She still wore her gown, her stays, yet with a small, vital core of nudity, her breasts exposed to him, her nipples succulent. As though he, and only he, could ever know her like this, the prize of her body beneath her clothing. She gazed up at him, eyes heavy-lidded. Her hands had been tugging on his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his breeches, but they stopped now. She reached for his hands. Then placed them onto her breasts, his hands covering her. She arched up into his touch.

Leo sank to his knees. He seized her mouth again with his as he stroked her breasts. He circled her nipples, teasing them into even harder points. Then took them between his fingers, rolling, lightly pinching. Her gasp drew his own breath.

“Leo, yes.”

Nothing in the world felt like her. Nothing matched her as she writhed and moaned, a silken tempest. And when he licked her nipples, one and then the other, drawing them into his mouth, she clutched at his head.

Her skirts rustled as her legs eased open. He felt the press of her knees against his sides, her feet attempting to hook around his calves, yet hindered by the swaths of silk. Against the front of his breeches, his cock strained.

Hell. He couldn’t have enough. He needed more.

“I want you,” he rasped against her skin. “Let me have you.”

He urged her back, until she rested on her elbows, her legs draped over the edge of the bed. He continued to kneel between her legs. With shaking hands, he gathered up her skirts. They filled his hands with silk the color of spring, whispering a woman’s secrets, layer upon layer, her body restless beneath. Until he uncovered her legs.

He plucked her slippers from her feet and dropped them to the carpet. Stroking up her legs, he untied her garters and drew down her stockings. These, too, he let slip to the carpet, and they lay like discarded reveries, bearing the echoed shape of her legs. Such delicious legs, smooth and pale. He had to touch them. He did, gliding over her flesh, feeling her tremble and tense.

“I love your hands on me,” she whispered. “Their size. Their feel. Just a little rough.” She shivered.

“I love to touch you.” And he did. He stroked her legs with hot possession. Then peeled away her drawers.

He hissed in a breath. All around her were rivers of silk, yet here, here she was bared to him. He allowed himself a moment to admire her, the soft golden curls, the rosy flesh, ripe and ready. But it took far more control than he possessed to simply look. His thumb rubbed along her folds, and she gasped as he discovered sleek wetness.

“Give me everything, Anne.”

In response, she spread her legs wider.

With an animal sound, he bent down and put his mouth on her. Her taste flooded him, rich and sweetly musky, and the feel of her against his lips and tongue engulfed him in sensation.

This. This private joy, this secret pleasure. It belonged to them alone. No one and nothing would take that from him.

He teased, he delved. Hands spread over her thighs, he kissed her intimately, sucking and licking. She dug her heels into the small of his back. Her elbows gave out as she splayed across the bed, fingers woven into his hair. And when he drew her clit between his lips, she pulled him tight against her. He sank his fingers deep.

She bowed up and cried out her release, a long, liquid sound that filled him with wild pleasure. Yet he was not satisfied, not until he brought her to the edge and over again, and again.

At last, she fell back, gasping, arms outflung, legs spread.

“More,” she panted. “I want more of you.”

“Yes.” He began pulling off his remaining clothing—stockings, gaping waistcoat—but when he reached his shirt, he paused.

His marks. He could not show her, especially now, with Whit’s poison in the air. But he had to feel her bare flesh against his. Craved it.

He strode to the fire and banked it, extinguishing every last glowing ember, until it was nothing more than charcoal. Not a gleam of light shone. Still, the chamber was not dark enough. He paced to the windows and tugged the curtains closed, cutting off the wan moonlight and faint glow from London’s streets.

Turning back, he was satisfied. The chamber lay in utter darkness, black as the depths of the ocean.

He found her through sound, the soft rustling as she removed the last of her garments. Inflamed through sound alone, Leo tore off his clothes, shedding them like regret. He pushed through the darkness until he found himself at the bed. He touched the counterpane, the rumpled sheets, and then her, kneeling in the center of the bed.

On his knees, he moved over the mattress, feeling it dip beneath his heavier weight. He edged toward her, and when their bodies pressed against each other, length to length, finally, utterly stripped, they both moaned. God, the feel of her breasts against his bare chest, her curved belly to his flat abdomen, the whole of her—he was dizzy and demanding, aflame with need.

He gripped her buttocks, urging her even closer. His cock was thick and nestled tight against her. Unashamed, she cupped her hips to his, and her mouth opened to his when he claimed a kiss.

The edges of fear crept into sensation. He could lose this. Lose her.

No—he was a born ruffian. He fought for what he wanted. Anne was his.

With rough tenderness, he tipped them both, until she lay back on the bed and he stretched over her. Sight was gone, and all he knew was touch, sound, scent. As he stroked her everywhere, with her own hands bold in their caresses, he submerged himself in sensation. Her skin, her fragrance.

He positioned himself between her legs, hooking one over his arm. Her breathing came in fast, shallow gulps, her hips angling up.

Leo rubbed the length of his cock along her opening, coating himself with slickness. Then surged into her.

He lost himself in pleasure. Everywhere was her, tight and hot and wet, gripping him. He pulled back, then slid forward, sheathing himself. She moaned his name.

His will and his body wanted the same thing: her. He thrust, his hips moving, and sweat filmed him as he gave his entire self to this, to her. Anne made luscious, lascivious sounds, as lost to pleasure as he. He wanted to keep her here, where nothing existed but them and the communion they shared. Minds, bodies. All.

Fierce demand wanted everything. Abruptly, he withdrew, and she mewled a protest. Yet when he turned her over so she was on her stomach, her protest dissolved. He urged her hips up, gripping her, but kept one hand on the middle of her back.

They had experimented over the past week with different postures, even this one, but not until this moment had the position been imbued with such animal need, such raw hunger. He had usually gone into her gently, tenderly. Yet now, his control slipped. He was desire and want.

He surged inside her. And again. His thrusts were rough, and she met him stroke for stroke, pushing her hips back into his, gripping him tightly from within. Desperation marked their movements, as if they could demolish fear and uncertainty through the pleasure they created, as if the heat of their bodies could raze the twisting spirals of doubt, of mistrust. A foolish hope, but one they both chased as they gave themselves to each other.

But even this could not last. He felt his climax near, could not stave it off. So his hand left her back and glided down, over her stomach, until he found her bud and stroked it. Tight little circles that drew gasps and moans from her, straining eagerly. And then she cried out once more in release—a sound that drove him directly into the teeth of his own climax.

It tore from him, hot and unforgiving, excruciating pleasure. He poured into her, her name on his lips, on his heart.

Only when the very last of his release faded, only when she was lax and supple, only then did he withdraw. He pulled back the blankets and covered them both, his arms around her waist. They lay together, bodies slick, hearts pounding. He brushed his mouth back and forth across her damp nape, delicate hairs soft against his lips.

Neither spoke. Silence lay as thick as the darkness. He’d never made love to a woman the way he had just loved Anne. He’d never felt such a storm of emotion, frantic and furious. He’d never needed anyone as he needed her. If the Devil’s magic was ripped from him, he could suffer any financial loss, knowing he could regain what was taken. He could never regain her. And that filled him with a panicked savagery, the likes of which were unknown to him.

Yet he could speak none of this. Instead, he held her close, as close as two people could be, damp flesh clinging, limbs intertwined, and still he felt the chasm between them widen.


“This way.” One hand on the small of her back, Leo guided Anne up the stairs of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. They passed women in wide, sparkling gowns, men in jewel-hued satin coats. Powder, sweat, and perfume scented the air. Everywhere was talk, talk. So many voices. All of them bright and sharp as shattered crystal.

“One more flight,” Leo said.

She moved up the stairs, threading through the crowds. They passed the lobby for the pit, and then the first gallery. There were clothes of every variety, all mingling together as everyone searched out their seats. From stained frieze, worn every day, to gleaming moiré silk, perhaps donned for the very first time this night.

As she and Leo climbed the stairs, they passed men who knew him. No one stopped to speak with him, only nodded with chary respect and moved on. She wondered: was it respect or fear she saw in the other men’s eyes? Fear of him. Her husband.