Chapter Twenty-Two
“W hat if I want that too?” Kitty asked because she wanted it so much. Desperately. More than she might want her next breath.
He half smiled and it was a dark smile. It was a forest at night, a storm approaching. “Then lock the door, Kitty.”
She reached behind her and locked it without dropping her gaze. It was impossible to look away. He was seduction and hunger and wicked promise incarnate. And he was so beautiful—the crooked tilt to his smile, that sculpted dip in his upper lip. The sharp line of his jaw.
When he gestured for her to come to him, she briefly considered defying him, just to see what he might do. But tonight she would much rather see what he would do if she joined him. She was wearing a simple day dress, nothing silky or frilly or fashionable, but it did not matter. He looked at her as though she were dressed in whispers and moonlight. As if she belonged here. With him.
It made her feel a little drunk. A little wild. Exhilarated.
It was remarkably difficult to walk normally, to not run and throw herself at him. He spread his legs and leaned back in his chair like it was a throne. He tapped his knee. Autocratic. Impatient.
He made her feel pampered and like prey, all in the same heartbeat.
She faltered a moment once she reached him. What was she supposed to do now? Make a sophisticated remark? She only knew how to make irreverent and shockingly inappropriate quips. How to calculate ledgers, and how to hide people. How to hide herself.
He watched her, waiting.
A challenge.
But also power. It was entirely up to her. He wasn’t giving it to her, only acknowledging that it was already hers. She licked her lower lip.
“Are you teasing me, firecracker?”
“Maybe.” She was teasing herself. Teasing them both. She wanted this. Any hesitation had more to do with her pride than anything else. And pride would not make her climax until her legs shook. But Rhys absolutely would. Devil might make the powerful men of London shake with fear, but she knew Rhys would make her shake with pleasure.
“Careful,” he warned softly, expression forbidding in a way that sent hot shivers up her thighs. She stepped closer, between his knees. “So you’ve decided?” he asked.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”
“And?”
“Yes,” she said again, anticipation washing through her, chasing away the nervousness.
He smiled, smug, satisfied, wanting her. She could see as much. The muscles in his jaw, the tendons in his neck flexing. The demanding tap on his knee. “Then what are you waiting for, love?”
He was pure seduction. She had thought so before, but this was overwhelming. Her senses reeled, clamoring for attention. She perched lightly. Too lightly. As if she were taking tea with a dowager.
“I think we can do better than that,” he growled, pulling her sharply against him and angling his knee so that it widened her thighs. He dragged an open-mouthed kiss along her jawline, back and forth until she melted. She turned her head so their mouths met, and the kiss was like drowning, softly, deeply, inexorably. His tongue slid against hers as he gripped the back of her head to angle her. To drink from her, never letting her retreat. It was dizzying.
Perfect.
She gripped the front of his dressing gown in response, and the soft rasp of his chest hair peeking through the opening tickled. He closed his other hand around her thigh, firmly, as if anchoring himself to her, and her to him. She bit back a whimper. “Those noises are mine ,” he said against her mouth. “Don’t you dare keep them from me.”
He shoved her skirts up, claiming the soft, warm skin behind her knee, on the inside of her thigh, and finally, finally her quim. She was already desperate for his touch. He stroked between her lips, gathering her wetness before stroking deep. She arched against him, moaning. “More,” he demanded, which was the same word echoing through her head, through every corner of her body: more, more, more .
He circled her bud gently, then, with more pressure, plunged his fingers inside her, and back to her bud, a maddening rhythm that had her whimpering and panting.
And then he moved his hand away. She clutched at his arm.
“It will be so much better if you wait.” He kissed her, and it was slowly and beautifully carnal.
She squirmed in his lap, eager for friction, any kind of contact. She was so close.
“Ah ah,” he murmured just firm enough to have her intimate muscles quivering. “You’ll wait until I give you permission and not before.”
She pouted. She was fairly certain she had never pouted in her life. “ Rhys. ”
He only laughed softly.
Want and need shivered through her, and she struggled to stem the sparks shooting off each other deep inside. “Then I want to touch you ,” she very nearly whined.
Very well, she did whine. She wasn’t proud of it, but he was making her feral.
He grabbed her wrist in a stern grip when she reached for him. “When I say so.”
“Then say so.”
“Not yet. Stand up.”
She stood up even though her legs already felt weak.
“Now turn around.”
He brushed the nape of her neck, trailing his fingertips down to the little button at the top of her dress. Then he undid the laces that closed at the side, and her skirts fell to the floor. He pulled the bodice down slowly, so slowly, until she stood in her stays and chemise.
There was a pause, then he stroked down her spine. “How the devil do these stays come off?”
She laughed, turning around. The laugh died in her throat. His green eyes raked over her hungrily. “They lace at the front,” she whispered. “I don’t have a lady’s maid, remember?”
“Right.” He tugged at the laces until they slipped free. She tried not to wish, once again, that she was not wearing something silkier, frothier. “Perfect,” he said. “I like opening presents, but too much frippery just gets in the way.”
She stifled a groan. “I thought that out loud, didn’t I?”
“Shh,” he said, tightening his grip on her waist. “I’m working.”
The candlelight played over his dark, tousled hair, over his strong fingers as he guided her gaping stays down over her hips, pulling her stockings with them until they joined her dress on the floor. “Kitty?”
“Yes?”
“I will buy you new undergarments.”
“Why w—”
His big hands closed around the material already worn thin and pulled. Her shift ripped, the sound shocking in the quiet library. He had literally torn it from her body. Her bud pulsed with awareness. Her nipples pebbled at the brush of air.
She stood wearing nothing but his ring, gleaming on her finger. He was still fully clothed, though his cravat was undone and his sleeves rolled up, coat discarded. It was a simple thing to picture him ruling the Underworld. She was exposed before him, vulnerable. Trying not to squirm with desire. Waiting for his next command.
She ought to be bristling with defiance.
That might be fun too.
But tonight, it was so nice just to be . Not to have to make every decision, to constantly adjust plans or make hard, imperfect choices. There was no strategy here, and it was freeing—soothing, even as it excited every nerve ending until every brush against her skin felt positively wanton. His breath ghosting over her had tension sparking deep inside again.
“Oh, not yet, firecracker,” he breathed against her belly.
“I need—”
“I know what you need.”
“Only because you are withholding it from me,” she grumbled.
“Poor firecracker,” he said with false sympathy and a smile that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “Are you suffering?”
She raked her fingers through his hair and tightened her hold. “Yes.”
His eyes flared, as green as the dancing lights in the north that she had only read about. She twisted slightly, pulling his hair. His breath caught, low and harsh. Like music. She understood now why he wanted to claim all of the noises she made.
He surged up, catching her off her feet. She squeaked, and he spun her around, laying her gently in the chair. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you not to taunt the Devil?”
She couldn’t answer. His mouth was already on her and he was feasting with obscene sounds that proved he wanted to be nowhere else. He wedged his broad shoulders between her knees, widening her for his pleasure. She was already half mad with her own pleasure. He sucked and licked at her until she was squirming and gasping, trying to get away, trying to get closer. He slipped two fingers into her glistening heat, rolling her bud into his warm mouth. She jerked—too many sensations, too much tension building. “Not yet,” he said. “I could do this all night.”
“Please,” she babbled. “Please, please .”
“I suppose,” he finally relented. “Since you asked so nicely.” He did not alter the pattern of his ministrations, only went deeper, sucked harder. “Now,” he growled. “Come now .”
Her climax finally slipped its leash and bore down on her, all soft silk and teeth. It was almost too much, just this side of pain, demanding everything from her. She keened . There was no other word for it. And then she went limp, blinking. There was such luxury to this kind of exhaustion.
“I think I’m seeing stars,” she murmured.
“Good.” Rhys shrugged out of his dressing gown and used it to wipe his face, before tossing it away. His cheekbones were flushed. The rest of him was gloriously naked as he knelt before her—muscles shifting, an intriguing line that cut from his hip and lower, one she wanted to bite. He thickened as she watched, cock growing even harder, the tip engorged and glistening. For her. She scraped her nails lightly down his chest. She wanted to purr. Actually purr.
“Your turn to stand up,” she ordered him.
He rose slowly, as if he were doing her a favor by obeying. This man. She wanted to grin, even as her quim pulsed at the way he looked down at her. As if she were beautiful; as if he might die if she didn’t take him in her hand or in her mouth. She had to clench her legs together. She stroked him lightly, once, twice, then bent her head to explore, first with a kiss, then by licking the length of him. He shuddered. She glanced up at him through her lashes, and he groaned. “I’ve never done this before,” she admitted. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me,” he assured her, even as he sounded like he was in pain. She gathered it was the good kind, the kind that tickled and teased. “Do what feels right, firecracker. What feels good. I can guarantee it will also feel goo—” he broke off with a gasp because she had taken his words to heart and closed her mouth around his cock. “Jesus,” he growled.
She swirled her tongue around him as she tried to suck him deeper.
“Jesus,” he said again. “You feel fucking perfect.”
She did feel rather perfect, like a queen, even though she was on her knees. He tasted clean and warm, faintly of salt. She licked and sucked until her cheeks hollowed and her jaw ached in the best way. She used her hands after that, gripping him hard even as she licked the tip of his cock almost delicately. His thighs tensed. They were so thick, so strong. And shaking. She smiled around him.
“You are the only devil here,” Rhys said, pulling free of her, only to press her back into the thick rug, The soft light of the oil lamps cocooned them, glinting off the gilded titles of the books, the swirls of a sunset painted behind tree branches on the ceiling. Of course it would be in a library surrounded by books. The rightness of it had her reaching for him as her thighs opened and he surged between them.
He entered her slowly, teasing again, but with a darker, sweeter edge of passion. She arched to meet every thrust, demanding more. She tightened around him too soon, intimate muscles fluttering as her pleasure crested again. And again. He panted roughly in her ear and his hips stuttered. He pulled out and spent himself into his dressing gown crumpled beside her, his tendons and muscles straining, teeth bared.
He finally turned his head and kissed her, sweat gleaming on his shoulders. He lowered himself and pulled her on top of him. “The floor is hard,” he muttered.
She snuggled into him, comfortable and happy even as worry began to nibble at her. What if—
“Kitty.” Rhys said her name both sternly and fondly, and she loved it. He gently ran his fingers through her tangled hair. It was soothing. “The worries will be there tomorrow.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You are a loud thinker.” He continued to stroke her hair, wrapping his other arm tighter around her. “Rest now, firecracker.”
Dawn found Devil in his study, examining a package with sapphire earrings, a collar of more sapphires with diamonds, and a tiara fit for a queen. They sparkled under the light of the candle on his desk.
He intended to see Kitty wearing them.
Nothing but them.
Just as soon as he could convince her to accept them. She was skittish, mule headed.
Perfect.
He’d never had to convince anyone to accept gifts before. To beg to let him spoil them. Because he was going to pamper her, however covertly he had to do it. It was a primal need. A demand inside his blood and bones.
Protect. Pamper .
Keep.
Whatever that means.
He’d have better luck intimidating the stars from the sky.
He loved that about her too, damn it—her strength, her determination. The freckles on her lower back. The way she moaned. Tasted.
It was too damn early to be this hard. To know she was upstairs right now, soft and warm in her bed. But she needed rest, despite what she might have to say on the matter. She needed care.
Stealing from her house was such a good decision that he was only sorry he had not done so before. She was at war with the world with no one at her back. No more. Not ever again.
At the knock at the study door, he tucked the jewelry away. “Come.”
It wasn’t Kitty, unfortunately.
“Shipment was taken again,” Macleod said. “Bastards stole it barely ten feet from the docks.”
“Which one?” Devil asked.
“The bourbon from America.” Macleod narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look upset.”
“Do I ever?”
“Your left eye twitches.”
Devil leaned back in his chair. “The bourbon was delivered to Yelena’s house. You can have it picked up and taken to the Sins. The gin coming in from Holland will go to Soho Square and the chocolate goes to the modiste on Oxford Street. Knock twice at the back door or she’ll set her dog on you.”
“You cagey bastard.”
Devil shrugged. “Sabotage is boring. And Portsmouth doesn’t get to talk about the Sins, never mind get in the way.” He smiled, and it was his smile from the Continent. “And you might want to tell the nearest magistrate that he just received a trunk of smuggled wine. He can’t afford the tax, seeing as he owes me a fortune. How embarrassing for him.”
“I don’t recall a debt.”
“Neither will he, but who will believe him?”
“A hit to his reputation and sense of power will hurt more than any monetary debt.” Macleod whistled. “You did always tell us to know the enemy better than they know themselves.”
“I know he’s hiding something,” Devil said. “Three dead wives is a lot even for his cronies to overlook. Something else is going on. He’s an earl, not a duke or a prince.”
“We’ll get our man. We always do.”
Devil thought of Kitty.
“Damn right we will.”