Page 82 of Dukes All Night Long

M any nights, Zara had stayed too late in the tower, losing track of time while she battled the tide of debt. She’d returned to the townhouse on those nights and wrapped herself in a silence that allowed for little else but memory and more worry.

It was still late, and the house was still dark, but now there was a second shadow stretched across the wood floor so polished it glowed in the moonlight. There was someone to watch over her as she lit the lamps. Someone else’s rapid breath joined hers as they recovered from the race home.

The room took shape in the flickering light. It wasn’t as grand as the ones she’d lived in as a child, but she loved it more. It was full of things she’d gathered, her favorite books, a needlework basket Edgar had given her their last Christmas together.

For ten years, he’d filled this space—larger than life itself. He’d spent every evening planning future performances, growing ever more extravagant, and European tours they could never have afforded.

His happy, chattering ghost had haunted the empty house. But after months of spending every evening alone with him, she’d begun to feel like a ghost herself.

“Zara?” Silas took her hand. “Are you certain about this?”

Live your life, my darling girl. Find your voice again. Find happiness however you wish it.

“Should I go?” Despite Silas’s question, he didn’t release her.

He was warm and solid, and she could still taste his kiss. He was alive in so many ways, and he made her feel younger than she had in years.

“Please stay.” She was young, and her heart thudded in her chest—proof that she was alive. Heat flooded through her at the thought of making love to Silas, but she had no idea how to take a man upstairs. Try as she might, the words wouldn’t come.

“Tea?” she croaked. “Or maybe brandy?”

His roguish smile sparkled as he slid his fingers up her arm to her waist. “Perhaps later.”

What else did men do when women went upstairs?

“If you’ll give me a few moments upstairs…” That seemed altogether too rude. “There are books, if you’d like—”

Silas stepped forward until all of him touched all of her. She had to crane her neck to see his face, and the heat in his gaze stole her breath. It was like standing on stage as her voice swelled with the orchestra.

He brushed his lips against hers. “If it won’t frighten you, I would prefer to come upstairs with you now.”

Zara grasped his hand and led the way, lifting a lamp as she went. If the flame shook, she could blame the draft.

There weren’t a great many rooms in the house, and she’d chosen the one furthest from the street. It was done in her favorite shade of green, and it lacked the lace and gathered ruffles her mother had declared feminine. The simplicity helped calm Zara’s mind. It also made it easier to clean.

Silas stopped in the doorway. “I never considered… Did you share… Was this…”

His sudden discomfort made her relax. It was easier to smile, to tease, to flirt as she tugged him over the threshold. “No. He preferred to sleep next to the opera.”

She turned toward the fireplace, but he tugged her back and lowered his lips to hers. “Are you cold, Zara?”

The way he said her name stoked the fire already kindling under her skin. His kiss pushed the flames higher. When his hungry mouth traveled to her jaw, she melted against him.

“The sheets may be icy,” she warned as she tilted her chin to give him access to any part of her he wanted, then tunneled her fingers through his rich, soft hair.

“I don’t think I’ll notice.” His breath soaked into her ear and curled around her nipples, tightening them until her clothes were torture.

Zara wanted rid of them, but she couldn’t let him go. “Silas.”

“Let me.” He turned her and began unfastening her dress as his breath scorched her shoulder and his hair teased her ear. “You smell like summer.”

Her bodice slackened, and she pushed free of it. She was unfastening her corset before her skirt pooled at her feet. As the last hook gave, she turned to face him.

All her life, Zara had been considered an asset, an artist, or some sort of angel. A statue who happened to sing. And, like a marble woman in a museum, people had stared out of curiosity, jealousy, or awe. Since Edgar’s death, they’d watched for her to fall apart.

Silas stared like he wanted to devour her for dessert. When he held out his hand, she walked to him as a real, living woman.

He was naked from the waist up, his chest a wall of muscle decorated by a dusting of dark, curly hair. It clung to her fingers as she found the hot skin beneath.

“God, yes.”

Silas’s soft groan sounded very much like a prayer, but the look on his face had nothing to do with worship, at least not the heavenly kind.

It darkened as she followed the trail over his taut stomach.

Her fingers stopped at his waistband, but her gaze continued to the ridge beneath his trousers. Anticipation curled her toes.

“How do I take down your hair?” he asked.

Zara reached for the heavy pin, but he was there first, pulling it free with a flourish that left her dizzy. The pin clattered to the floor, and her hair uncoiled, snaking around her spine until it reached her waist, where it unfurled.

He closed what little distance there was between them. As their lips and tongues met, as fingers tunneled into hair, her shift separated her nipples from his chest, and his trousers kept his manhood a secret.

Zara slid her hands to his waist, eager to free him. The buttons gave way, but his smalls proved more difficult to conquer. Instead, she curled her hand around his shaft still in its cotton sheath. It was her turn to gasp. He was long and thick, hard as a rock and hot, even through the fabric.

Silas dragged his lips from hers and pushed the rest of his clothes to the floor. Zara slid her fingers beneath her silky cotton shift and let it whisper to the carpet.

In Italy, they’d told stories of gods who came to earth to make mischief and find love. The art depicted all of them naked and careless of who saw. Silas could have stood with them. Except his body would have made Jupiter green with envy.

He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, and the moisture there glimmered in the light. “You are the loveliest woman I will ever see, and I have no idea where to touch you first.”

Knees shaking, Zara stepped forward, took his length in her hand, and stroked until he was thrusting against her palm, dancing in a sensual rhythm she controlled. “I am not a princess. Don’t treat me as one.”

Silas lifted her from the floor, took two long strides, and dropped her onto the bed. Her breasts bounced once before he captured one in his hand and lowered his mouth to the other.

Zara twisted against the coverlet, eager to feel him everywhere. Need tightened her like a bowstring, building to a crescendo that was far too early in the song.

The mattress shifted as he positioned himself and slid inside her with one long stroke, deep enough to steal her breath. His eyes met hers. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.” The only thing making her ache was his stillness. Too shy to plead, she used her heels to encourage him.

Ignoring her body’s struggle to keep him close, he withdrew and waited, his grin growing more wicked as she whimpered with need. When he returned, he used his thumb to tease her where they were joined, which let him slide impossibly deeper.

Zara arched from the bed, joining him in a duet with no lyrics but desire.

“Dear God, how did I get so lucky?” he gritted out as he buried himself deep once again, but stayed this time, dragging her knees higher. His muscles shifted with every stroke, and his chest hair chafed her breasts with each harsh breath.

She screamed a chorus as his thrusts hit a spot that shattered her to pieces, again and again, and raked her nails over his slick back, urging him to continue. Or stop. She didn’t know which.

At the last moment, Silas wrestled free and spilled himself across her body rather than inside it. Zara wanted to weep at the emptiness.

“I know,” he panted in a whisper as he slid two fingers inside her and stroked her to a shuddering encore.

He pushed himself from the mattress but trailed his fingers down her arm as though he were reluctant to leave. “Where’s your washbasin?”

Zara motioned to the screen in the corner. She was aware of the picture she made, spread-eagled and panting, boneless and naked atop the tangled bedclothes, but she could do nothing but breathe and smile. Water splashed, first from the pitcher into the basin and then over his skin as he bathed.

The carpet muffled his footsteps, and his breathing teased her ears, coaxing her lungs to find the same rhythm. Her quiet, cold house was full of warm, glorious life.

“You look pleased with yourself.” Silas chuckled as he wiped a wet cloth over her stomach.

“Cold,” she mumbled.

“Best I can do.” He rinsed the cloth and continued smoothing it over her skin. When he reached her legs, he stopped long enough to untie her garters.

“My stockings are still on.” Zara giggled.

“So were mine, if it helps.” He dragged his fingers from her hip to her ankle, pulling her stocking with them. “I forgot everything else once you touched me.”

Desire flickered to life, impossibly quick given how sated she’d been moments earlier. She held Silas’s gaze as he removed her other stocking, watched his lips tilt and his eyes twinkle.

Watched him kneel at the edge of the bed. Felt his breath on her thigh.

“Oh, dear God,” she whimpered before she clapped her palm over her mouth.

She sang anyway. A private solo only for him.

*

The fire caught in the grate and warmed his toes on its way to chasing the chill from the room. There was a little coal in the bin, enough to warm the room before Zara fell asleep. That explained the heavy robe and knitted slippers hanging near the basin.

It would also explain the fingerless gloves beside her knitting basket, and the meager supply of coal in her tower office.