Never Too Late (21 page)

She stretched up to meet him fully, gripping his arms. As his arms tightened around her, she slid her hands into his hair and sighed against his mouth at the intensity of openly acknowledging her desire for him and her pleasure at his touch. How had she come to this point? If someone had told her mere weeks ago she would be here, now, in this moment, she would have called a physician to have the speaker examined. How had this impossibility come to be? She was Medusa to his Perseus. How had she not consigned him to stone? And, she could not help but wonder in the deepest recesses of her heart how long it would be before he would slay her, carrying her heart instead of her head away as a trophy.

So quickly he’d learned what pleased her. And yet, she needed just a little . . . more. As he lavished extravagant attention on her left breast, her own hand stole up to the right one. She wasn’t sure when or how her body had become so greedy. While he laved her nipple, she stroked and tweaked and rolled the other nipple between her fingers to sharpen the exquisite sensations. When he caught sight of her hand, his low laughter rumbled through her.

“In dereliction of duty, am I?” He bit lightly on the first nipple, causing her to convulse, before shifting to the second, dislodging her hand. “Allow me.”

He molded the now-abandoned breast with his palm while lashing the new one with his tongue. His hands gently pushed her abundant breasts closer together. He glanced at her devilishly. Surely not! Then he took both nipples into his mouth at the same time!
Dear God in heaven!
Such intense sensations rocketed through her that she bucked and shook. The keen sensation of his hot mouth, working in tandem on both breasts, made her gasp and thrash and moan. Words couldn’t describe the steep dual crescendo of pleasure shooting through her. She needed a new word for pleasure.

“I knew there had to be a solution,” he said, when he finally released her breasts and laid his head on one.

“Clever lad.” She breathed heavily.

He raised himself up on one elbow and drawled, “Now show me what else you like.”

“Well, I do like this.” She smiled and slid her hand down to stroke his hot, hard length.

He moaned but took her hand and raised it to his mouth. He slipped two of her fingers between his lips, sliding his tongue between them ever so gently, and then said, “No, not yet.
Show
me what
you
like.” His inflections made his meaning clear, and his eyes held a challenge.

Not one to back down, she answered by shifting her position for more freedom of movement and hooking one leg over his. She was well practiced in taking care of her own needs. So she put her hand in that secret place, parting her own folds, and began to rub firmly but gently. She found the sensitive nub and tried to concentrate. She closed her eyes to focus on the task at hand and was soon breathing heavily while a mild tension built in her lower abdomen. He sat up for a better view, and she bent both knees, legs spread, as much for her benefit as for his. But for all her rubbing and stroking, this time she could not bring herself to finish. She made tiny adjustments to her positions but could not come to the end. Soon, her hand tired, and she gave up, irritated. “It’s not working!”

“Shh.” He put his hand where hers had been and slowly stroked. “Does it usually work?”

“It
always
works. Every time. I just don’t think I can concentrate with an audience.”

He chuckled wickedly. She even thought she detected smugness.

“Since I am at fault for your bind, I must do what I can to assist you. Teach me what pleases you.” His intent disarmed her. He stoked her flames and then slid a thumb into her soft, wet folds. She hadn’t noticed before how large his thumbs were.

“Oh!” she said, when he swirled over a particularly sensitive area.

“Is that a good spot, then?” he asked, unnecessarily. He swirled over it a few more times for confirmation, smiling more broadly each time she bucked.

“Hmm,” he said. “Let’s try another.” He swirled his thumb in a different direction, with milder but still positive effects. She couldn’t speak.

“And one more test for good measure.” His thumb pushed in a little deeper and swirled against a new spot. This time, sensations radiated through her. Her back arched, hips lifting off the bed, and she cried out.

“It would seem we have a new winner.” He set himself to targeting that spot, teasing and thrusting with his hand. He stuffed a corner of the counterpane in her mouth to stifle her and captured a nipple in his mouth as his hand continued to drive her higher and higher. She came hard, screaming into the bedclothes and shuddering endlessly.

When she could finally breathe again, she said, “God above, what have you done to me?”

With a devilish gleam in his eye, he covered her body with his. As the tip of his manhood nudged her warm, still-throbbing entrance, he whispered, “Oh, my dear, we are just getting started.”

“Wait!”

He groaned as he struggled to master his body. “Wait? I do not believe I can. For how long? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Alex,” she whispered as she pushed him away and wriggled from underneath him. “But I want an active role in this too.” She pushed him onto his back and began her own expedition down his body, prompting guttural moans from him with her hands and then her mouth. The more she heard, the more she wanted to push his pleasure further. When they were both panting with intense need, he leaned his head toward her and wrenched her mouth up to his.

“I love you! I need you now!” he exclaimed against her lips. “Take me, damn it. Take me into you now!”

She took the reins without hesitation, guiding him into her entrance. The novel sensation of control made her giddy, and she took him in ever so slowly, smiling at the way his breath hitched, the way his hands gripped her hips, as their bodies inched together. Not too fast. Not too soon.

When they were fully joined—finally—she arched above him and began to rock slowly, sliding up his cock almost entirely and then inching back down, reveling in the feel of him filling her bit by bit. The sight of him, eyes closed and head thrown back, spurred her to move more forcefully, making them both pant and moan. He sat up to meet her, whispering words of love, as she rode him harder, faster, her fingers digging into his back to bring them ever closer, never close enough. As her crisis neared, she felt him grow impossibly firmer, thrust impossibly deeper, and suddenly they both exploded together—she buried her cries in his shoulder as he shouted, maybe her name.

She would tuck this memory away, perhaps let it warm her on cold winter nights, alone in her room above the bookshop. But she would let him go.

Chapter Sixteen

Evans Principle 4,012: Self-preservation is sometimes indistinguishable from cowardice. Do what you must to thrive or at least to survive.

T
he coach was ready. There was nothing to do but leave. She’d already said her good-byes to Lady Devin. And she didn’t want to see the face of that snake, that Judas, that devil ever again.
I love you
, he’d said.
Marry me
, he’d said. She’d known it was a fiction; she just didn’t realize it was blatant, self-serving, despicable manipulation. He hadn’t just built a fairy tale; he’d built a trap. If she saw him, she couldn’t account for her actions or for any appendages he might lose. She needed to get back to her home, back to her shop, and get her things in order. And now she needed a long, scalding bath to wash away the tainted memory of his skin against hers. She’d tried so hard to be cautious, suspicious, but he’d broken her anyway.

Once safely inside the coach, ensconced in its dark, close interior, she allowed herself to reflect on the conversation she’d overheard. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. On her way to tea, she’d intended to see if Lord Devin—Lord Pisspot!—was available to escort her. She just wanted to see him. Oh, how girlishly foolish she’d been. The door had been slightly ajar, and she’d been taken aback by the voices within, sharp and unfriendly. Unwilling to impose or interrupt, she’d been just about to continue downstairs when she heard her name.

“Mr. Withersby insists that you terminate the threat Mrs. Duchamp poses and that you do it immediately. We now know she is responsible for these publications, and we are prepared to take more serious steps if you do not. But these delaying tactics are insufficient. She must not be allowed to continue her investigation, and she must be immediately discredited.”

Honoria thought the visitor’s voice sounded familiar but couldn’t place it. She couldn’t hear the content of Alex’s response, either, only the timbre of his voice. It was angry but not affronted or indignant. It was damning.

She slouched back into the coach cushions and thought about her first few meetings with him. His inquisitiveness, both in her and in the shop, made so much more sense now. She’d known all along he couldn’t genuinely be interested in either, but it hurt viscerally to know how thoroughly he’d deceived her, how completely he’d seduced her.

Her stomach clenched as her memory of their encounters unfolded behind her eyelids. Even last night, his declaration of love was all part of an elaborate falsehood. Her skin crawled as she thought of his caresses, of every kiss, of every stroke, of every damned thrust that now made her want to turn herself inside out. She’d guarded herself so carefully for so long. To be so easily fooled and so thoroughly debased made her want to skin herself alive. He’d made her feel valued, made her feel desirable, made her believe he just might . . . possibly . . . love her. She gripped at the leather of the seat, wanting to tear it apart, wanting to destroy something.

As the carriage put more miles between her and Sharling Worth, she forced herself to focus on what to do next. She would have to dismiss the Devin workers and complete the repairs herself. The Needlework ladies could perhaps be of some assistance, but she hated to ask. Perhaps most importantly, she would have to figure out how to replace the press.

All she could think of were problems upon problems needing attention. He’d made her believe he could help solve them. Little did she know he was the problem, incarnate. Resting her head back against the squabs, she fought back tears. Weakness would not do. She needed to be strong, needed to find the Mrs. Duchamp that she once was and reestablish her position of safety and reliability. That was a life she knew and trusted.

Chapter Seventeen

Evans Principle Theta: Kindness is not the same as weakness, even though others may try to interpret it as such. Be as kind to yourself as you are to everyone else.

A
fter the visit from Withersby’s henchman, Alex furiously tried to figure out how to get Honoria out of this situation. He closed himself up in his study for over an hour trying to puzzle through scenarios: convince Honoria to stop investigating the company and publishing her findings, convince Withersby it wasn’t Honoria’s doing and have him call off his dogs, or perhaps simply guard Honoria around the clock and fend off whatever attackers were sent her way.

He was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he didn’t find out about her departure until lunchtime, when he went to find her.

The note she’d left for his mother simply said she felt she was needed back at the shop. But he couldn’t help doubting the coincidence that she left so soon after his unpleasant meeting with Withersby’s man. She’d left no note for him. Not a good sign. By now, she was miles away. He could only imagine what must be running through her mind. How much had she heard? He must look like the worst kind of villain. He needed to go after her, and he sped out the door unthinking.

Only the sight of the road managed to jolt him out of his tunnel vision. Their coach was taking her to London at that very moment. His best chance of catching her was . . . on horseback. A hollow pit formed in his gut as he looked in the direction of the stables, his mind doing calculations on speed and power. There was nothing for it. His mild Proserpine didn’t have the strength and stamina for this purpose. Even as he felt chills run down his spine and out to his extremities, he knew he not only had to ride like the devil but on the animal he now thought of as the devil incarnate: Andrew’s enormous stallion. Black as hell and just as fiery. Zeus. On Zeus, there was a chance he could catch up to the coach before it reached London. There was just as much chance he’d break his fool neck. But it was worth the risk. He had to get to Nora, had to face her wrath, and maybe, with God’s grace, convince her of the truth.

The stable master called undecipherable warnings to him as he rode away. Control was an illusion. He hadn’t been able to control Withersby . . . or the way the truth shot out in unruly directions. He couldn’t control what would come out about Andrew’s romantic relationships. Zeus wasn’t in his control; he felt it clearly in the horse’s muscles, in his own panicky but ineffectual grip on the reins. None of that mattered. All that mattered was getting to Nora.

She didn’t hear the swift hoofbeats until they sped right past the carriage. Alarm gripped her as the coach pulled up suddenly. She’d been told that highway bandits were rare on this stretch but not impossible. Then she heard
his
voice shouting for the carriage to halt. Heard a heavy thud, followed by the sound of something landing heavily on the ground. Followed by an awful groan.
His
.

She couldn’t get the door open fast enough. The driver was already on the ground by him. She gripped the doorjamb as she gingerly lowered herself to the ground and then ran to his side as fast as her skirts allowed. She grabbed his hand, finding it warm but slack.

“My God, Alex, what happened?! Alex!”

“I saw it all, miss,” said the driver. “ ’Twas Zeus, miss. Caught his foot in a hole and slammed into yonder tree. They were flying when they wheeled so it was a right brutal hit.”

She could see the beast, huge and intimidating as night itself, stomping nearby. Clearly, Zeus was still shaken by the accident himself. Fortunately, he didn’t appear to be limping. Such a stumble could easily lame the animal, which equaled a death sentence. The wild look in his eye suggested he might bolt at any second, but the rest of him showed remarkable restraint, as if he knew his place was here.