Aye, as he’d done to hers. And she’d never recover. “Then we’re even, Malcom North,” she panted out between each lash of his lips on hers. God help her, she didn’t want to recover from this upside-down world.
And there would be time enough to panic about her need for this man. But for now, there was only them. For now, she wanted it to be only them.
Verity parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside to taste her as he’d done twice before. “I’ve dreamed of doing this every moment since our last kiss.”
“Then our dreams are aligned, tooooo.” The remainder of that broke down into a moan as he nipped and teased the corner of her mouth.
“You taste of chocolate and mint and honey.”
They dueled with their tongues.
“Is that a g-good thing?” she asked when he moved his lips down the curve of her neck.
The depth of desire in his eyes touched her to the quick, hot, like a physical caress. “Aye. It’s an all-intoxicating sweetness I’ve never known in any way, Verity Lovelace.”
Verity Lovelace.
I want to be joined with him. In every way.
Thrusting aside those regretful musings, not allowing this moment to descend into what she truly longed for and what would never be, she kissed him again. Their tongues lashed against one another, an erotic dance with no predefined rules or movements.
And then he broke away from her.
Verity cried out. “What? Why . . . ? Why did you stop?”
He wanted her. He wanted her as he’d never hungered for another. And yet he could not simply take the gift she held out. Even as he yearned to. Even as he resented this belated discovery that she’d, in fact, been correct; there was a shred of honor that lived within his worthless soul, after all. Panting, Malcom pulled away, a concerted effort that took every bit of self-control he’d fought to master through the years.
Her lashes, thick and heavy, fluttered up, revealing the question in her eyes a moment before it spilled from her lips in a single hoarse utterance: “Why?”
“I don’t want this as payment.” He managed to force that admission between sharp gasps for breath.
Some of the desire receded from her eyes, and she leaned up, straightening from her haunches. “Is that why you believe I’m doing this? To pay you for the gifts you’ve given me?”
He winced. “No. Aye.” Malcom dragged a hand through his hair, unloosening his queue. Everything was upside down. “I don’t know,” he confessed. He knew only that he wanted her. That he wanted her to want him. But that never would he have her in any way but one that was of her own choosing, one that came from a place of only desire—for him.
“Oh, Malcom,” she whispered, and then leaning up once more, she touched her lips to the corner of his—first one and then the other. A butterfly-soft caress that weighted his eyes shut. “This is me making love with you because I want to, Malcom.” The lilting timbre of her voice emerged like a seductive song, and it sent a fresh wave of desire thrumming through his veins. “I’m a woman and I know what I want.” Desire darkened her eyes. “I want you.”
And with that, he was lost.
Or mayhap, he’d been found.
Mayhap he’d truly been found the day he’d discovered her in the sewers of London . . . and his life would never be the same.
Groaning, Malcom worked his lips down her neck. He flicked his tongue out, teasing the flesh, until breathless moans spilled from her; his shaft went impossibly hard at the unrestrained evidence of her desire. “You are so beautiful, Verity,” he said between each kiss on her satiny-soft skin.
“You. Are. Too.” She gasped those three words out, wringing a smile from him. He brought his hands up between them, cupping her supple breasts. “Y-you are.” She panted, her head falling back, allowing him better access. “I th-thought it the first . . . mmm”—her speech dissolved into an incoherent, keening cry as he lowered her neckline and swooped down to worship the creamy swells of her breasts—“time I saw you,” she said, her words running together on a rush. As if she’d never draw proper breath to speak a proper sentence, but needed him to know those truths.
He was on fire, set ablaze by her yearning. Sweat beaded along his brow; it trickled down his cheek, and Verity lifted fingers that shook to brush that perspiration away.
Their gazes held; in her violet depths was reflected back all the desire singing through him. Not breaking contact with her gaze, Malcom undid the handful of buttons on his jacket, and shrugged out of it. He reached for his shirttails the same moment Verity did. Together, they divested him of the lawn article.
Her lips, swollen and damp from his ministrations, parted as she eyed him.
He stiffened, seeing the same scarred canvas littered with the marks left by daggers and injuries he’d sustained dwelling underground in London.
Verity stroked her fingertips over the jagged scar alongside his navel. He tensed, but then she bent down and touched her lips to him.
“So beautiful,” she whispered between each caress of her mouth on him.
Malcom released a hiss through tightly clenched teeth, fisting his hands at his sides.
It had never been like this with a woman. Tender and slow, and yet also burning and frantic. Sex had been nothing more than a physical act, a satiation of his lust that brought an all-too-brief, mindless release from the hell that was life.
With Verity, it was . . . more.
Because she was more than he’d ever dared believe himself worthy of.
She drifted her trail of kisses lower, grazing the top of the waistline of his trousers, where a scar started.
It was too much.
He groaned, low, deep, and guttural, the sound lodging in his throat.
Drawing her up, Malcom took her mouth under his once more, and set to work on the tiny buttons down the length of her dress. In between each frantic meeting of their lips, he spoke. “Why are there so many damned buttons?”
“I like them,” she said breathlessly, her voice ragged like the night of their first meeting, when she’d run, frantic, through London at his side. “Th-they’re v-very delicate.”
He wrenched at the buttons down the front of her dress, and the fastenings gave with a pop. And then pinged and hopped along the floor, bouncing on the table, all around them. The gaping fabric revealed her chemise underneath. Malcom and Verity ceased moving; their chests rose and fell hard and fast in a matched rhythm. “I’ll buy you more.”
“You needn’t—”
He swallowed those protestations with another kiss and then guided her back down.
Verity stretched her arms up, reaching for him, and lowering himself, he braced his weight on his elbows.
Then, bending his head, he drew the tip of her right breast into his mouth, and suckled that pebbled, pale-brown nipple.
Verity groaned, long and low, and let her legs splay wide.
His shaft jumped, all the blood rushing to that throbbing flesh.
Malcom pulled back once more, and Verity cried out, scrabbling for him.
But he was merely shucking off his boots, and then his trousers. And as he bared himself before her in all his scarred imperfection, Verity reclined on her elbows and simply watched him.
In her eyes, there was no pity or revulsion. Or even the sick fascination he’d encountered in the past liaisons he’d had in his life.