His palm cupped her breasts. And a sound she’d never ever made in her life, ‘something in pain—something in bliss’, curled out of her.
“Do you want a taste, little bird?” His hand squeezed oh so soft, his nail scratching across the fabric over her nipple making the need pool deep between her legs. “Do you want to fly in that sky of flames?”
She wouldn’t say it, pushed instead on his chest which didn’t move, only bringing on more growled Russian that sounded like the rumble of thunder that promised the relief of rain in a tension filled sky.
His hand slid slowly, achingly, down her side.
Over her hip. Her fingers curled tighter in his jacket. Her breath now coming in short pants against his lips.
That hand slid down the top of her thigh.
Then, heaven help her, over her mons cupping her sex through the suddenly bothersome layers of clothes.
Her core throbbed, pulsed like her heart had fallen from her chest and now resided between the lips of her sex.
He pressed his palm against her. Pressed firmly and moved his fingers so they drew circles over a deliciously sensitive spot. A spot that made her clutch at him like he would save her from the flames that licked between her legs as surely as the ‘special kiss’ she coveted but had never had.
His eyes bored into hers, intense, seeing so deep into her she felt naked.
“Vladimir…”
His hand moved firmer, faster and she drew in a ragged breath.
“Ilya,” he growled. “My name is Ilya.”
His fingers circled against her, his body pressing hers against the wall, eyes so intense in the raw need they held that her legs weakened.
“Ilya.” She clutched at him, her fingers holding so tight onto his jacket. “Ilya. The sky is falling.”
Her world burst into nothing but pleasure, pleasure that washed through her whole body and took her mind away. It was as if the heavens burst open and released the freshest sweetest rain dousing the flames of sunset in an explosion of steam that hid everything from sight in its scorching heat.
She floated.
Her body went limp.
She had to close her eyes.
Needed...a moment.
“I have you little bird.” He whispered, then kissed her, oh so soft, so gentle that heat pricked her eyes.
His arms and the wall were the only things keeping her from crumpling into a pile of ashes on the floor.
Her Russian murmured words, muttered things she didn’t understand but made the center of her chest glow. He kissed her eyes, her nose, her cheek.
Were all rakes so gentle?
Did they all make you feel like the most precious thing in their world?
Or had he simply read her well? Saw what she had never tasted and lured her with it? The soft gentleness she had never experienced from a lover and longed for.
Most likely.
Most likely that was what he always did.
The thoughts sliced into her. They shouldn’t. She knew the kind of man she dallied with. Yet every part of her wanted something so beautiful to be real. Even if it wasn’t.
As clarity returned, her words, the ridiculous lines of poetry like some babbling half-wit chased her with shame. He would laugh to himself about that, she was sure. A woman who threw out fragments of poems as he made her come.
His lips touched hers. “Welcome back. I think your wings are singed.” He muttered and she could tell he smiled. Those devastating lips touched hers again. Moved in that alluring gentle yet firm way.
She kept her lips still. It hurt, it ripped through her like an inner wail, but she opened her eyes and took that step, moved sideways and out from under those devil lips.
He moved so he still faced her.
They both breathed in irregular breaths.
She averted her head.
“Little bird.” His hand turned her chin, so she faced him.
“I am not a little bird.” She scowled, feeling far too vulnerable, and stepped out of his touch.
“Seraphina, there is nothing to be shy about. No shame in what we just did.”
She took another step away.
Around her the world was not quite as she’d left it. It was suddenly more vibrant, more real than real. The burgundy wallpaper flocked with velvet appeared as if the flocking were the softest finest moss. The burnished hue of the gas lamps shone more golden; their glow transforming dust motes into pure gold suspended in the air.
And him.
Ilya stood, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. She could no longer simply see him—she felt him. She didn’t just see his lips—she tasted them, his chest was a sensation on her palms, hard, strong, and warm. His fingers, oh god, his fingers were ghosts over her sex.
“Seraphina…” The sound of her name from those remarkable lips was a Russian purr.
Seph waved a hand as if the last few moments were nothing. As if what they’d just done was ordinary, a slip that wouldn’t happen again. As if it wasn’t the most glorious thing her body had experienced with another person. As if it wasn’t the closest thing she’d ever tasted to pure bliss. As if she wouldn’t write about it for the rest of her life.
His eyes were dark pools of ink in his face and his hands curled in tight fists by his side. She felt rather than saw him hold himself back from stepping forward, from reaching out to draw her close. Her body cried for him to do it, even as her mind forced her to take another step back out of reach.
From behind, a familiar hand clasped her arm. “You shouldn’t have come back here.”
Marsden. His voice sounded stiff; the words short. He was not happy.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, half turning, half not, her gaze locked with Ilya’s like keeping an eye on a dangerous animal as she made her retreat.
“Nonsense.” Marsden’s voice was tight. “Your curiosity will get you in big trouble one of these days!”
It already had.
The men stared at each other.
“You shouldn’t have brought her.” The Russian…Ilya said.
“I go where I please,” she piped up and was ignored.
“It’s none of your concern.” Marsden growled back at Ilya and drew her away.
Chapter 4
Marsden tucked her russet cape around her and in moments they were through a side entrance, stepping outside into the chill of the night air. Marsden’s carriage waited, horses moving restlessly on the cobbled stones, the driver blowing on his gloved hands before seeing them and jumping down to open the carriage door. She bet this was where it always waited, that Marsden more often than not left the establishment from this side door after visiting one of the rooms.
She had never envied him more.
He looked left and right then ushered her across the lane, opened the carriage door handing her inside.
“Did he touch you?” Marsden growled as he climbed into the carriage and sat on the bench opposite her. The driver closed the carriage door and, in a few moments,, the sound of his voice filtered through the carriage as he sounded the horses to start. The carriage lurched forward, then quickly settled into a steady rhythm as it started the trip home.
Seph wasn’t sure how to answer and the silence made him swear.
“I’ll deal with him,” he said.
“No.” How did you ethically deal with a man she had clutched against and begged for release?