I’ve been alone too long to listen to common sense.” She edged closer, noting the archaic symbols he carved. “What are you doing?”

He tightened his hold on the blade with a rigid fist and curved the blade to finish one last marking. He lowered his blade and smoothed a large hand over it, scattering the shavings from the plaster and wallpaper. “In Persia, a man is not allowed to speak to an unmarried woman. Courtship is reduced to signals. Signals that allow each side to decide whether to move forward or fall back without the consequence they will be bound to once real words are spoken between them. I never fully understood its power until now.”

Leona drew in a half breath, wandering closer.

Everything about this man was so real and soul provoking. It made her wonder if perhaps there was such a thing as reincarnation. Maybe once upon a time, they had been more than lovers. Maybe they had been each other’s better half, meant to prod each other into remembering how important it was to be sincere.

When she was finally beside him, she reached out and traced the unknown markings he had made before letting her hand fall away. She glanced up at him, captivated by the unknown world he seemed to be luring her into. “What does it say?”

He punched the blade into the wall, leaving it impaled, and dropped his hand to his side. He turned toward her, setting his massive shoulder against the wall beside it and captured her gaze. “I’m not ready to tell you.”

This just got interesting. “Why not?”

“Because I’m still struggling to accept that I’ve allowed for this much.”

A hazy veil of unspoken intimacy settled between them. It was obvious he was the sort of man who didn’t seduce a woman with his body, but rather his soul.

She set her own shoulder against the wall, closing what little distance was left between them and tilted her head to better look up at him. “Why are you allowing it?”

His gaze drifted to the wall he leaned against. “Maybe I’m doing it for the same reason you are.”

Such honesty. “Are you saying you’re lonely?”

His blue eyes now held hers and had a burning, faraway look to them. “Maybe.”

Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as her body grew faint at the thought of being touched by him. She wanted those large hands in her hair, on her breasts, on her buttocks, and yes…in between her thighs so she would never have to resort to doing it herself again.

A part of her was
so
relieved to know she wanted to have sex with him. She thought it would never happen. She thought she would never be physically attracted to a man after the intimacy she had shared with Ryder. “I’m willing to explore this if you are.”

His features tightened. “I’d be very careful. Because when I dig my teeth into something I like, I don’t let go. I skip right over chewing and just swallow. Be aware of that.”

It was like he was trying to scare her into thinking he would shred far more than her clothes. It was
incredibly
provocative. A whispering shiver of want
and
need ran through her body and mind as she sidled closer, attempting to no avail to even her breaths. Chanting to herself not to faint, she lifted her hand to his face and grazed a finger across the uneven indentation of his scar.

He stilled.

She traced her finger to his hair and brushed it away from his forehead, her heart pounding at the realization she was touching this…
feral animal
. And he was letting her touch him. A tendril of power laced itself around her.

“What are you trying to do?” he hoarsely asked, still not moving.

She could feel her fingers trembling. “I’m showing you that I trust you, Lord Brayton.”

His broad chest rose and fell more notably. “Malcolm.”

She dragged in that distinctive scent that clung to the heat of his skin. “Malcolm,” she softly repeated, honored that they were no longer lord and miss. She leaned in, drawing her lips upward.

He lowered his gaze to her lips, the warmth of his breath fanning her face becoming all the more ragged and uneven.

Like her own breath.

They lingered.

He silently edged in, signaling he was ready for whatever she would permit.

And oh how ready she was to permit.

Lifting herself on her slippered toes, she gently touched her lips to his. The warmth of his soft masculine lips made her almost spill into his arms. Everything about him made her want to shatter like shards of glass glittering in sunlight.

She slowly parted his lips and let the tip of her tongue slide across his.

He staggered but otherwise didn’t move or touch her or even try to return her kiss. He remained eerily still. So still, one would think he was a statue set in the middle of a bursting fountain.

She had never met a man so determined to resist. But then again, she doubted he had ever met a woman so determined
to
insist. She dragged her hands up the breadth of his solid chest, reveling in its impressive expanse and further dragged her hands up into the softness of his smooth hair, which she had earlier mussed. She yanked him down toward herself, demanding he cooperate, and deepened her kiss, determined to melt that veneer of ice.

She was more than certain it was all veneer. It had to be. He had to be more than ice.

Melt
, she inwardly whispered to him.
Melt for me like I’m melting for you. Show me you’re different from Ryder. He never once tried to throw himself into sharing his passion or his heart with me. Show me what beats within you. Show. Me. That. Beat.

Malcolm staggered and groaned against her mouth like a deprived man who just realized he needed it even more than she. He widened her mouth with his, now frantically tonguing her.

Leona clung to him, her fingers pressing into those tense, massive shoulders in disbelief.

Grabbing the sides of her face with rough, rigid hands that dug and pressed into her skin without mercy, he crushed her body against his own, whooshing the breath out of her and bending her backward. Angling his head in an attempt to open her mouth even wider, he drew her entire tongue into his own hot mouth so brutally and viciously hard, she squeaked from the unexpected sharp pain that pinched her to the jaw.