She’d thought she was in control. She was wrong. A gasp tore from her lungs and Rosalind flexed involuntarily. She wanted this, needed it. But she wanted to be here with him.
“Why?” she whispered, her thighs burning as she held herself above him. “What is he—are you—afraid of?”
Lynch smiled, a dark, wicked look that made her melt. “He’s afraid of me.” He gave a thrust. Earned another hot inch. “He’s afraid of letting me go.”
Rosalind clenched around him, riding just the head of his shaft. She took a calculated risk. Lynch’s darkness, his hungers, were just another part of him. If she couldn’t accept it, then how could he?
She threw her head back and sank down, embedding him to the hilt. Her skirts flowed over his stomach and chest and Lynch cried out in need as she took him.
So long since she’d had a man. So long since she’d wanted one. But she’d wanted this one from the start and that thought had terrified her. Rosalind met those black eyes and slowly, slowly arched up until just the tip of him penetrated her. A blue blood. Her worst fear once, but she was starting to realize that he was just a man, like any other. She sank her teeth into her lower lip with a groan and sank back down.
“Hell.” Lynch arched, his back jerking. “You feel so fucking good.”
“So do you,” she whispered, riding him slowly, firmly.
“Want to touch you…” His fists clenched and he tore at the chains.
Dare she? Rosalind’s eyes narrowed as she rolled her hips. She wanted his hands on her. Needed them. Reaching up, she tugged a pin from her hair and gave him a smoldering look.
Short work to undo the manacles around his wrists. Lynch grabbed her by the hips, jerking his body down the bed so that his knees bent and she was driven forward, impaled on his cock. The darkness in his eyes looked back at her, captured her.
“Yes,” she whispered, riding him faster, harder, as his hands on her hips urged her on.
Deft fingers slid beneath her skirts. “You look so prim,” he whispered. “I like it.” Then they were parting her drawers, stroking the hot, wet flesh that trembled so desperately.
“I like you,” she groaned. “Like this. I like you out of control, uninhibited.”
Doubt assailed the darkness. She saw it and moaned at the victory, even as his fingers wrought such delicious damage. They froze.
“I hurt you,” he said, as if remembering. “In Undertown.”
“No.” She rubbed against his fingers, urging him on. Grabbing his wrist, she pressed him harder against her. “You never hurt me. You never wanted to. All you wanted was this. To make me yours.”
Lynch shuddered, slivers of gray creeping into his eyes. Rosa sensed her victory and slowed, grinding herself against him. “I can’t remember,” he gasped. “I see…flashes of it… Of shoving you up against the wall —”
“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I like it when you’re rough with me. Besides…” Biting her lip on a groan. “What makes you think I can’t handle you? All of you?”
She came with an explosive jerk, her entire body singing with need. A soft scream died on her lips, her gloved fingers digging into his chest as she slumped over him.
“God,” she whispered. “Oh God.”
Somehow she met those wide eyes—gray eyes. Rosalind almost cried out again, her hand sliding over his cheek in tender desperation as he grabbed her hips and took control. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. All she could do was gasp as he thrust into her, driving them both to the edge…and over.
This time there was no coming back. Rosalind collapsed over his heaving chest, her body molten as the fingers on her right hand laced with his.
Lynch lifted his head, gasping. “Rosa?”
She sensed the difference in his tone and knew she’d won the battle. “I’m here,” she replied softly, then kissed the cool skin of his chest. His cock gave a little teasing clench inside her.
His hand slid into her hair and held her there, his other arm sliding around her in panic. “Don’t leave me. Don’t let me go.”
Rosalind nuzzled closer, her eyes closing sleepily. “I’m not letting you go. You don’t ever have to fear that again.”
A knock on the door woke him up.
Lynch dragged himself into a sitting position, the sheet pooling in his lap. Darkness skated through his vision and his fist clenched in the mattress before he took a deep breath. How long would it be like this? Every sudden move and sound stirring the hunger inside him? It terrified him that he was still so close to the darkness within. One wrong move and he could be lost in the shadows again, seeing nothing but prey.
Looking at his own men as if they were the enemy and as for Mrs. Marberry… He looked around then. There was no sign of her, beyond the faint, elusive scent that lingered on his sheets and his skin. Last night had been a revelation, both of the flesh and of herself. In the dark, he’d made love to her twice more as the hunger rose in him, sating himself on her flesh. In between, she’d curled in his arms, whispering with him. Quiet words. Little secrets. Bits of herself and some of the life she’d led on the streets before her father had found her. Of him, she said very little, and yet the not saying was telling enough.
She must have left him sometime during the night.
Scraping a shaking hand over his jaw, Lynch swallowed. “Come in.”
Doyle backed into the room, bringing a breakfast tray with a flask of warmed blood and the
How long, damn it?
“My lord.” Doyle stared at him, as though searching for signs of it in his face. “You’re lookin’ better this morn.”
Lynch nodded brusquely. “I feel it too.” Awkward silence descended and he gestured to his side table. The scent of the warmed blood spilled his vision over into tones of gray again, and his nostrils flared as he took tight rein of himself.
“Got the paper, sir.” Doyle rambled on, the same as any other morning. Or not quite the same. Tension stiffened his shoulders. “And your letters.”
“Anything of interest?”
“Two of them. The Council wishes a progress report—and to remind you that you got only two days left.”
“How kind of them.” His mood soured, black heat spilling through his eyes. Perhaps he should accept a meeting and show them what he thought of their solicitousness.
“And this.” Doyle held a scrap of paper up between his fingers, his brows arching. “One o’ your little pigeons, no doubt.”
Lynch took the folded note, eyeing the frayed edges and the stained parchment. None of the boys he paid for information could read or write. Anticipation became a sharp edge within him. He tore it open, gaze raking the few lines.
“
He didn’t recognize the writing, but he knew who it was from immediately. Tension coiled in his gut muscle, the thought of Mrs. Marberry springing to mind. Her husky laugh as she lay in his arms last night, her eyes sparkling with teasing humor as she lifted her lips to press a tender kiss against his pectoral muscle. By going to meet Mercury, he was effectively pretending nothing had changed when the entire world had shifted around him.
But the letter… Dare he ignore it?
