Wicked Intentions 1 (30 page)

Temperance caught her breath and hastily looked away. Dear God. If he could affect her with a mere look, surely it was she who should be warned?

They pulled up at St. John’s house shortly thereafter.

“Good night, Caire, Mrs. Dews.” St. John nodded.

Temperance inclined her head.

“Good night and thank you,” Caire said.

St. John shrugged. “Any time.”

The door closed behind him and then the carriage jerked into motion again. Temperance half expected Caire to cross and sit beside her, but he seemed content to watch her from across the carriage. She fidgeted a moment under his eyes, and then a question that had been hovering at the back of her mind for days now tumbled out.

“Did you know she saw other men?”

The question was abrupt, she knew, but he had no trouble following her train of thought. “No.”

“But”—she frowned down at the folds of her cloak,
rubbing at a spot on the edge—“she was your mistress. Surely you expected fidelity?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” Her voice verged on the strident, but she didn’t moderate it. How could he not care?

“She was my paid mistress,” he said coldly, “nothing more.”

“For how long?”

“Nearly two years.”

“And how often did you see her?”

He stirred impatiently. “It was my habit to visit her twice a week.”

She stared at him, a rising tide of some emotion swelling in her breast, threatening to break the barrier of her silence. “You saw Marie for twice a week for two years. You made love to her hundreds of times—”

“What we did was not making love,” he cut in sharply.

She waved away the interruption. “You once said you didn’t love her, but you must have felt
something
for her.”

He simply looked at her.

“You’ve gone to great trouble and risked your life on more than one occasion to find her killer.” She smacked her open palm against her seat. “She must’ve meant more to you than a mere mistress.”

“So you believe I must have loved her?” he asked softly.

She leaned forward, enraged for no discernible reason. “I believe that you wanted to love Marie—that you’re enamored by the idea of love—but that you have no concept what love is. I think that’s what you’re searching for in St. Giles—some source of emotion, some inkling of what human feeling really is.”

“How terribly perceptive of you, Mrs. Dews,” he drawled horribly. “You’ve known me less than a month and you’ve already plumbed the depths of my soul.”

All her anger left her instantly. “Lazarus…”

“What?” A muscle twitched on his jaw. “What do you want me to say?”

She closed her eyes. “Something. Anything. Tell me she was the love of your life. Explain to me how it is she was your mistress, but you had no idea she had other lovers or even a brother. Tell me something, Caire.
Feel
something.”

“Perhaps there’s nothing to tell,” he murmured, apparently unmoved. “Perhaps my actions are on a whim only. Perhaps I’ve never loved another human being in my life. Perhaps I can’t.”

She stared at him, feeling wounded, feeling weary. “I don’t believe you. All people can love.”

He threw back his head and laughed, not at all nicely. “All? What a very childish thing to say. Do whores love? Do murderers? Tell me, does the man who raped your sister feel love?”

She was across the carriage before she thought about it, flailing at his neck, shoulder, and face, anywhere she could reach. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

He caught her flying wrists deftly. “I’m sorry. I know what you want me to say, but I can’t give you that. I can only give you
this.
”

And he wrapped his black cape about her like the wings of a bird and kissed her.

Chapter Fourteen

King Lockedheart turned to Meg, his eyebrow cocked in challenge.

But Meg merely said, “This is not love.”

“And what is it, then, fair Meg?”

Meg’s lips twitched as she hid a smile. “Lust, Your Majesty. Your concubines lust after you.”

The king swore loudly, making the blue bird flutter on her perch. “Away with you again, Meg. And be sure to wear a gown more befitting a throne room when next I call for you.”

Meg curtsied. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I only have the clothes upon my back and no others.”

“See to it that she is properly attired,” King Lockedheart commanded, and once again Meg was led back to the dungeons….

—from
King Lockedheart

Temperance struggled against Lazarus even as he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Her rage was desperate, baffling, and she wanted to scream and weep at the same
time. Why couldn’t he feel? Why couldn’t he love? Why couldn’t he give her what she needed?

But his mouth was heavy on hers, his lips drugging. She found herself grasping at him instead of trying to free herself. If he would not let her go, then she’d take from him as he took from her.

She knocked his hat to the floor of the carriage, speared her fingers through the silver threads of his hair, dislodging his ribbon. She loved his hair, gloried in the shining silken strands. She fisted her hands in his hair and tugged, pulling his head back. He groaned as their kiss was broken, then groaned again as she slid her open mouth down his throat. She didn’t care if she was causing him pain. His skin was cool from the night air, salty and sweet. She licked him, tasting, wanting to bite. Wanting to devour this man she could neither let go nor fully possess.

She opened her mouth over the tendon at the side of his neck and bit down hard.

He cursed, the sound loud in the carriage. He took her head between his palms as if to forcibly dislodge her, but then abandoned the attack. Instead his hands were suddenly at her skirts, pushing, shoving them upward as he continued to curse steadily.

She clutched at his shoulders to keep her balance as he jostled her, bringing her legs to either side of his hips. She could feel her skirts up around her waist, but she had her eyes closed, savoring the taste of his flesh in her mouth. He fumbled between their bodies, his hands knocking against her bare inner thighs, and one corner of her mind wondered if he really thought he could accomplish anything in this close space.

And then she felt his naked erection probing.

She opened her eyes and reared back, staring at him in shock.

He watched her, his eyes silently locked with hers as he guided himself between their bodies. She felt as he rubbed her lips, felt as he found her entrance, felt as he lodged his head there.

Felt as he paused.

She looked at him, balanced atop his cock, only the barest tip inside her. She was empty and waiting.

“You do it,” he rasped.

She blinked, as if coming out of a daze, glancing about them. They were in a moving carriage, for goodness’ sake.

“No.” He laid one palm against her cheek, turning her face to look at him again. “It’s far too late for doubts. Stay with me. Put me in you.”

“But…”

He slid his hand up until his fingers were right against her feminine flesh.

Her eyes widened.

He held her gaze as he deliberately circled the part of herself that was holding him, then moved up and pinched her clitoris between thumb and forefinger.

She gasped.

“Temperance,” he whispered, a dark, sexual devil. “Temperance, make love to me.”

She arched her back, feeling his cock, large and insistent, those fingers, assured and relentless. This was wrong, so wrong, and it felt so very, very good.

“Temperance,” he whispered, sliding his left thumb across her mouth as he rubbed his right against her clitoris.

She opened her mouth, licking his thumb.

“Temperance.”

Her hips bucked, once, twice. Her head fell back even as she drenched his penis in her orgasm. She opened her eyes as she came, watching him beneath lowered lids. His face was drawn, his mouth a tight, tortured line.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said.

But she was wild now, a being without thought other than to fulfill her body’s desires. She watched him, half smiling, as she swiveled her hips, teasing him and herself.

He moaned. “Temperance.”

The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, and she let the movement bear her down on him, let him enter her an inch or two.

But then she immediately lifted so that only his head teased her folds.

He swore, his upper lip beaded with sweat.

And she laughed low, the sound like no other she’d ever made in her life. She was possessed, here in this dim carriage, traveling between worlds, on a journey without a clear destination. She arched, bringing him inside again, just a little, and then let him slide entirely from her body.

“Damn it, Temperance.” His voice, normally cool and dispassionate, was ragged.

She smiled and leaned forward, rubbing herself against him, using his hard, hot flesh to arouse herself. She bent, tilting her hips, and took his bottom lip between her teeth.

He might’ve sworn then—the words were unintelligible—but his purpose was certainly clear. He grabbed her hips in a firm hand and brought her up, shoving his cock in place with the other hand and bringing her down hard.

Oh, ecstasy! He filled her, stretching her wide in this position. The feeling was exquisite. She arched, clutching
at his shoulders, grinding herself against him, but he wanted something different.

He slapped her bottom through her skirts. “Ride me.”

She pouted. “No.” She liked this, this subtle grinding, this wonderful rubbing.

“Ride me, damn it.” He pressed his thumb against her, and for a moment she saw stars.

Then he took it away again.

“Nooo,” she moaned.

“Then ride me. Please.”

She looked down at him, this aristocrat, this lord, begging her to bring him pleasure, and decided she would take pity. She rose up on her knees, his length sliding from her, and then brought herself down again.

He watched her, thumbing her secretly under her skirts as she rode him, jolting hard into him, swiveling, panting, riding him as the carriage bumped through the darkened streets. Each rough jolt, each swaying swerve added to her pace until she was moving on him fast, openmouthed and gasping for air. Galloping toward a finish.

His face was sheened by sweat, his mouth drawn and strained. The muscles of his neck stood out in ropes of tension, and she saw him swallow as he pressed against her.

She wanted to tell him—to cry aloud to him—how very much he meant to her. But then she lost her pace, faltered, and fell against him, her body convulsing uncontrollably. Dimly she was aware that he clutched her hips with both hands now, that he was bucking beneath her, driving his length again and again into her open flesh. She sobbed into his shoulder, waiting, her muscles turned to liquid, her center a furnace. He pumped into her without mercy, and she turned her head to watch him, saw when he tilted his face to the ceiling, his mouth open, his teeth bared in a silent bellow.

His semen flooded her.

He was arched, his hips tilted up, her knees nearly off the seat as he held himself in her, pumping out his essence.

And then he suddenly relaxed.

Her knees bumped down onto the squabs again. His arms came up slowly, as if he were worn out, and crossed behind her back, holding her close. They were still locked together, his softening flesh in her as she laid her head against his shoulder and listened to the sounds of the London night passing by outside.

S
HE WAS A
warm weight on his lap, holding his cock still within her soft, slick body.

Lazarus closed his eyes, inhaling the perfume of their mating. It was an earthy scent, a humble scent, one he would forever associate with her. He ran his palm down her back, feeling the rough wool of the cloak she still wore. They’d made love in a carriage. A corner of his mouth twitched up at the absurdity. He wasn’t a young lordling given to flights of wagered daring, but she seemed to arouse him no matter what the venue.

She lifted her head and tried to push away from him, but he held her a moment longer. “Hush.”

“We’ll arrive home soon,” she whispered.

She was right, but he was reluctant to let go. To separate from her. But his flesh was weak. She moved again and he felt himself slide from her depths. He sighed and opened his arms.

She scrambled from his lap, almost falling as the carriage tilted around a corner.

“Careful.” He steadied her with a hand, but she soon moved across the carriage and sat on the opposite seat.

She looked away from him.

Ah. Mrs. Dews, that reserved matron, was back. He laid his head wearily on the seat.

“You need to set yourself to rights,” she said, gesturing at his lap without looking. As if the sight offended her.

He glanced down. Well, he certainly wasn’t at his proudest, lying limp and damp against the outside of his breeches.

“Please,” she murmured.