Page 17 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

“Would you like this?” he murmured against her hair.

Cressida nodded. Every moment felt lush, rich, drawn-out… she dared not speak and break the spell.

He kissed the top of her head, one hand teasing at her hardened nipple. The other continued to stroke along the slit in her drawers, gradually increasing in pressure.

“Are you quite sure?” he rumbled devilishly.

“Of course I am,” she said, grabbing his wrist, halting the torment. “If you’ll recall…” She pushed his hand back down, past her curls, until his fingers lay atop her lips. “I believe I’ve fancied you removing my underthings from the moment I first saw you.”

He froze. “Is that true?”

“Of course it is,” she hissed, bucking against him impatiently.

He chuckled, but Cressida allowed it, for at least he slid his thick fingers within, then his thumb. She sighed happily, writhing back against him. She relaxed into him, his thumb circling the center of her pleasure while two fingers dipped inside, and he began to build into a pleasant rhythm.

“I doubt the same could be said for you,” she added, her tension building. She bit back a moan as she glanced down to appreciate the sight of his hands feeling her underneath her chemise, fucking her underneath her drawers.

“Why do you say that?”

Goodness, had his voice always sounded this delicious?

“I nearly had to beg you to accept my affec—oh, Doctor.” Her breath hitched and she breathed, “Just like that, please.”

Cressida allowed her eyes to flutter closed. She felt so hot, so tense. And his voice was so rough, but oh, did she adore it. If only she’d known he’d be like this, she’d have pursued him more aggressively.

“You’re so bashful and—” Her voice caught as she approached the final reaches of her anticipation.

“Am I now?” he said, voice low and rasping, his hand tightening over her breast.

Then she called out, and unraveled herself against him. Thrusting back and upward, extending her body as far as she might, willing the sparking hot pleasure to reach the tips of each extremity. Gasping, pushing against waves of ecstasy, she welcomed every second of it, praised the heavens for it. And then she went limp. Dr. Collier held her back against him with seemingly little effort.

Still awash in the aftershocks of her climax, Cressida felt him lift her, cradling her against his wide chest. She placed her hands against it, plucking at his woolen undervest.

They broke apart as he set her upon the bed. Cressida melted into the coverlet, noting how much rougher than her own bed-linens it felt. Her skin felt positively electric, every sensation heightened. She sighed happily, dimly aware of the sound of rustling about her, of undergarments being shed.

And then he grabbed her by the hips. Cressida’s breath caught.

Dr. Collier stood over her, nude. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick and ropy, his chest a topography of hard, muscled planes. His cock was everything she’d hoped for since before she’d first felt it hard against her back. He was perfect, truly magnificent. Nothing like the soft bodies of idling aristocrats. Nothing like Bartholomew’s overlarge paunch and rheumy eyes. Cressida shooed the thought away and reached up to touch, one finger tracing along the soft line of sandy hair down his middle.

“Bashful now, am I?” he taunted, stroking his length slowly.

“Hmm. I don’t believe I’ve experienced enough to properly judge.”

The doctor gave her a look that would make lesser women swoon. But Cressida returned his roguish smile with one of her own.

“Remove your drawers,” he commanded.

What could she do but comply? Keeping her gaze locked upon his, rising to his challenge, she wriggled out, then kicked the linen underthings across the floor.

“Now the chemise,” he said, his voice gravelly.

“I have to say,” Cressida said as she fiddled with the few buttons, “I’m quite enchanted with this presentation of Dr. Collier.” She lifted the chemise over her head, her voice slightly muffled. “Where have you been hiding him?”

Tossing her final undergarment aside as if it wasn’t the finest and most expensive chemise to be found in London, Cressida leaned back, cocking one leg coquettishly. She knew which were her finest features, knew just how spectacular she was.

A muscle tensed in his jaw, and his hand ceased stroking, though it remained wrapped around his prick. For several moments they were both still, Cressida proudly reveling in his heated stare.

“Ah, there he is, my wee lamb,” she purred, breaking the silence. “Be a dear and fetch my preventive?”

He moved at her bidding, walking back to the chair where the pile of their clothing lay.

“I believe my reticule is by the door,” she offered.

“No need,” he said, producing a narrow box from his jacket pocket.

“Oh,” she said. “You’ve considered the implications, were I to…”

“To conceive?” he said as he withdrew a condom. “Of course I have. I’m a doctor.”

Cressida looked away as he slid it on, feeling her cheeks warm. It was no small thing, not to her. Never before had one of her paramours thought to arrive at a rendezvous with the proper precautions. No, it had fallen to Cressida to always consider her future, to keep her reputation secure.

His massive form dipped the bed as he sat alongside her.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Cressida closed her eyes shyly at the tender gesture.

He guided her face back to his, kissing her gently at first, then deeper, hungrier. Soon she was in his arms, her breasts crushed against his chest. He pulled her into his lap. Cressida fell back into a pleasant haze, enjoying his masculine smell, the taste of him, how hard and solid he felt with his arms encircling her. Soon he lay back and maneuvered her atop him with ease.

“My lady,” he said, breaking their kiss, “take your pleasure from me.” He kissed her again, long and deep. Cressida could practically hear her heart beating. “Please, my lady.”

She smiled, and pushed him back into the pillows. With a happy sigh, she shifted her hips until she’d scooted back enough to feel him hard against her slickness. Reaching down, she positioned him just at her entrance. Now it was his turn to gasp, to come undone under her ministrations.

“That’s lovely, that,” she said, reaching up to flip her hair over her shoulders.

Dr. Collier grunted as he took hold of her hips.

“Impatient, are we?” Cressida chided, steeling her body against what was to come. His fingers dug into her flesh in a pleasing manner.

“My lady,” he repeated, voice straining. “You’ve tormented me long enough.”

“Have I?”

“You vixen,” he breathed, and thrust upward into her, pulling her down over him in the same movement.

Cressida cried out. He filled her, stretched her, then pulled back and thrust again. An exquisite, molten satisfaction spread outward from her middle. It had been so long.

“I thought I was meant to have my pleasure,” she managed between harried breaths.

“Then take it,” he rushed, panting as he moved her against him. “I… I don’t think it’ll be long before…”

His words trailed off as Cressida fondled her own breast.

“ Christ . Yes, touch yourself,” he moaned.

She bit her lower lip, moving her hips against his, matching his intensity and rhythm. His face was set hard in concentration, his mouth open. How handsome he looked, even now, without his spectacles and in such a state. How had he not been hooked by some marriage-minded simpleton with a conniving mama? Cressida wondered at it, even as she rolled her nipples between her fingers. I was not certain , his voice echoed in her memory. She moaned as his thrusts became harder, more insistent. Of this , at least, she supposed he must be certain. The congress of two bodies, healthy and supple, unattached and unencumbered. A beautiful thing, Cressida reckoned, her fingers now circling her aching clitoris.

“What a surprise you are, Dr. Collier,” she whispered, not far from a second climax.

“Call me Matthew,” he rumbled.

“Matthew,” she breathed, cresting over that hill once more.

He cried out as she did, pulling her down into his arms, holding her tight against him as he finished. They remained like that, warm and heady, their bodies still joined as their breath returned.

“Say it again,” he whispered, tightening his hold.

“Matthew,” she said, basking in a delectable, honeyed warmth.

He kissed the top of her head, then found her hand and laced his fingers through hers. She felt overwhelmed by a serenity she’d not known for the longest time. Once more she was a girl in her garden, the summer sun kissing her skin.

“This is nice,” he sighed.

It was.

A tiny curl of worry unfurled deep in her gut.

Matthew felt invincible. He’d lunched with Sir Frederick Catton not once, but twice. Both times in the off-putting strangers’ rooms of the Athenaeum, but it was still the Athenaeum. And even if he was still barred from their spectacular library, he did have access to one of the most estimable private libraries in London.

And he’d been with her. The cleverest, most beautiful, most elegant women in the world. Who wanted him, of all people. Not just once, nor even twice; thus far they’d met three times in the space of a week.

He still could not fathom why.

Just two months prior he’d been at a low point. Matthew felt a surge of anxiety just thinking of it all: Harriet in her wedding finery, the cold emptiness of his bed, the future opening like a yawning chasm before him, dark, empty, and lonesome. Which was why he’d dug himself deeper, seeking cheap thrills, the rush of winning something, anything. Even if it was over a lowly card cheat like Charles Sharples.

Yet as so many things had fallen into place, still the deadline of the approaching bank holiday loomed at the back of his mind and lodged itself in his chest. He hadn’t forgotten Fliss’s appearance at the steps of the Euston Station hotel, and his harassment of Lady Caplin.

Matthew’s jaw tensed. It wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t see her caught up in his mess. It was time to do something about it.

But what? Pay the scoundrel off and reveal himself as a mark? He would never rest until the end of his days; Sharples would turn up on Matthew’s doorstep whenever he was short a few pounds. He would constantly be on edge, incapable of enjoying Lady Caplin’s library or her company, to say nothing of what the members of the Athenaeum would think. And he needed their votes if he were to have a chance at membership.

The only alternative he could think of—pummeling the brigand until he learned never to darken Matthew’s door—was appalling. It made his stomach turn, made him wish he were made of something else. Something colder, harder.

Matthew frowned at the tumbler in his hand.

“Not to your taste, Collier?” Marcus Hartley, the honorable MP for Knockton, inquired.

“It bloody well better be,” Thomas Rickard grumbled from across the room, holding his own glass to his lips as he added, “For the cost.”

“No, no, er, it’s quite alright,” Matthew said to his friends, taking a sip as if to prove his point.

Rickard watched. The liquor went down smooth; Matthew nodded his appreciation.

“Very nice, I’d say.”

“Good,” Rickard muttered, reaching down to pet his dog, Burt. The gray, wiry-haired lurcher leaned into the affectionate gesture, his tail thumping against the floor. Rickard straightened up, then turned his attention back to the snooker table before him. “Your shot, Hartley.”

Marcus sighed, as if engaging in a casual game in Rickard’s home this August evening was an excruciating obligation. Still, he retrieved his cue and lined up his shot, his face serious as he considered the possibilities.

Matthew’s eyes also darted about the green baize table, mentally drawing the angles, envisioning what deviations from a ninety-degree separation different ball spins would impart.

“Erm,” he offered, “were we placing any wagers?”

“Wagers? Let’s see.” Hartley straightened up, glancing between his two companions. “Rickard, fancy emptying your pockets this evening?”

“Fuck no,” Rickard scoffed before taking another drink.

“Right then.” Hartley crouched back down, resuming his position. “No wagers.”

The cue ball hit its mark with a crack, scattering several ivory balls across the table.

“Nothing personal, Collier. It’s just I’ve already enough misery this week without adding on to the pile.”

“Funerals,” Rickard clarified, shaking his head.

As if in commiseration, Burt stood up and shook himself out, then crossed the room and settled down in a heap with a sigh.

“This one was slightly more entertaining than most, but alas, I’m usually loath to leave Lancashire, as you well know. Especially now, with Evelyn’s condition.”

Hartley, a young liberal who sat for Knockton, a rural northern borough, had left the city when Parliament rose nearly a fortnight ago to return to his wife, who was several months into her first pregnancy—and doing very well, in Matthew’s professional opinion. Unfortunately, the death of a fellow member had forced Hartley’s sudden return to London to pay his respects, as evinced by the somber black armband he wore.

“Entertaining?” Matthew echoed, his curiosity piqued. “What did he die of, again?”

“Liver-grown, I’d say. Last time I saw him he was terribly jaundiced.” Hartley crossed the room to the cue rack, retrieving another which he now brought to Matthew, holding it out to him.

Slightly chagrined that there was nothing on the line, Matthew took the cue. He approached the table, the ball configuration readily revealing the best options to him. Since there was no point in winning, he decided to practice trick shots, and chose the most difficult target to begin with.

“The man was a known eccentric. Army captain. Champion of the Scottish reform bill. Mad about horses. Had several of them hitched up to the hearse, a motley crew of a team.”

“Mad about drink, I’d suppose?” Matthew inquired as he leaned one hand upon the green felt, cue in position.

“Mad about a lot of things. He used to write letters to Gladstone, claiming James VI was murdered, and that he alone knew the culprit’s identity.”

“And what was the prime minister supposed to do about it?” Rickard asked, one hand smoothing his neatly trimmed beard.

“You know, I haven’t the foggiest?”

Even with nothing on the line, Matthew felt a slight rush as he struck the cue ball. It sent its target ricocheting off every rail before finally settling in the corner pocket, not one arm’s width from where it had begun.

“Well done,” Rickard gruffly acknowledged.

“A family history of madness, perhaps?” Matthew set his cue aside and retrieved his crystal tumbler. He adored a puzzle, and case studies were his forte.

“Perhaps,” Hartley agreed with a shrug. “But more likely a tendency to spin tales. The man was an inveterate gambler. Wildly unsuccessful as well.”

Matthew halted mid-sip, then swallowed the liquor with some effort.

“Dipsomania often appears hand in hand with problem gambling,” he said mildly, setting his drink on an end table.

He prayed his friends would not make the same connection he had, but the two men knew Matthew better than anyone. That is, to the extent he would allow. It was difficult, sometimes, to shed the habit of disappearing into the woodwork.

Rickard took his shot in the ensuing silence, the clacking of the balls the only sound in the room. Then he returned to his perch, leaning upon the arm of a leather couch.

“And what of you, Collier?

“What of me?”

“You’ve been scarce,” Rickard grumbled, staring straight ahead at the table. “As of late.”

“That’s true,” Hartley agreed, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table as he thought. “Evelyn keeps asking after you, when you’ll come for a visit. Although, a word of caution, I believe she’s keen to set her sister upon you.” Hartley smiled fondly. “She thinks I’ve not noticed, but, naturally, I have.”

“Sister?” Rickard asked.

“Well, sister-in-law. Her brother’s widow,” Hartley clarified.

Matthew’s chest tightened. He had nothing against widows. Just… he preferred a different widow. He must have done a poor job schooling his features, though, for his two friends shared a knowing look before glancing back to him.

“Say no more—I shall disabuse her of the idea immediately,” Hartley rushed out.

“She’s quite lovely, if I recall,” Matthew said, fiddling with his spectacles. He’d met the lady in question once, but she did not stand out in his mind as anything but aloof and pretty. Of course, she had been grieving at the time.

Still, he desired someone decidedly not aloof. Someone lively and passionate. His heart thudded.

“Say no more,” Hartley repeated with a wave of his hand. “I’ve already forgotten it. And so shall Evelyn, in time.”

Matthew nodded, his throat thick.

He felt uncomfortable, withholding from his two friends. Why, he’d known Rickard from the Crimean War—Matthew had patched him up after a bullet had nearly done him in. Later they’d spent many an evening at cards as Rickard convalesced. Then there had been a period of ten or so years in between in which, as Matthew understood it, Rickard had been abroad, making money hand over fist in the opium trade. But he’d returned to England, leaving that dubious occupation behind him, and he now headed his wife’s family business. Shoe polish. And Hartley, the man’s relation by marriage, had become a close confidant and companion in recent years. All three of them were professional men who made their way by strength of mind, unlike the soft and idle aristocratic class.

If he’d a mind to share his troubles, to let all the sorry, pathetic details of his recent mishaps with Charles Sharples and the raided spieler spill forth, they would come to his aid, without a doubt. Hartley, member of Parliament and solicitor, would no doubt know what to do to stay above board. And Rickard, a man who walked about as though he’d like nothing more than an excuse to plant a facer on the next person who crossed his path, would have his own… alternative solutions.

But Matthew couldn’t. He wouldn’t ask his friends to stick their necks out for him. Dr. Matthew Collier was many things, but what he dreaded being, more than anything, was an imposition.

An uneasiness hung in the air, thickened by Matthew’s silence. Across the room, the dog sneezed.

“Nothing troubling you, is there?” Rickard asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Not at all,” Matthew genially replied.