It was more like a rite. A swiftly intensifying, carnal ritual. One blessed by witches who would have burned once upon a time. As she was burning now, immolating as he thrust pure liquid heat into her with increasing brutality.
She pulled away from his arms, not because she wanted space but because she wanted to see what gathered between them. Because that celestial tide of pleasure was threatening to separate her from herself once again, and she had to make sure this time she was not alone.
That he came with her.
Come. This is why it was referred to as coming. Because no one quite stayed where they were, inside of themselves, inside of each other.
They came, and went, somewhere else entirely.
She looked up at him and instantly noticed that he was closer to that place, that he was afraid he’d leave without her.
His features were a mask of exquisite torment, more beautiful than any piece of art she’d ever seen. She gasped up at him with every motion, as he thrust her into the ground. Her legs widened, strained. Her body seized, and he barked out a harsh sound.
He reached between them and with three magical strokes of his finger, he brought the pleasure crashing into her and sent them both careening into the night.
They came together.
Locked in some paroxysm of bliss that might have looked like a contortion of pain. Neither of them seemed capable of sound, only straining, taut and impossible motion.
Her entire body pulsed around long, liquid warmth he buried deep into her womb, and God if that didn’t heighten the entire experience.
She returned to herself before he did, it seemed, her body slackening to the earth as his still thrummed with spasms of pleasure. It seemed to drop him suddenly, and he collapsed over her. Not with his full weight, but with a delicious heaviness that compressed her into a puddle of pleasant affection.
He rooted around in the pool of ruined ringlets at the nape of her neck, breathing deeply, pressing reverent kisses to the sensitive skin. She fought the shrugging giggle as long as she could, but alas her ticklish neck broke the moment.
He rolled to the side, sliding away and arranging himself back into his trousers before she had the presence of mind to peek.
A consummate professional, he was.
They lay next to each other beneath the stars for an eternity, or maybe only a moment. Their breaths synchronized as they deepened and slowed.
A drowsy sense of satisfaction stole over her limbs, and Prudence was the first to roll to her side, acutely aware of the slick aftermath left against her thighs.
He was still far away, she realized. Somewhere in the night above them, unable to return back to the troubles of life below.
She understood a little, she thought. Morning would bring no pleasure to her, especially not after trust had been broken by those she’d once considered closest to her. But her sadness felt like a phantom next to what sort of bleak emotion settled on his features, and she thought to dispel it with a compliment.
“Whatever you charge, sir, it’s not enough.” She sighed contentedly. “You are a master of your craft.”
“Never enough…” he murmured, his eyes still somewhat unfocused, his chest still struggling a bit for breath.
It made sense, she thought, he’d done all the work. She’d just lain there and enjoyed herself.
Feeling at a loss herself, she pushed herself up on her hip like a depiction of a mermaid, legs stretched out to the side. How did one conclude such an interaction? And why didn’t she want to?
It wasn’t an interaction, was it? But a transaction.
And yet she felt an odd sense of attachment to him now. Was this normal? She could ask, but something told her the question would drive him away.
“Are you cold?” She gathered his coat from beneath her and did her best to brush off errant blades of grass.
He finally glanced over at her, then at his jacket, as if seeing it for the first time. “No. But thank you.” He sat up and took it from her, donning it deliberately. “Are you all right?” He asked the question as if he dreaded the answer, but his features didn’t at all convey what his voice had.
She wished she could identify his expression, but it was a certain kind of inaccessible. Pleasant, but arch. Remote, but attentive. Intense, but polite.
Very carefully so. As if he was suddenly wary or mistrustful of her.
Had she done something wrong?
“Never better.” She summoned her most dazzling smile, wishing she had the strength to open her lids past half-mast. That she didn’t suddenly want to cry, not because she was sad, but because something powerful had just happened and her emotions hadn’t been prepared for it.
“Do you ever—that is—do you care about the women with whom you’ve spent the night?” she ventured. “Romantically, I mean?”
His gaze flicked away from her, and he stared at the gate, as if hoping the exit would draw closer.
“I don’t allow myself the luxury of romance,” he answered, and Pru believed she’d never heard anything more honest. Or more depressing.
“Do you ever want to, in spite of yourself?” She was a sentimental fool, but something within her burned to know.
He shook his head adamantly. “Terrible things happen to those I care about.”
His answer piqued both her curiosity and her compassion, but he stood before she could reply, and reached down to help her up.
He lifted her with such surprising strength. He was neither overly tall nor was he more than elegantly wide. But rather superbly fit, his every inch hardened with well-used muscle.
She’d first-rate knowledge of that.
“Is it gauche of me to express gratitude?” she asked. “Other than remuneration, that is.”
His face softened and the glaciers of his eyes melted behind his mask, his gaze touched every part of her face. “Is your coach nearby? How are you getting home?”
“I’ll manage, thank you.” A part of her deflated. Of course, he was gently telling her it was time to go. Bless him, for keeping up at least the appearance of concern. “What are you called?”
A sad smile touched his lips as he lifted a lock of her hair that’d escaped its coiffure. He tucked it back in place, smoothing it down with such a tender motion, her throat ached. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just a shadow.”
Bending down, he retrieved her drawers from where they lay discarded by the fountain and turned to give her privacy. She turned as well, bending to step into them.
“But what if I—” She almost toppled when trying to step into the second leg of the garment and had to steady herself before going on. “What if I’d like to find you again?”
“You won’t, I’m afraid.”
She drew her underthings up over her stockings and garters. Glad that they’d absorb the dampness that lingered there, until she was able to return home. Wriggling into them, she dropped her skirts and petticoats and smoothed them down her thighs.
Thighs that had just been spread for him. For the man who didn’t want to tell her his name.
She whirled back around. “I’m Pru—”
He was already gone.
Chapter 4
Three Months Later
“Congratulations, Morley, you’re famous!” Millie LeCour lowered the periodical she read from across the carriage and wriggled dark brows at him. “They’re calling you the Knight of Shadows.” She leaned deeper into Detective Inspector Christopher Argent’s side so she could show him what she read. “Sufficiently ominous, don’t you think, darling?”