Passion Read online

  Then his voice lifted to her, low and rough. “The house is asleep. Let me in.”

  Her body shook with need and apprehension at the tenor of his voice. How could she let him in? She couldn’t do that. Her nerves stretched. Her breast heaved. That would be too much. There would be no going back.

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He immediately strode forward and, grabbing the lat­tice, began to climb.

  Passion jerked back with a gasp and backed into her room. Her knees shook so badly that she held onto the bedpost for support. The silhouette of his head and broad shoulders appeared and then his long legs swept over the sill.

  He seated himself there. “The stairs would have been easier,” he said softly.

  She could smell him.

  “I need to speak with you,” he said. “May I come in?”

  “You are in,” she whispered.

  “Passion, I didn’t intend to come here tonight.”

  “Yet here you are. How did you know where to find me?”

  “After our conversation today, I thought I might never see you again, that you might disappear.” He paused. “I had an appointment I couldn’t break, so I had my brother follow you when you left the Crystal Palace.”

  “Did you?” Why didn’t that frighten her? She ought to be frightened.

  “Yes. He prowled the alley for more than an hour be­fore you appeared at this window.” He paused again. “If you didn’t arrive tomorrow, then I would know how to find you.”

  “But you’re here now.”

  “Yes.”

  He hadn’t moved. He thought she was afraid.

  “I need to speak with you, Passion.”

  A tingle tripped down her spine. He spoke her name like an endearment. “We haven’t proved capable of mere talking.”

  Did he smile? She couldn’t see him well enough in the dim light.

  “What if I promise not to touch you?” There was no mirth in his voice. In fact, it sounded tight.

  “That’s very well. But you’re not the only one I’m wor­ried about.”

  A long silence drew out between them.

  Then: “Just a few moments, Passion.” His voice was soft again. “That’s all I ask.”

  Passion pressed her forehead to the bedpost. This was dangerous. She should ask him to leave. But how could she do it when she yearned for him so? When the very smell of him made her want to press herself against him?

  She pushed away from the bedpost. “Let me light a lamp.”

  Crossing to her desk, she swept up her robe along the way and put it on before striking the match. When she ig­nited the wick of the oil lamp, its warm glow still left shadows in the corners of the room. But she could see him, and her heart beat faster.

  He wore no hat, and his hair was tousled. Without a cravat, his shirt fell open at the neck, unbuttoned. He seemed to have no vest or jacket beneath his long topcoat. And he was staring at her—staring at her as hard as she was staring at him.

  “Why don’t you move away from the window?” Her dry throat made her words catch. She swallowed. “There are warm coals in the grate.”

  When he stood and crossed to the chair by the hearth, he overpowered her dainty room. Everything seemed small in his presence.

  Once settled in the chair, his eyes returned to her. “Won’t you sit with me?”

  Passion looked at the empty chair across from his. His long legs almost touched it. “I think I had best not.”

  “Passion, plea—” He cut himself off and pulled back his booted feet. “I’ve promised not to touch you.”

  Had he ever said please to her before?

  No.

  “Please—that’s a difficult word for you to say, isn’t it?”

  He frowned and stared into the hearth. Something in his expression, a shadow of pain, perhaps, made her re­lent. As she sat in the chair, his gaze returned to her. The dim light made his eyes appear dark. They moved all over her. She jerked her bare feet back beneath the cover of her dark green robe when he looked at them.

  “You’re beautiful,” he finally said.

  Passion’s heart skipped a beat. “Thank you.”

  “I want to see more of you. I don’t want to part yet.”

  “I know. Nor do I.”

  “But you will. Why?” He leaned forward. “Because to­morrow is your last day visiting the Crystal Palace? What difference if we meet there or somewhere else? What dif­ference a week of stolen pleasure or a month?”

  “What difference?” Passion was incredulous. She shook her head. “Once, one of the boys from my father’s parish was seen picking up an apple that had fallen from an apple cart. The boy was poor and had no money. After a brief moment, he ate the apple. The fruit monger wanted him punished. But my father, who knew the boy, under­stood that he never would have actually gone up to the cart and stolen the apple. The apple fell, and the boy was hungry. Though an error in judgment, it was not as great a one as the fruit monger tried to insist.” Passion tipped her head to the side. “Can a starving person be blamed for eat­ing when food falls into her lap?”

  Mark leaned back and rested his temple against his fist. “So, I’m the apple in your little parable.”

  Passion pressed her hand over her heart. “And I was so hungry, Mark. Too hungry to resist you.”

  His eyes darkened. “You’re still hungry.”

  Passion tried to ignore the warmth that flooded her body. “I know. But I cannot let my culpability escalate.”

  “Culpability?” Mark pushed his hand through his hair. “You can placate yourself with degrees of culpability if you like. But do you want to know the truth, Passion? The boy ate the apple. Whether it fell into his hand, he stole it, or he bought it with solid silver, the end result is the same—he ate the damned apple.” His eyes bored into hers. “Just like you did.”

  Passion’s heart pounded. Her chagrin must have shown clearly on her face, for his voice softened. “Just like I did.” He leaned closer. “And is that so horrible? Have we hurt anyone? Have we altered the course of history? Has any dire circumstance been brought to bear by our being together?”

  No. She had to admit that the answer was no, but she couldn’t say it. She squeezed her eyes shut and quoted her father. “When God’s laws are broken, the world suffers.”

  “Passion.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  “The only suffering here is the suffering you are in­flicting. Needless suffering, I might add.” He braced his elbows on his knees, and his hands almost touched her. “Now, I know this can’t go on forever. These things never do. But 1 also know it can’t be wrong to partake of a pleas­ure so mutually fulfilling. What we have between us is right. That’s why it happened in the first place—because it was right.”

  Was it true? It felt true. Or was that her desire speak­ing?

  His eyes delved into hers. “You said I had given you a gift. I took you at your word.”

  “Of course!” she breathed.

  “Then how can you throw it away? I still offer it to you.”

  Passion’s resolve was crumbling. He had eroded her justifications and called into question her reasons for hav­ing them in the first place. His assertion that what they had was right had the feel of truth. And yet, didn’t secrets breed trouble?

  With her body as taut as a bowstring, tears welled. She stared down at her hands. Her certainty was gone, and all that remained was a driving need to be with him and a nig­gling voice that whispered, no.

  “Passion, listen to me. I have a proposal.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. He was so close. She ached to touch him.

  “In two months, you leave London. If you agree to continue our relationship, I’ll agree to say good-bye at the end of those two months.”

  A flicker of worry touched Passion’s heart. How diffi­cult would good-bye be after another two months? “You don’t want to say good-bye now. What makes you think you will want to then?”

  “I may not want to. But I will.”

  “Are you sure?” Passion whispered.

  He glanced down at their hands, so close but not touch­ing. “Today, when you said tomorrow was our last day, you surprised me. I don’t like surprises. If I’m prepared, I can deal with anything.”

  “Can you, really?”

  A frown twisted his brow. “Damned right I can. Do you agree or not? And before you answer, know that I will want you as often as possible—in your bed, in my bed, wherever it’s feasible. In return, I promise the utmost dis­cretion. No one will ever know.”

  He held her gaze. “When the two months are at an end, we will part forever. You will return to your life. All will be as it was.

  “Now, Passion, what is your answer?”

  *

  Chapter Seven

  Rapture

  Mark sat rigid. Anxiety stretched his nerves as she contin­ued to sit, silently staring at her hands folded in her lap. He thought he might snap if he moved. What was her an­swer, damn it?

  Finally, she raised her eyes and took a breath to speak. His shoulders twitched, and a pain shot up his neck.

  “You’re very persuasive,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Nonetheless, a part of me still urges that I refuse you.”

  A heavy weight pressed down upon him.

  Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “But your argu­ments, coupled with the desire I feel for you in my heart and body, are too powerful to overcome. Despite my fears, I tremble at your nearness and long for your em­brace.” Her lip trembled. “I accept your proposal, Mark.”

  He filled his lungs with a deep breath. Her words washed over him like a soothing balm. His tension melted away, and an array of emotions welled—relief, satisfac­tion, comfort, and… what? Desire? Yes, of course, de­sire. Always, desire.

  God, but he wanted her. Loose hair framed one side of her face while the rest hung twisted into the thick braid that lay against her breast. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips moist. But it was her eyes that held him. Open yearning and supplication glowed in their depths. Was that what called to him, what compelled him to pursue her?

  “Done,” Mark murmured.

  Her hand was warm in his.

  “Done,” she breathed.

  He stroked his fingers against her palm as he leaned back in his chair. “Come, Passion.”

  She rose at his urging and came to stand between his open knees. His coat fell open and revealed his erection bulging beneath his trousers. No need to hide.

  “Is the door locked?”

  “Yes,” she said softly, her eyes moving over him.

  “Where does your aunt sleep?”

  “On the other side of the house. She snores loudly.”

  “How fortuitous. Maids?”

  “The attic rooms face the street.”

  “Take off your robe.”

  Pausing only a moment, she opened the row of buttons and shrugged out of the green silk. It fell behind her with a soft swoosh.

  She stood in a batiste sleeping gown with a high neck and long sleeves. She might have looked the picture of modesty were it not for her nipples eagerly protruding against the fine fabric. That, paired with the expression on her face, made his blood race.

  She moistened her lips, and he thought of how she had looked with his cock in her mouth—remembered the heady feeling of milking his come into her. That had been marvelous. But tonight he wanted her body.

  His erection throbbed. “Open your gown.”

  This time she didn’t move. “Open your trousers.”

  Mark’s heart beat a little faster. Her low, soft voice af­fected his body like a touch. Unbuttoning his trousers, he freed his rampant erection and heavy cods, wincing as he did so. He wore no undergarments, having come straight from his bed, and he was already swollen.

  Passion stared, and he felt himself growing even more under her regard. Her eyes darkened, and her tongue flicked out to lick her lips.

  What was she thinking? “Tell me something,” he mur­mured.

  As she seemed to consider her words, her eyes delved into his. “I crave the feel of you inside me. I crave the more lasting fullness that having you inside me imparts.” Her hands smoothed across her abdomen. “As satisfying as today was, it wasn’t long before I was missing the aching tenderness I feel after you’ve fucked me.”

  She was the only woman he knew who made the word fuck sound like it ought to be written into poetry. His chest felt tight. She spoke his very desire. To be inside her—to be enveloped by her. To be allowed, completely, into her woman’s body.

  His cock pulsed almost painfully. He took a deep, calming breath. There was time. He would have her. No need to rush. No need to worry about a crowd without. “Remove your gown, Passion.”

  Her long, graceful fingers freed each small button swiftly, yet not swiftly enough. His breathing quickened as the expanse of skin slowly grew, until a deep but nar­row swath showed between the parted gown.

  “I’ve never undressed in front of a man before,” she whispered.

  “Good.” His throat felt dry.

  Her hands lifted, pushing the thin fabric from one shoulder and then the other.

  Was he holding his breath?

  With a small shrug, the white gown fell to the floor and billowed around her ankles in a whispering cloud.

  Shifting ash fluttered in the hearth.

  Light and shadow played across her skin, illuminating the convex curves of cheek, breast, and hip in the golden glow of the oil lamp, whilst darkness chased into the beckoning hollows of elbow, waist, and inner thigh.

  He wanted to touch her, to feel the texture of her skin and the slope of her hip, yet his hands were too heavy to lift. Perhaps it was enough just to look at her. To follow the lush under-swell of her breast, to the firm line of her ribs… To look into the shallow valley of her navel and to trace the slant of her pelvic bone … To stare at her long legs and the dark auburn curls at their juncture—to stare for as long as he liked.

  “Tell me something.” She echoed his earlier request.

  The fine fabric of her gown lay around her ankles like thin foam upon sand. “You are Aphrodite.”

  How odd his voice sounded. Those words weren’t his. He had said them before thinking. He never said such ridiculous things.

  He frowned. He should tell her something true, some­thing real. “I couldn’t sleep for wanting you—couldn’t sleep for the uncertainty of whether I would be with you again. I had to see you tonight.” His gaze moved over her lithe body. “I had to have you tonight.”

  “Touch me, then.”

  He slid his hands around her slim waist, molding his palms to the shape of her and pressing his fingers into her soft skin. She was both firm and yielding. His breathing quickened as his hands roamed. Pulling her close, he pressed his cheek to one full breast and kneaded the other while he caressed her buttock. His urgency mounted as her arms came around him. He wanted to touch her everywhere at once. He opened his mouth and felt the full flesh of her breast against his tongue. He squeezed her nipple while he slipped his fingers beneath the curve of her bottom to touch the downy folds of her cunt from be­hind.

  She gasped and moved against him. He nipped the side of her breast as he pushed his fingers just inside her. Her hands moved through his hair and around his shoulders. She pulled at his coat, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of her. She filled his arms and senses with everything he needed.

  She expelled a small breath and tightened her hold on him as he pulled her into his lap. He moaned, both for her embrace and the feel of her naked body in his arms.

  Her hip rested against his erection. The gentle pressure tempted and relieved him at the same time. His hands roamed, feeling the long line of her leg and the curve of her back. He pressed his nose into her neck and, tasting her tender skin, felt the rapid beat of her pulse against his tongue. Just the smell of her made his blood race and his prick pulse with eager expectation.

  Her hands were touching him—smoothing his nape, slipping into the open neck of his shirt—while she pressed her lips to his brow. Her soft kisses warmed and beckoned him. He twisted his hand in her braid and pulled her lips to his for a kiss that both fed and fueled his hunger. The more deeply he drew upon her, the more he wanted of her, until they were both breathless and gasp­ing.

  His head spun as Passion drew back. Her hands cupped the sides of his face, and her eyes looked soft as velvet in the dim light. Her breath came in small bursts from her moist, swollen lips. “Shall I be alone in my nakedness, Mark?” Her hands dropped to his coat lapels, then moved to his shirt buttons. “I would see and feel you, as you see and feel me.”

  His balls tightened. “Don’t ask. Take.”

  Mark watched as she worked the buttons of his shirt and parted the white silk. Bared from neck to balls, she stared for a moment without touching. Then she smoothed her hands across his chest, slipping her fingers through his light furring of hair. He sucked in his breath, and his cock throbbed as the tips of her fingers barely touched his nip­ples and then trailed down his stomach.

  “Let me up, Passion.”

  She stood almost reluctantly but then backed away from him as he rose from the chair. While he shrugged out of his coat, she moved to her bed and took refuge behind the bedpost. He almost smiled. No escaping now.

  His shirt followed, then his boots. He saw her fingers tighten on the carved wood before he pushed down his trousers and stepped out of them.

  Her lips parted and her eyes moved over him with rapt attention.

  Freed from the confines of his trousers, his cock swelled to its full size. Ten and a half inches of hard flesh rose up in turgid readiness.

  He stayed where he was and let her look. He knew he could be intimidating without the civilizing influence of his clothing. Yet he also knew most women found him de­sirable. In fact, most women were wild for him—until he tried to get into them more deeply than they liked.

  His gaze dropped to the spot where her long leg curved beside the bedpost.

  But Passion knew his need to breach the deepest re­cesses of her body. She knew it, and she wanted him any­way. In fact, she seemed to need all of what he had to give.

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