Page 57 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

W hen they returned to the Paynes’ townhouse, dawn was already breaking. However, both physically and emotionally drained, they needed rest.

Lady Payne kindly prepared a separate chamber for Emir, allowing him to rest in his filthy state. She ordered a bath and food to be ready for him when he woke up.

Leila was reluctant to let him out of her sight, even for a moment, but she needed to speak with Gideon before exhaustion overtook her. Emir needed his rest in privacy, anyway.

“The Emerald Room is still yours,” Lady Payne called over her shoulder as they reached the stairs. “Take all the time you need.”

Gideon was already waiting in the corridor outside her assigned chamber. Leila took his hand and led him inside.

“You can stay in my house,” Gideon said without preamble, turning to face her once the door was closed behind them. “Now that the threat from the Cardinal is over, I assume it’s safe to return there.”

“I can’t,” Leila replied immediately, not trusting herself to consider the offer for even a moment.

“Why not?” His face was carefully guarded, and his tone was neutral.

Leila moved to the window, needing physical distance to maintain her resolve. “I can’t openly spend nights with you while my brother shares the same roof,” she said. “I don’t want—I want to be a good example for him from now on.”

Gideon was quiet for a long moment, processing her words, then nodded. “What are you going to do now?”

The question she had been dreading forced her to articulate the decision that was tearing her apart. “I think…” she began, then stopped, took a breath, and started again with more conviction. “I think it’s best for us to go home. Back to Smyrna.”

He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. “I have means,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I can buy you a house here—something respectable, with proper staff. You can settle here with Emir and establish yourselves in society. With the right introductions and connections—”

“And do what?” Leila interrupted, turning from the window to face him directly.

“Be your mistress? Support him with your money while everyone whispers about the foreign woman who shares the duke’s bed?

” She shook her head firmly. “I can’t do that.

I can’t accept it, Gideon. I want my life to be different.

I don’t want to support myself by selling my favors, no matter how tempting the cage. It’s still a cage.”

“That’s not what it would be,” he protested.

“What then?” she challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. “What would you call a woman who lives in a house you provide, wears clothes you buy, eats food you pay for, all in exchange for warming your bed whenever you choose to visit?”

Gideon fell silent, as they both knew that was exactly what the arrangement would entail, regardless of the affection between them.

Leila pressed on, needing him to understand the impossibility of their situation.

“I was a revered member of society here when everyone thought I was a diplomat’s wife, when they believed I had a role, a purpose, a place in the world.

But now…” She gestured helplessly. “A foreigner, a Muslim, a woman with no work or mission. I will be a nobody.”

“Not to me,” he said quietly.

“To you, I will be a mistress,” she replied, the word twisting inside her. “And Emir will be humiliated, reduced to living off the charity of his sister’s lover. No, I want a better life for him than that.”

Gideon ran his hands through his hair, clearly searching for an argument that might change her mind. “Then at least take some money,” he said finally. “I can write you a bank draft, something to ensure you’re comfortable while you reestablish yourselves—”

“I can’t accept that,” Leila said immediately.

“Not for you,” he pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. “For Emir. He’s been through hell. Take just enough to keep him comfortable while you search for a way to make an honest living. Don’t let pride prevent you from giving him what he needs.”

Leila shook her head. “We can manage on our own. I need to show him that.”

“Fine,” Gideon said, his voice taking on a harder edge. “Not from me, then. But from Townsend’s stash—you earned that money. You suffered for it, bled for it. It’s rightfully yours.”

“Dirty blood money?” Leila’s voice carried a note of disgust. “Money earned through murder, betrayal, and the suffering of innocents? No, thank you.”

“What will you accept, then?” he asked quietly. “There must be something—some way I can help you.”

Leila was loath to accept his help, but she knew she needed it regardless. “Two passages back to Smyrna,” she said just above a whisper. “Some clothes suitable for the journey.” She paused, then added with painful honesty, “And a kiss.”

Gideon moved before she finished the sentence, crossing the room in quick strides to cup her face in his hands. When his lips met hers, it was with a desperation she hadn’t felt from him before.

The kiss was long and passionate, his mouth exploring hers as if trying to memorize every sensation, every taste, every corner of her mouth. His hands roamed her body with the reverent touch of a man saying goodbye, tracing the curves he would never touch again, the skin he would never kiss.

When he moved to break the kiss, she clutched at his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fine linen of his shirt. “No,” she whispered against his mouth. “Not yet.”

Something snapped within him.

He growled low in his throat and slammed her back against the door with enough force to rattle it in its frame. The impact was biting yet pleasant. Leila relished his weight pinning her against the door.

His mouth found hers again—biting, devouring, bruising. She answered him with the same urgency, kiss for kiss, bite for bite.

His hands roamed her body, touching her breasts, her waist, then moving lower until he cupped her through the fabric of her salvar. She arched into him, grinding her hips against his touch, her hands pulling at his shirt.

With a growl of frustration, Gideon ripped her salvar down the middle with a loud tear, seams splitting beneath his fingers until the fabric hung in tattered strips around her legs. Leila whimpered.

He yanked down the waistband of his trousers, freeing himself, while his other hand snaked back to settle between her thighs. He found her slick and ready for him, and the sound he made was guttural, almost broken.

She gasped as he lifted her easily, pinning her hips between the hard door and his body. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, and then—without warning—he thrust into her with a force that made them both cry out.

He was large and hot, filling her pleasantly just where she needed him. Where she had needed him all her life.

She dug her nails into his shoulders, moaning as he drove into her over and over, fast and deep and desperate for more.

“Yes, Gideon, more,” Leila urged him on, taking each of his thrusts with breathless moans. He stretched her just right, hitting that spot just above her center with every contact that made pleasure pool low in her belly.

He gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise, his hips slamming into hers as if he could bury himself so deep he’d never have to let her go. And all Leila wanted was more of him. More. Harder. Faster.

The door shook behind them with every thrust, the wood creaking in protest.

Their mouths met again and again, not kissing now but clashing—teeth, tongue, breath, tears.

Her cries were swallowed by his mouth, his groans muffled by the curve of her shoulder.

Hands clawed over skin, memorizing every inch, every shiver, every scar and softness as if touch alone could make the moment eternal.

She came first, writhing against him, her body pulsing around his with blinding intensity. Her nails dug into his back, her cries sharp and helpless as her climax tore through her. He followed seconds later, slamming into her one last time, spilling into her with a hoarse groan.

They stayed like that—pressed together, panting, shaking, still joined.

His forehead rested against hers, both of them soaked in sweat, hearts pounding as one.

He cupped her face and placed a slow, reverent kiss on her lips.

Then, gently and unhurriedly, he pulled out and set her down, her legs trembling as they touched the floor. His hands lingered at her waist for a moment longer, fingers brushing her skin in a final, reluctant caress.

Without a word, he straightened his clothes, tucking himself away, his breathing still ragged. He ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair, his eyes fixed somewhere far beyond her.

Then he turned the handle and walked out the door.

* * *

The morning of Leila and Emir’s departure was grey and drizzling, the London sky weeping in sympathy with Leila’s mood.

Emir, on the other hand, was filled with nervous excitement, his dark eyes bright with anticipation as he supervised the packing of their belongings.

The prospect of returning home, seeing familiar sights, and hearing his native language spoken freely in the streets energized him in a way that mere rest and good food could not.

“Just think, Abla,” he said, carefully folding one of the shirts Gideon had provided.

He had sent a modiste with orders to fill both their closets to the brim, and now they had to transport it all to Smyrna.

“Soon we’ll see the harbor at Smyrna again, smell the spices in the market, hear the call to prayer echoing over the water. We’ll be home.”

Leila nodded and made appropriate sounds of agreement, but her heart felt heavy in her chest.

She didn’t want to go. She had made friends here in Lady Payne and Lady St. John—real friends, she thought—who cared about her regardless of her status, her financial standing, or her past.