Page 23

W illiam strode through Soho's narrow streets, the stench pressing down on him. When night fell, the city shed its morality, pleasure clashing with ruin on every corner. Opium dens, nunneries, gin shops, brothels, gaming hells… They all had their doors open, luring men into pawning their control and allowing passion to consume their souls. A precipice. Passion led men to the edge of a precipice.

Why would Farley risk his life and name?

William knew why. Who was he fooling? Didn't he grapple with such forces every day, every night? What did his relationship with Helene make of him? A wanderer staring at the precipice, gazing at its depths. The fall beckoned—a siren's call of moist kisses and obliterated will.

No. That was not him. That could not be him. A radical journalist might lose control, but not the Duke of Albemarle. He could not risk his legacy, the dukedom.

William opened Helene's door, bracing himself to encounter the fruit of his temptation.

Helene's scent enveloped him, a calming mist. The world quieted, the chaos outside muted by her presence.

She had her leg on the barre, her torso draped gracefully over it. A thin cotton chemise and sheer pantalets clung to her, revealing more than concealing her pearly skin.

She hummed a gentle ballad, her throaty voice a siren's call to his heart.

William closed his eyes, trying to calm the rioting thoughts. Still, they bombarded him. How far was he from Farley, from others who allowed passion to rule them? His desire for Helene surpassed any reason. What would he do for her? The real question was—what would he not do for her?

If loving her were punishable by death, would he refrain?

Smiling, she glanced at him over her shoulder. "I'm almost done."

William pushed away from the door and came behind her, muscles tense, breathing heated. A perfect dissonance to her cool grace. How could she be so in control? When flames licked him at the mere sight of her?

William crushed her to his chest, burying his face against her hair, needing to reassure himself that no one would enter through that door and take her away from him.

"Is something wrong?" Helene sought his gaze in the mirror. "Did the country give you trouble today?"

"Controlling it would be easier if it weren't for all the people."

The people, their secrets, their passions. And he was no different.

She caressed his cheek. "Nobody can be in control all the time."

William's jaw tensed. "What do you know of control?"

She lifted her arched brows. "I can control my body anyway I wish—balance, breathing, even my face. I can give you a few lessons if you wish."

The irony. She, who robbed him of control, wanted to be his teacher.

He lifted his hand, tracing the shape of her ribs. "Are you so sure?"

Effortlessly, she lifted her leg above the barre and circled it in a beautiful arc. And then—without shifting her gaze from the mirror—she curved her knee behind him in attitude derrière .

His breath stilled.

In the reflection, her leg embraced him.

Pale skin against his black coat.

Her eyes glinted, provocative, filled with sensual mischief. His sprite challenged him.

"Careful," William said. "She who tempts can also taste temptation's flame."

William descended his hand from her hips to her thigh. Her breath caught, and she tensed to lower her leg.

"Not yet," he commanded.

With a flick, he drew her chemise up, baring the flat plane of her belly. His hand spanned her waist, fingers splayed wide, possessive. Then lower, past the delicate rise of her hipbone, inch by forbidden inch… until his palm covered her mound.

She held her stance, but he felt the shudder pass through her.

Her sex, barely veiled by sheer cotton, was open to him—ripe, offered, trembling with control and the lack of it. He traced the soft cleft, teasing the outer lips, savoring the tension vibrating through her thighs.

Still watching her in the mirror, he found her clitoris through the thin fabric and stroked—slow, then quick, then slow again, until her breath hitched.

All his life, he had leashed himself, this thing inside him… The sprite had been luring him to the precipice for so long that it was only fair that he brought her to dance at the edge. What would she look like in the throes of passion? The temptation made his mouth water.

He stopped. Just when her lips parted in silent protest, he released the tapes at her waist.

Her pantalettes loosened, slipping an inch to reveal her hipbones.

The garment was held by nothing but her raised leg.

Color crept across her chest, bloomed along her throat, touched her cheeks like firelight.

But she didn't look away. When he freed her thigh, she lowered it with a dancer's grace—trailing her foot along his spine, the whisper of skin on wool igniting sparks up his neck.

Desire coursed through him, making his cock throb.

The pantalettes fluttered to the floor in a whisper of cotton.

She stood naked before him. His muse. His downfall.

"Keeping to the principle of equality," she murmured, her voice a slow caress, "shouldn't you shed your clothes as well?"

Her eyes—half-lidded, gleaming with challenge—pierced his restraint.

William stilled.

If he stripped, if he allowed even a single layer to fall… there would be nothing left to separate the man from the beast.

"I don't believe in democracy, Helene."

Sliding behind her, he cupped her breasts, the weight of them perfect against his palms—plush, warm, offering themselves like sacred fruit to a pagan god. He thumbed her nipples with firm flicks, watching in the mirror as they peaked under his touch.

Before she could counter with another wicked quip, he turned her in his arms, hands splayed on her bare hips. Her eyes widened—just a fraction—before he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to her neck.

He traced her pulse with his tongue, tasting the heat rising in her skin. His lips explored the delicate curve of her shoulder, the graceful lines of her spine. His heart was about to burst. A being of grace and youthful mischief—all his.

Lowering his head, he captured an entire breast in his mouth. He sucked deeply, letting his tongue roll over the sensitive tip. She arched, her fingers curling reflexively against his shoulders—but still she held back, holding her breath like it was a game.

He kissed his way back up her body, leaving a trail of heat. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, but she hadn't yet surrendered.

"Open your legs for me."

She obeyed with maddening grace, swinging one knee, parting for him like a blooming rose. The invitation was silent, sensual, and utterly devastating.

"Good girl." The words slid from his tongue like silk soaked in sin.

Holding her thigh steady, he pressed the heel of his hand against her mound—just enough pressure to tease, to make her tremble. Then, slowly, he slid a single finger inside her. Just the tip. Just enough to make her want more.

Her moan was soft, but it vibrated through her like a shiver in a bowstring.

His gaze locked on hers.

That sound, that tremor, that need… he wanted more than just to hear it.

He wanted to summon it. Shape it. Command it.

He withdrew, then circled her entrance again—coaxing her to open wider, to beg without words. Every flick of his finger, every lazy swirl, was a promise—she was his.

Not just her body. Not just her desire. Her surrender.

"When I thrust my cock inside of you, I want you to scream my name."

"The school of Tyrants doesn't teach humility, does it?" Her lips curved in mocking delight. "Because you will need it when you mouth my name."

"Mouth your name?" What sort of challenge was that?

Closing her eyes, she licked her lips. "I have neighbors. They would object to your shouting."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Wicked, impossible woman.

Withdrawing his finger in one slow, tormenting slide, he watched the muscles in her stomach tighten.

She cursed in French. "Oh, it is wicked of you, Your Grace, to tempt me like this."

William caught her lip between his teeth, biting down just enough to make her shudder—then drew her tongue into his mouth like a man parched.

"You are the temptress," he growled, "and this…" he thrust two fingers into her slick heat, "is my temptation."

The room became scorching, their breathing loud, rasping the silence. With a hiss, he undid the placket of his trousers, freeing his cock—hard, heavy, throbbing with the kind of hunger that bordered on obsession.

She lifted a passé—graceful, maddening.

But he caught her before she could finish the step.

His grip on her thigh was possessive as he drew it higher—up, higher still—until it hooked over his shoulder.

Their bodies crashed together, sweat to wool, silk to flesh. Her back arched. His hands cupped her bare bottom, lifting her to the perfect height. He found her entrance with the head of his cock and surged forward.

One hard thrust.

He was buried to the root.

Helene's gasp echoed through the silent apartment.

"Yes, Little One," he groaned against her throat, biting the tender curve. "Lose your breath for me."

A moan, ragged and full of surrender, tore from her lips as her head fell back. She responded sweetly now, her movements less calculated.

Buried deep inside her, William's hand slid down her side, and he watched in the mirror as her skin rippled under his touch. Helene arched in her pleasure, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parting, milky limbs entwined with his—like a panting Greek statue, a master of her art even while yielding to him.

As his erection moved in and out of her, the Duke of Albemarle stared back at him, in control and armored in his suit. But his eyes... his eyes burned with possessive fire.

Her lips quivered, and the muscles of her spine trembled. Sustaining her leg up had to be exhausting.

He withdrew, slow and slick, the parting drag of his cock a lingering torment.

"Non, non! Don't take it off."

"Just a bit, Little One."

He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her bare form like a precious, wicked secret. Her limbs curled around him instinctively as he carried her to the bed. William set her down gently, guiding her onto her stomach. He took his time, arranging pillows beneath her hips, lifting her up like an offering.

The view stole his breath.

She lay exposed before him, spine arched, legs parted. Her slick folds glistened in the candlelight, open and wet for him. The slope of her back, the dip of her waist, the perfect curve of her ass—divine architecture.

He palmed her cheeks, spreading them slowly. With one hand, he traced lazy circles over her skin, feather-light, almost ticklish. Then he dipped between her folds, testing her wetness.

Helene whimpered, her face pressing against the sheets.

With a harsh breath, he guided his cock back into her—one long, deliberate thrust that had her moaning into the linens. She arched in response.

Her orgasm was close, but he needed more passion, more abandon. He rolled his hips in slow, punishing strokes, holding her by the waist as he rocked into her. Each movement built her higher—but when her body tightened, close to release, he withdrew.

She whimpered, limbs languid, hips twitching in protest. He started again, guiding it with one hand, feeding it inside her. She rolled her derrière, seeking more contact, more friction.

He withdrew nearly to the tip. Then slammed home, deep and hard.

Her body jolted. A cry tore from her throat.

Leaning forward, he cupped her breasts from behind, molding them in his hands. Then he bent low, brushing his lips over the tender spot just below her ear.

"Scream my name, Helene."

Mumbling in French, she shook her head.

He withdrew again, slowly, letting her feel every inch leave her.

She groaned in frustration.

"Come back inside me," she gasped, voice hoarse with need.

He obeyed—but on his terms.

One slow thrust, and he was sheathed again. A shudder raced through her as her body clenched around him. He began to move—grinding into her with rhythmic power, retreating almost entirely, then plunging back in. Her hips met his in wild harmony, her moans rising in pitch, threaded with mewling cries that drove him insane.

Her pleasure filled the room. Every gasp. Every moan. Every sweet, broken sound.

Still, he wanted more. Not just her voice. Not just her body.

Her soul.

With a swift motion, he pulled out and rolled her onto her back. Her flushed skin glowed, slick and shining. Her hair was a wild halo. Her thighs fell open for him, no hesitation, only need.

He slid between them, pressing her hips into the mattress. With one thrust, he was inside her again, their bodies aligning perfectly, heart to heart.

"I can't—please."

She writhed beneath him, her breath coming in ragged sobs of pleasure.

With her hair plastered over her face, whipping wildly as he pounded her sweet sex, she was his every erotic fantasy come true, and yet he stayed firm, controlling himself and her.

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear, voice low and smoky. "Look at us."

Her eyes fluttered open, and he tilted her face to the mirror.

"See how beautiful you are."

Their gazes locked in the glass.

She moaned at the sight—the way her body moved against his, the contrast of her naked form tangled with his clothed one, the sheen of sweat, the rawness of pleasure.

He ground his hips into her, rubbing his pelvis against her clit, then reached down to flick it, again and again.

She thrashed, she begged, she arched, she trembled.

"Fly, love," he whispered, lips against her temple. "I'll catch you."

And fly she did.

Passion ignited in her gaze, glittered like sunlight on water across her damp skin, crescendoed in her breath, and poured from her sex in slick, pulsing waves.

"William," she cried, her voice breaking. "William!"

His name on her lips, in her body, was the most sacred prayer he'd ever heard.

He angled his hips and gave her exactly what she needed—deep friction that stroked her from the inside out.

Her sob broke through him. Her channel spasmed, pulling him deeper, and he nearly wept at the feel of her, opening, breaking, trusting. His.

Pushing his weight into his forearms, he braced himself to hold her through every wave, every flicker of pleasure that rippled across her face.

Her eyes shimmered like liquid jewels, a gaze that begged his surrender, even as he remained above her, within her, inside her very soul.

He felt himself come in long, uncontrollable bursts—shuddering into her, trembling with the force of it.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Could only watch her. Sweat beaded on her flushed skin, trailing down her chest like droplets on chilled champagne left out in summer's heat. Her breasts rose and fell in time with her ragged breaths. Her mouth remained parted, kiss-swollen, and dazed. She was the very picture of bliss, of surrender in its most glorious form.

At that moment, all the titles he bore turned to ashes. All that mattered was her body, soft and trembling beneath his, and the exquisite ache swelling in his chest.

She had given him this. She had trusted him with her pleasure—and he'd seen her soar.

How did it feel to let go like that?

Impossible. Such passion was forbidden to him. He could not forget Farley, Rodrick, his mother.

When William began to ease away, her arms locked around him, and she gasped his name, as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

A fierce protectiveness roared through him, an aching need to shield her, keep her soft, keep her safe.

He bent, brushing a reverent kiss to her cheek, then drew her atop him—tangled, naked, boneless with bliss. Her limbs curled like ivy around him, and her breath fanned against his collarbone.

"Shhh, Little One," he murmured. His hand smoothed down the slope of her spine. "Fear not the fall. When you fly, I will always catch you."

He licked the tears from her cheeks, his tongue lingering against her skin.

She was seared into him now. The memory of her soaring was etched into his bones.

He had found a new purpose—she was the winged being, and he was her falconer, guiding her flight.

Helene nuzzled his chest, then her hand slipped beneath the linen of his shirt to touch the bare skin over his heart.

A jolt shot through him, and his breath faltered.

"Helene," he whispered, raw.

She smiled against his throat, and the curve of her lips sent a shiver down his spine.

"You mouthed my name." She lifted her face, eyes gleaming with afterglow and mischief. "I win."