Chapter 15 #3
The room was set up much as he remembered the salle céladon: large bed in the center and a low chest of drawers along the left-hand wall, only with walls of garish scarlet rather than jade green.
The wall opposite the chest of drawers was painted with a salacious mural.
There would be at least one peephole concealed somewhere within it.
Several stands of candles provided plenty of illumination should anyone wish to observe the activities in the room.
It could be that no one was behind that wall. It could be someone neutral, a patron seeking his or her own voyeuristic pleasure. Or it could be Dubois or one of his minions. The consequences of that last scenario . . . His pulse leapt.
How to play this situation without raising suspicion, asking the least of Isobel?
He’d warned her of the activities that took place in Le Repaire, of what she might observe or hear, but her active participation was entirely different.
Yet if they did nothing, if a single indiscreet word passed between them, it was entirely possible it would be observed—and reported.
He crossed to the chest of drawers. Nothing in the topmost drawer of use in setting this scene. Or rather, nothing he had any intention of using. Still, best to make a show of looking before closing the drawer.
If they moved towards the chiffonier . . . Aye, that just might work. He turned back towards Isobel.
She looped her arms around his neck. Fine tremors betrayed her nerves. “I will do whatever you wish,” she murmured against his throat. The words of a lover, but in this scenario, far from it—she meant only she would follow his lead.
He caught her chin, tilting her head sideways. “This act need only look real,” he whispered against her ear on the pretext of kissing it. Her hair smelled of citrus and flowers as it had last night, an inane detail to note at this moment and not especially helpful given what it recalled.
She took a step backwards and stripped off her gloves, finger by finger, holding his eyes. “What is your pleasure, mon amour?” she asked in a clear voice.
“Fucking you on the chiffonier.”
“As you like.” She drifted towards it and shot him a look over her shoulder that sent a charge through him.
He followed. Turned her to face him, lifting her atop the chest of drawers.
Her arms came around him as he pulled her hips forward so that she perched at the very edge.
Her legs fell to either side of his waist; he grasped her skirts to raise them nearly to her waist before kissing his way down her neck.
Almost silently, mouth on her collarbone: “He doesn’t trust us.”
Her hands slid into his hair. “Yes. A test.” Her breath was warm against his ear.
He gripped the undersides of her thighs, fitting her against him. “Aye.” Possibly. Probably.
She slid fingers to cup his nape, her lips on his cheek. “There is danger?” Her hands, back in his hair, threaded through the strands to cradle his head.
He shifted his hips against her. “Aye.” Perhaps not tonight but tomorrow during the private meeting, after Dubois had time to prepare for his presence.
Hers too.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “And—” But she was canny enough to say nothing more.
He wished he could offer her words of comfort, but it was impossible; there was nothing of substance he could say presently with conversation so constrained. He took her face between his hands and kissed her fiercely, deeply, trying to will confidence into her.
She returned the kiss, mouth hot and wet under his. Her hands undid his waistcoat’s buttons and pushed it from his shoulders. She tilted her face to the side so that he might kiss her throat.
For appearances. Only for appearances.
His hands left her for a moment to attend his trousers, but she nudged his fingers aside, efficiently slipping loose the buttons herself. The expectation of a kept woman.
Or the prerogative of a lover.
For the barest moment, she hesitated before pushing his trousers to mid-thigh.
He grasped her calves, drawing her legs upwards. “Legs around my waist.” The growl could have been either voice. Beaumont’s. His. There was precious little difference right now.
Her knees pressed inwards against his ribs as her ankles fitted behind him.
This might kill him. There was no barrier as he rocked his hips forward, nothing but his cock sliding along her thigh. Rock-hard, goddamn his black soul, despite the circumstances.
Her hands beneath his shirt were hot against his skin, sliding over muscle, seeking a tighter grip on him.
He’d killed more men than he could count as both soldier and agent, men whose eyes he’d seen. Whatever personal code of morality that remained his after a dozen years had become stretched very thin.
But it was this, surely, for which he was damned to hell. He wouldn’t do it; it was one moral line he would not cross—
But he wanted to have her in truth, to fuck her here and now, eyes on them be damned.
Another forward thrust, harder yet. Too far this time; the head of his cock grazed her center. Christ.
She made a noise low in her throat.
Inadvertent, truly. “Sorry,” he gritted out.
Her knees tightened around him. “Don’t be,” she whispered, lips against his throat. “I did invite you to do your worst.”