DefeatedbyLove (13 page)

“Fuck me,” she whispered. He liked that, she could tell. He’d
liked it when she’d used that word before. She’d do anything to get him inside
her right now. She was shocked and dismayed at her own behavior, but this was
her last chance to have someone like him. She wouldn’t waste it.

Simon knew right down to the marrow of his bones that he
would regret this later. But she was on fire for him, so desperate and needy
and, God, he loved his women like that. When she’d come on his hand, her little
cunt greedily holding his fingers tight like a silken vise, he’d nearly come.
He was that hard for her. He didn’t know what it was about her. She was
innocent, but not; ruined, but not; married, but not. She was all contradiction
and hot, wet, tight cunt and that was a combination he couldn’t—wouldn’t—resist.

She sat up and ran her hands across his stomach and up to
his chest, and then she kissed the ridge of his cock behind his trousers.
“Christy,” he groaned. “What are you doing?”

“I can take it in my mouth if you’d rather,” she offered,
the look she gave him so desperate to please. “I’ll do whatever you like.”

He grabbed the back of her head, her dark hair so artfully
arranged a few minutes ago falling in disarray around his hand and down her
neck. “Did he make you do that?” he ground out, wishing he knew where that
coward Jonas was right this minute. After he gave Christy what she needed, he’d
go and find him and gut him.

She nodded. “He liked it. Wanted it, especially after
I…started to show.” She blushed and tried to push her dress down to cover her
stomach.

“Don’t,” he ordered her. His voice was harsher than he liked
and he cursed when her eyes grew wide and wary. “I’m sorry,” he said
immediately. “I just meant you don’t have to hide that from me. You’re
beautiful, Christy, just the way you are.” He pushed her down to lie on the
sofa and then he leaned over and kissed her stomach. She quivered beneath him
and he was reminded of a high-strung horse ready to run at the first cross
word.

“Simon,” she said on a breathy sigh. His cock jerked for
attention but he ignored it. This was for Christy. Of course, he was going to
immensely enjoy giving it to her, but that wasn’t the point. He maneuvered
himself so that he was half on and half off the sofa, the perfect angle to lick
and suck her sex. He loved to do that to a woman. He loved to do it to a man
too, but all he could think of right now was Christy and how sweet she was
going to taste.

When he put his mouth on her she gasped and her hands flew
up to the sofa arm again. He liked that. Liked that it looked as if she were
bound there, forced to take whatever pleasure he wanted to give her. If he had
more time, he’d do that. A sharp stab of regret—sadness, emptiness perhaps—tore
through him at the thought of how little time they had now. Would Harry take
her away? It would be best. It would.

He moaned against her, his mouth drowning in her cream,
lapping it up as he savored the plump, tender lips beneath his. He’d heard that
pregnant women were far more sensitive here, and it seemed to be true. How
ironic that they were made to be fucked when they were already full. Perhaps it
was to balance out the less than pleasurable aspects of pregnancy. When he
slipped a finger inside her again she broke beneath his mouth, her cunt
clenching on him again. She was exquisite, perfect. That she could come again
so soon was a glorious surprise.

She was crying out his name quietly, in a choked voice,
trembling beneath him, begging him not to stop. Did she know what she was
saying? Then she said it again, the one thing that drove him mad for her.

“Fuck me,” she whimpered. “Please, Simon, please, God, fuck
me,” she begged.

He pulled back and sat up. The sight of her had him
scrambling between her legs and yanking open his trousers. She was lying there,
one breast still hanging out of her dress, her skirts pulled up, her
bright-pink swollen cunt on display, the thatch of dark hair surrounding it
glistening with her cream, one arm thrown over her head—the very picture of
decadence and depravity. He wanted to fuck her more than he had ever wanted to
fuck someone before.

When he shoved his trousers down on his hips and pulled his
cock out she moaned. She was looking at it so hungrily he fought the urge to
climb up and push it into her mouth. He didn’t think she’d protest. But when she
pulled her skirts farther out of the way and spread her legs wider, he knew her
mouth was not where his cock was headed. She thrust her hips up at him. “Now,”
she begged.

“Gladly,” he said. He grabbed her hips and guided his cock
to her opening. The first touch of his tip to her hot flesh had him hissing in
pleasurable agony. He was never going to last in there. She thrust again, and
it drove him into her only about an inch, but they both cried out. She was
going wild beneath him, seeking his cock and he had to bite his lip to maintain
control. Slowly he eased inside her, choking back his own cries at how
marvelous she felt. He’d never been in a woman so snug and hot and perfect.

He wanted to take his time and savor it. To make it the most
memorable fuck of her life. To finally give her what she so richly deserved.
Instead he fucked her like a man possessed, in and out in a rough, untempered
way, too rough surely for a delicate woman like her in her condition. But she
didn’t protest. Instead she moaned and fucked him back as wildly, her fingers
gripping the sofa arm so tightly he thought she might break it. She threw her
head back and her hand flew to her mouth. She bit down on the pad of her thumb
and convulsed under him.

“Damn, Christy,” he moaned. “You come like no one I’ve ever
been with. So bloody gorgeous.” Her cunt was clamped on his cock so hard he saw
stars. He tried to hold back his climax but couldn’t. It was too much. With a
hoarse shout he yanked on her hips, buried his prick to the hilt and came. As
his cock jerked inside her he felt her throbbing around him, still coming as he
filled her.

He barely held himself up with a hand braced on the back of
the sofa when he was done. They were both breathing heavily and for several
moments neither spoke. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out of her. Finally
she said what he’d been thinking.

“This can never be enough,” she said breathlessly. “How can
I leave now?”

“Harry is back.”

Barnabas looked up from the paperwork on his desk. It was
amazing how much paperwork clandestine activities on British soil required. “I
know,” he said and then went back to reading.

“Just once I’d like you to be less taciturn and secretive,”
Daniel whined, throwing himself down in the chair opposite Barnabas. “Can’t you
throw a tantrum or act surprised?”

“I could, but I choose not to. It isn’t good for the
digestion,” Barnabas drawled as he scratched his name at the bottom of the
paper and added it to a pile on his right. “Tell me the rest and I’ll decide
whether or not to make a cake of myself over it.”

Against his will Daniel chuckled. “That would be the day,”
he said. “’Sir Barnabas James Makes a Cake of Himself’. I can see
The Times
headline now.”

“
The Times
is not allowed to print my name except
with the express permission of the Home Office,” Barnabas said.

“Which is you,” Daniel added.

“Indeed. And you are stalling. If you’re afraid to tell me
that he’s staying at your house, I already know that, too. Did you enjoy the
shopping excursion?” He looked up and smiled smugly.

“You are evil incarnate,” Daniel said, disgusted. He looked
it too, in his customary all black. “Do you know every minute of my life as it
is happening or is there a small lag time of knowledge?”

“It often takes a few minutes for the information to arrive
by courier,” he said unapologetically. “Quite honestly, I usually don’t pay
much attention to them. But they’ve gotten more interesting of late.”

“You do this just to annoy me.” Daniel tapped his fingers on
the arm of his chair.

“No, I do it in case I have to get you released from jail
after one of your ill-advised trips to St. Giles,” Barnabas said. “I don’t
relish your name in
The Times
, either. You carry too much privileged
information in that head of yours, and your wartime activities were murky at
best.”

Daniel was actually relieved it was business and not
personal affairs that caused Barnabas to keep such a close eye on him, but it
was still disconcerting to discover he knew about St. Giles. “So you worry
about my neck to protect yourself?” he said. “That’s counterproductive. If they
wring my neck, your secrets are safe.”

“I considered that option,” Barnabas said smoothly. “There
was still a danger that questions would be asked. So I decided against it.”

“Liar,” Daniel said softly.

“A very good one,” Barnabas said with that half-smile of
his. “Why are you here, Daniel?” he asked, setting his pen down and leaning
back in his chair. He folded his hands over his stomach. “It isn’t like you to
pay me a visit.”

“Don’t you want me here?” Daniel asked, standing and
wandering over to Barnabas’ side of the desk. He leaned his bottom on the edge
next to Barnabas and leafed through a book sitting there, not noticing the
title or contents at all. “Will too many questions be asked?”

Barnabas sat there staring at him for a minute, and Daniel
couldn’t tell what was running through his mind. Finally he said, “Of course
they will. But I control the questions asked here and can easily stifle them.”

Daniel laughed. “I don’t think I would like wielding that
much power.”

“It has its uses,” Barnabas said. There was that little
smile again.

Daniel sighed. “Harry says you had nothing to do with his
return.”

“He’s right.” Barnabas picked up his pen again and tapped in
on his desk. “I wish I could say differently, believe me. But apparently the
little bastard decided to come back all on his own.”

“Was that emotion from the ever stoic Sir Barnabas?” Daniel
reared back in mock surprise.

“Yes. I thought you deserved something after making the trip
to see me. Also, I really don’t like him.”

He made Daniel laugh again, even though he didn’t feel like
laughing at all. “I didn’t think I did, either.” The confession made him feel
slightly better.

“Ah,” Barnabas said. “Like that, is it? Memories are a
powerful thing.” He didn’t sound upset at all.

“They are.” Daniel rose and went to the window. It was
nearly dusk. “He’s changed, whether for the better or not I don’t know. He’s
led a rather adventurous life.”

“So have you.”

“Not lately.” Daniel turned then and leaned against the
windowsill. “What should I do?” It was the question that had driven him here.
He desperately wanted Barnabas to make the decision for him. Let him take
charge.

“About what?” he asked. He leaned back over the desk and
pulled a paper from the pile on the left and started scanning it. He scratched
his initials on it, placed it on the right and picked up another one from the
left. He had a system.

“About Harry,” Daniel said, but he knew it was futile.
Barnabas wasn’t going to help him. He knew, and so did Daniel, that this was
his decision to make.

“I daresay you’ll do whatever you want to, regardless of my
advice,” Barnabas said, clearly distracted by the paper in front of him.
“Therefore it would be a waste of time to give it.”

Daniel crossed his arms and glared at Barnabas’ back. “This
is why I refuse to enter into an exclusive relationship with you,” he accused.

Barnabas turned and regarded him wryly. “Ashbury? Yes, I
know.”

“No,” Daniel said, pushing away from the window and stalking
to the office door. “You’re inability to pay more attention to me than to your
work for five full minutes.”

“Nonsense,” Barnabas scoffed. “I pride myself on taking at
least twenty minutes without interruption when I fuck you. And you did come to
my office, after all. What else am I to do here but work?”

“Good God,” Daniel said with dawning horror. “Do you order
your agents to leave us alone for at least twenty minutes?”

“Yes.” He said it so plainly and without emotion or
inflection Daniel’s ire replaced his embarrassment.

“I see,” he snapped. “Well, you don’t need to bother next
time. It only takes me a second or two to say no.”

Barnabas leaned back in his chair and regarded Daniel with a
smug expression. “You never say no.”

“I’m trying new things,” he said, yanking open the door. “No
seems a very good place to start.” He shut the door firmly and the lock made a
satisfying
clank
as it slid into place.

Harry sat staring out the window into the dark night. The
house was quiet. Everyone else was sleeping, he supposed. He was tired too.
Weary, actually. Heartsick. He let his feet drop from where he’d had them
propped on the table and poured himself some more whiskey. He’d appropriated
the bottle downstairs when he’d come back after following Daniel. He’d needed a
drink. But the allure of spirits had quickly faded.

Daniel had gone to see Sir Barnabas.

He heaved himself out of the chair and prowled the room. Had
he driven Daniel back into his old lover’s arms? He hoped not. But, dammit,
he’d fight the bastard for him if he had to. He’d learned a thing or two since
Sir Barnabas had trounced him on the battlefield at Fuentes de Oñoro. He
wouldn’t be cowed by the older man’s position or title or anything else. Daniel
was his.

It only took a moment for his righteous indignation to
deflate again into despair. What if Daniel wanted Sir Barnabas and not Harry?
What would he do then? He couldn’t force Daniel to choose him. So far there’d
been very little sign that Daniel wanted him back. Harry wasn’t sure at what
point he’d be forced to retreat from the battlefield, if he ever could. He
could see himself spending the rest of his life chasing a man who didn’t want
him, which was sad and pathetic.

He’d just thrown himself back into the chair when there was
a discreet knock at his door. Before he could get to it the door opened and
Daniel slipped inside. He wore a voluminous dressing gown, which gleamed a rich
blood-red in the candlelight. He shut the door as Harry stood.

“I saw your light on,” was all he said. He began to wander
around the room, as if he was inspecting it.

Harry’s heart was pounding. Daniel had come to him. He
wasn’t sure what for, but at least he’d made a move. “I haven’t done anything
to it,” he said mildly. “The room is still intact.”

“So I see.” Daniel made no other comment. He’d reached the
table by the bed and was leafing through Harry’s books.

Harry took a chance and wandered over to lean his back
against the wall beside the table. Daniel ignored him. “Couldn’t sleep?” he
asked.

“No. I rarely do.” Daniel put down the book and wandered
some more, finally stopping near the window. He looked out on the street. “So
quiet,” he murmured. “Somewhere in London someone is dying violently.”

Harry was taken aback by the observation. “Is that what
keeps you awake?”

“Yes.” A pause. “No.”

Harry remained silent. Daniel was in an odd mood. Since his
entrance it had affected Harry as well. The whole night seemed bizarre. They
both stood there half clothed and talked of death.

“I’ve made it my vocation, you see,” Daniel said as if
they’d been in the middle of a conversation. “I deal death to the death
dealers.”

Harry’s breath froze for a moment. “What do you mean?” he
asked quietly.

“Until a couple of months ago I was making almost nightly
forays into St. Giles. Word of mouth, an anonymous note, a tip from a
constable. I’d find the culprits who slipped through the law and I’d take care
of them. It’s my civic duty, after all.”

“I’m not sure that’s what the ancient Greeks had in mind,”
Harry replied, treading carefully. “What happened a couple of months ago?”

“Nothing.” Daniel shrugged. “Some little fancy piece, as
Simon calls them, threatened to expose me after a lackluster night in my bed.
Simon convinced me it might be a good idea to put both St. Giles and my other
evening pursuits on hold for a while.”

Harry’s heart constricted at the mention of other men in
Daniel’s bed. He’d known, of course, that Daniel had taken lovers. During the
war he’d been notoriously profligate. Kensington had alluded to his many lovers
when he’d been in America. “Good idea,” was all he said.

Daniel huffed out a small laugh without looking at him.
“Yes, quite.” They stood silently for several more minutes, Daniel looking out
the window and Harry looking at Daniel. “Have you caught up with everyone?”
Daniel asked suddenly. “Most of them have married, you know.”

“I heard some from Kensington when he was in America.”

“Yes, of course. Captains Randal and Richards married Kate
Collier. They have two sons now,” he went on as if Harry hadn’t spoken. “And
Ian Witherspoon and Derek Knightly married a delightful girl, Sophie.” He shook
his head. “She had a rough time of it until Ian married her.” He spared a
glance and a small smile for Harry. “That’s what got me started back to my old
ways. Her brother was a nasty piece of work who abused the poor girl
mercilessly.” He looked down and ran his hand over the smooth top of the wood
table. “I took care of him for them. He deserved it, but he certainly wasn’t
going to get it from the law. I wouldn’t put Sophie through that.” He laughed. “I’ve
become a bit of a guardian angel these days. Everyone gets themselves in such
trouble. Some days I think I’m the only one who can get them out of it. Funny,
isn’t it? Considering who and what I am.”

“Who and what are you?” Harry asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Daniel whispered, staring out the window.
“Sometimes during the day I convince myself it’s a dream. I’m just reliving the
war like so many of us do.”

Harry’s heart was pounding. He’d been so wrong all these
years. He’d imagined Daniel leading a full, happy life. Instead he was
desperately lonely, looking in on his friends’ happiness from the outside,
prowling the streets of London at night stalking prey and drowning in guilt and
memories by day. How had his friends let him get like this? Perhaps they hadn’t
seen it. Daniel had always been good at hiding what he was feeling.

Daniel shook his head and waved his hand in the air as if to
erase his words. “Oh, don’t listen to me. I’ve been drinking. I’m at my most
maudlin and pathetic when I’m in my cups.” He picked up the bottle from the
table. “I guess I’m not the only one.”

“No,” Harry said. “I’ve been drinking. I’m feeling rather
maudlin and pathetic myself tonight.”

“Are you?” Daniel asked in surprise. “I can’t imagine why.
The conquering hero returned. You conquered America, didn’t you? And now you
shall conquer England.”

“I don’t want to conquer England,” Harry said. He walked
over and gently pulled Daniel’s shoulders around until they were face to face.
Daniel didn’t resist. “I just want to grab my little piece of it and hold on.”