The Den Of Iniquity

‘What is it you need, Vivienne?’

It was the first time he’d said her name, the syllables molten velvet, a caress disguised by letters and sounds. She swallowed, aware the slightest movement would close the infinitesimal distance between their mouths, his full lips near enough to feel every breath, sense the smallest sway.

‘I didn’t mean to anger you, Sin.’ She tried his name on her tongue, liking the sound of it, and a lick of excitement fuelled her courage. Control. This was power and control. Still he didn’t move away and a frisson of tension danced between them, the hum of unspoken words and forbidden suggestion.

‘Don’t call me that.’ He shook his head and his nose almost brushed hers.

‘Shall I call you Max then?’ A flicker of emotion lit his eyes. He blinked twice, long dark lashes framed eyes blacker than ink. A nerve ticked at the corner of his temple and for the first time she noticed the cut that sliced above his brow.

‘You’ve been hurt.’ Dismay caused her words to come out hushed. She snaked her hand between their bodies, careful not to touch though the urge was strong, and smoothed her fingers over the wound. He bristled but didn’t pull away. ‘What dreadful man did this to you?’

Her question must have amused. His mouth curled in a sly half-smile. ‘Why the daisies?’

Flustered by his change of subject and avoidance of the question, she inhaled a sharp breath and regretted the action. Warmth flooded her core. He smelled of brandy and leather and some woodsy cologne that spoke to the absolute virility of the man. He leaned over her, caged on one side by his muscular arm. Could he sense her fluster? Perspiration dotted her skin. ‘Flowers are pleasant.’ So was this. Dear heavens, so was this. Her heart exploded in applause to that conclusion.

‘I’ve indulged in many pleasurable things, yet never flowers.’ His gravelly tenor caused her pulse to leap.

‘All the more reason you should have them.’ Were she to move the tiniest space her mouth would touch his.

‘Do you bring bouquets to people all over London?’

He toyed with her now, but she truly didn’t mind. Inside her body, sensations bounced against her ribs as if they played a harmony.

‘Only those in need of reform.’ Had she said the words aloud?

His bark of laugher jarred her, but it was glorious, to be so close to his potent masculinity and see the sparkle of amusement in his obsidian eyes.

‘I can’t be reformed.’ He adopted a sympathetic tone as if he apologized and at the same time mourned the truth of his words.

He touched a lock of her hair with his free hand, winding the length around his finger and stroking it against her cheek. It was a terribly intimate gesture and her whole body revelled in that one velvet caress.

‘That’s not true.’ Her brows furrowed in dispute. ‘Of course—’

‘I’m a bastard.’

His eyes searched her face but she shared no reaction and when he saw none he leaned that much closer. She inhaled, wanting his scent inside her.

‘I’m a bastard and nothing can change the circumstance of my birth. I’m formed this way. There’ll be no reforming.’

The tension in his words was near overwhelming, the admission rife with too many emotions to label, yet no matter how he fought against it she could never allow him to believe it true.

‘I think—’

He captured her mouth in a demanding kiss that brought them against the door with its force. Good thing too. She melted beneath him, her legs of no use for support, her hands grasping the collar of his coat in desperate preservation.

He angled his head, fitting his mouth to hers in perfect position while his hand sunk into her hair, his fingers scraping across her scalp with tingling possession.

Dear Lord she must be dying. Leaving the earth and transcending to some other level of feeling, every cell of her body alive and drenched in invigorating sensation. His lips were strong, hot, powerful against hers and she arched into his body, opened her mouth to him and dropped her head back to rest against the curtain with a gasp of pleasure.

He took advantage.

He slid his tongue into her mouth, the first touch a mixture of liquid heat and wicked sin. She uncurled her fingers flat against his chest, the rapid rise and fall of his breath a reminder he was as affected as she. Somewhere in her dissolving better sense, a voice reminded she should fight against the liberties he sought, but whoever committed those rules of etiquette to feminine moral conduct had never been kissed by Maxwell Sinclair, bastard proprietor of London’s Underworld. How could she resist?

She was no fool, not so lost in the moment to neglect consuming passion. Drawing on scarce knowledge and innate instinct she rubbed her tongue against his and he groaned into her, the reaction an exhilarating rush of power. She relaxed in his arms, a pulse of rare courage and heady control coursing through her veins.

He changed too. Sometime during their kiss his posture eased, his tight hold turned into tender embrace and when he stepped back, he took her with him until he sat on the corner of his desk, his legs spread in a vee with her deposited between them.

Still the kiss continued. His hands framed her face to lock her to him. His teeth nipped, tongue rubbed and teased, all to lure her against his body, her breath high and fast, her weak legs threatening mutiny. A wave of light-headedness caused her to sway.

At last he pulled back and she used his shoulders for support, her hands set firm atop solid muscle.

‘Vivi.’ He spoke the word with aching tenderness and exhaled deeply. For a brief moment when she looked into his eyes she saw a different man.

Then it was gone. He straightened his posture and pulled in another long breath as if he braced for something. She watched with dubious concern.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_576969fb-9cdb-5f67-b000-863f2a3c1407)

He waited for the slap. Vivienne. Beautiful, delicate, aristocratic Vivienne. He’d kissed her hard, deep. He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth and rubbed with erotic suggestion like any one of the faceless cads he despised on the gaming floor. He could taste her still. The lingering sweetness, fresh as renewal, her sensual reaction nearly his undoing, and he blinked hard at the sudden conclusion he was losing his mind.

Dammit to hell.

He’d pulled her to the desk because another moment near the door and he would have pressed against her, the desire to touch her skin, feel the weight of her breasts and the curve of her arse chasing away all reason with overwhelming persistence.

He assessed her expression. She too appeared confused, but no strike was forthcoming.

‘Thank you.’ The two words whispered past before she straightened and stepped away.

‘What?’ He shook his head in an attempt to understand. No one thanked him for his kisses. Most women asked for more or took what they wanted, primarily money because they’d never get anything else. Certainly not sincere emotion. He guarded that well.

She appeared shy all of a sudden. ‘I was taught to default to manners when other words escape me.’

In that she was correct. There was no way to describe the intensity of their kiss. ‘You’re welcome.’ He stood and rounded the desk. He needed to put something between them. Furniture, a stone wall, the Thames…or he would pull her into his arms and start their kiss all over again.

‘I should go.’ Her eyes settled on the window of the far wall where the curtains remained open, a voyeur’s opportunity to observe his world. He said nothing and waited, privately pleased when she walked towards the glass to watch the activity below.

‘Go ahead. No one can see you.’ She threw a sharp glance over her shoulder, eyes full of questions, and he promptly explained. ‘The window offers a view of the floor downstairs, but only you and I have the privilege. Once below, the panel appears nothing more than a mural.’

Pleased with the novel consideration her expression altered. She laid one hand on the large pane as if she wished to absorb the energy from downstairs, and he liked her there, a part of the room. A part of his life.