The Lover (15 page)

Two separate rhythms, clocking two separate fates.

Twenty-seven years ago sex had brought Michael back from the edge of insanity. Through the French language he had been able to express his need for comfort. For pleasure. He had basked in the joy of sexuality.

Michel had been born out of that beauty.

Anne was not asking him to be the man he used to be. She was asking him to make her life more bearable.

"What words would you like to know?" he asked hoarsely.

"You kissed me last night," she said determinedly.

"The French have many different words for a kiss." He strained to hear the strike of the horse's hooves to determine either a reduction or an increase in speed. "It depends upon whom one kisses. And where."

"You kissed me between my thighs." Anne's breasts rapidly rose and fell beneath her staid black cloak. "On my clitoris."

The echo of the horse's hooves blended with the pounding of his heart. How far they had traveled since she first climbed into a cab with a man she did not know.
A man she still did not know
.

"A woman's clitoris is called
un bouton d'amour
, a love button." His mouth flooded with the taste of her, the silky hot blend of salty sweet passion. "The type of kiss I gave you there is called
le broute-minou
."

Anne's gaze skidded away from his. She faced the worn leather interior of the cab; the white egret plume and black hat hid her face from his view.

Michael focused on her window and the reflection of her pale, cameo-perfect profile that was superimposed over passing London landmarks.

They were so close to his town house… only a few blocks away. He could not escape the surge of anticipation, even knowing it was too early to tell… knowing how carefully orchestrated his hope might be…

Knowing that it would be best if the man took them now, before his spinster became more attached to him… and he to her.

"You called your… penis…
ma bitte
. Are there other words for it?"

A park charged past them—a blur of leafy green trees, twirling parasols, and children chasing a hoop.

He had been young once. Happy. Carefree.

Had Anne?

"There are many words for a man."

A creak of leather alerted him; Anne turned in the seat. Her gaze locked with his, her eyes filled with compelling urgency. "Such as?"

His blood pumped through his veins; the cab rushed through the cobbled streets. There was no turning back.

"
Bequille
." Crutch. "
Outil
." Tool. "
Bout
." End.

He had by turns used sex as a crutch and a tool. A means to an end that was rapidly approaching…

Anne frowned, translating the French slang into English words that made no sense.

He had never heard her laugh.

Diane had not laughed after the man took her. But she had laughed before.

Anne had had no joy, no pleasure. Her entire life had been dedicated to providing comfort for others.

Michael wanted to give her laughter while there was still time.

"A man's penis is also called an
andouille à col roule
," he said with a calculated ease that denied the pounding inside his chest and groin and the raw, unrelieved pressure that crawled up and down his spine, searching for an outlet.

She stared in blatant disbelief. "The French call a man… a sausage with a rolled-down collar?"

He watched her intently, gauging her response. "It is an apt enough comparison."

There was no repulsion in her eyes, only curiosity. "What other words are there?"

She was so serious, this woman who confessed she did not often laugh. So determined to explore the subtle nuances of intimacy.

There were many sex words that, when translated into English, became sublimely ridiculous. He chose a term she could more readily understand.

"
Cigare à moustache
." Cigar with a mustache.

The imagery was irresistible.

Laughter followed her shock, a clear, husky peal that exploded the gathering darkness inside the cab and twisted about his guts.

Her pale blue eyes sparkled. "What do you prefer?"

His tumescent flesh thickened, hardened, lengthened, nine and a half inches stretching into nineteen and a half inches. He felt as if he would burst through his own skin, like an overripe grape, if he did not soon gain release. "
Bitte
," he rasped.

All traces of her humor instantly evaporated. Her wide-eyed gaze reflected the evocative memory of her swollen clitoris embracing his rubber-sheathed manhood.
My penis, my cock
, ma bitte.

Suddenly there were only the two of them inside the cab: a spinster with her first lover.

There was no room for death.

"Why do you precede…
bitte
… with a feminine pronoun… as opposed to a masculine one?"

"
Bitte
is a feminine noun—"

Anne glanced down at his lap.

He did not have to follow her gaze to know that a damp spot, evidence of his arousal, marked his gray wool trousers. Last night he had used it—along with her own feminine essence—to lubricate his manhood to more readily fit it inside a condom.

Her gaze darted up to meet his. She, too, remembered…

A tall, gold brick Georgian town house appeared behind Anne's head, the first in a row that marked his home street.

Michael's muscles coiled for action.

Now.

The cab would stop… or it would drive by.

He would take Anne… or the man would take him.

The grinding of the carriage wheels filled his head, his body, his sex. His entire being focused on the sound, waiting, waiting…

The cab slowed, rattled to a stop.

It was not yet time for either of them to die.

The energy that he had forcibly held in abeyance erupted into naked force. Eyes locking with Anne's, his voice hardened in feral need. "Because it is made for a woman."

He thought about lifting her skirt and taking her there in the cab.

She wouldn't fight him. There was nothing she would not let him do.

Michael wrenched open the door and jumped out, a jarring catalyst of motion. Cool spring air enveloped him.

It did not extinguish the seething turmoil of sexual need.

A creak of springs sounded behind him.

He pivoted and stared, mesmerized.

Poking out her head—downy white plume dancing in the cool breeze—Anne stuck out a narrow half boot and felt for the step.

A picture of her standing in Madame Rene's dressing room wearing only her hat, stockings, and shoes slammed through him.

She should be dressed in the finest silks and velvets
—
not grenadine and wool
, he thought savagely.

Reaching out, Michael grasped her by the waist and swung her out of the cab. The gold handle of his cane dug into her corseted waist,
just a cane
. A gentleman's accessory; not an assassin's tool.

This time.

Head flying up, eyes wide with surprise, Anne grasped his shoulders.

It was obvious she was not used to being helped out of a carriage. Not used to being complimented.
Wanted
.

But he wanted her. She would never know how much.

Deliberately he pulled her against him until her breasts flattened against his chest and the jointure of her thighs notched his penis.

Her nipples were hard.

He was hard.

"A man's sperm…" Anne's breath bathed his lips. Her cultured, husky voice was whisper soft. Sunlight turned the tips of her short, brown eyelashes into gold spikes. "What is it called in French?"

Desire lanced through Michael's testicles.

He knew where this was going.

He knew he should stop her.

But he couldn't.

"
Came
." He eased her down his body, savoring the weight of her breasts and the press of her stomach, making her feel his hardness… his readiness… The heat of her body penetrated her cloak and wool dress; it matched the heat of her breath. "
Sauce. Blanc
."

"
Blanc
." She tasted the word, feminine need and curiosity fully aroused. "Is your sperm… white?"

"It's white," he said roughly. "Hot. Thick."

It swelled inside his testes, straining—

The cabby loudly cleared his throat.

Shamed awareness shone in Anne's eyes. She had allowed a man familiarities in public, her expression said—something that no self-respecting lady allowed.

She recoiled from Michael's arms, attempting to become the self-possessed woman that her appearance proclaimed her to be.

But he knew better.

She had agreed to give him complete access, and that was what he would take. There was no place on her body that he had not touched. That he would not touch again.

Michael released her only long enough to toss a coin to the cabby. Before Anne could further collect her composure and shy away from her natural sensuality, he urged her up the walk. Purposefully he flattened his palm against the small of her back—there, where he had supported her the night before when she straddled his lap and, overcome by his dimensions and her orgasm, had cried out her release.

The memory was as firmly implanted in her mind as it was in his. He could feel the pulse of her recollection all the way through her layers of clothing.

The brass knocker gleamed in the sunlight; no name was etched into it to identify either Michael or Michel as the occupant. The white-enameled door was unlocked; it swung forward on oiled hinges. The sweet perfume of hyacinth welcomed him.

Death, too, possessed a sweet odor. It lurked beneath the stench of rot, luring the unwary.

But there was no beauty in dying.

Or killing.

Anne stepped forward, away from him, when he paused to close the door behind them. Chill air enveloped his fingers where but moments earlier the heat of her body had warmed him.

He forcefully locked the door—a useless precaution; neither locks nor bars would keep out the man—before turning around.

Her spine was rigidly straight. A pale line of skin shone between the stiff black collar of her cloak and her light brown hair, which disappeared underneath the black hat.

What had she been like eighteen years earlier?

How could he have overlooked her in a crowd of simpering debutantes and overperfumed belles?

Bending his head, he lightly nuzzled aside flyaway strands of baby-fine hair, seeking the scent of her underneath the camouflaging odors of benzine, shampoo, and soap.

She stiffened.

Pain spiraled through him. The hunter rejected by his prey.

Michael briefly closed his eyes, his senses fine-tuned to the pulse of her body. "You said you weren't ashamed of me."

"I'm not," she replied in a hushed voice, as if the walls had ears capable of overhearing her lapse of decorum.

And perhaps they did.

"Then you're ashamed of touching me," he said flatly, stepping back, the lover spurned. "Of wanting me."

A quick inhalation of air sliced through the dim stillness inside the foyer. "I'm not."

But she was.

"If you were not, you would look at me. And take me. Openly. Without reserve."

She quickly turned. Shame competed with arousal in her pale eyes. Honesty with self-preservation.

"Is that what you were referring to when you said you expect everything from me?"

He would not think of the man. Not now. Not until the night. "Yes."

Her chin, more round than oval, firmed with determination. "If a woman wanted to kiss a man's
bitte
, what would the French expression be?"

Michael had expected her question in the cab. Now it took him unawares.

He was transfixed by the explicit image her words conjured.

By her desire to taste a scarred whore's pleasure.

It had been five years since a woman had wanted to take him into her mouth.

For a second he thought he would come inside his pants as he had when the madame first caressed him.

"
Bonjour
, monsieur." The sharp, hollow click of hurried footsteps approached them. "Mademoiselle."

Anne's face closed. Once again she became the proper spinster.

And he would not have it. They had so little time…

Michael alertly watched Anne as Raoul deftly took her reticule. He could read her thoughts as clearly as if she spoke them aloud. She had worn the same expression when he introduced her to Madame Rene.

The butler must know that she had procured Michel's services
, she thought.

Her gaze darted lower, to the damp spot up high on Michael's trousers.