She shook her head, leaning in and whispering to the tip of him, “Have you imagined this?”

  What was the right answer? Should he tell her how he’d imagined it? A dozen times? A hundred, on her knees just like this? Her hands on him? Her beautiful lips just barely open, waiting for him? How he’d stroked his cock and come in thick ropes, wishing she were there to catch them?

  He couldn’t tell her that.

  He didn’t have to. “You have,” she said, knowledge and something else in her words. Something breathless. Like pleasure. “I can see it. You’ve imagined me here, yours.”

  “How could I not?” he admitted on a growl. “Mine.”

  She rewarded him for the confession, licking over the hard, aching tip, pulling him inside her perfect mouth, tasting him with little flicks of her tongue. He exhaled, harsh and raw, his hips bucking just barely before he turned all his strength to stopping them. He didn’t want to hurt her. Didn’t want to shock her.

  And then she shocked him, with a long, low hum of . . .

  Christ, she liked it.

  He could see it on her face, her eyes sliding closed as she relaxed and took him deep. Pleasure and power and absolute need. No. It couldn’t be need. That was what he was feeling. Need and desire and an absolute unhinged frenzy to make her his. And not just here, now, in this room, in this chair, in this bed, but everywhere. Always.

  One hand slipped down his cock as she took him deep, her hum becoming a rhythmic sigh as she loved him with her mouth and tongue and hands, and he was lost to the sensation, clinging to the chair and telling her all the ways he’d imagined her taking him. Deeper. Harder. Yes. Please. Adelaide.

  His hips moving against her, his mouth spewing filthy things, and his cock, heavy and aching, waiting for her to lead him into release as she found the exact rhythm that had them both groaning.

  Control snapped, and he reached for her, lifting her beautiful hair from where it fell in silken waves over her face and his thighs, so he could touch her—so he could see her . . . watching him. God, he loved her eyes on him. Loved the way she looked at him. The way she noticed him. Always ahead of him, reading him, his brilliant, beautiful girl.

  “Adelaide.” He tightened his grip, pulling her back from him, slowing her irresistible pace. “If you continue . . . love . . . I shall spend.”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes alight with desire that edged into greed. What a goddess she was. “Yes.” The word thrummed through him on a current of pleasure. “Yes, I want that.”

  And then she was back in control, taking him deep, cloaking him in tight, warm pleasure until he couldn’t hold himself back, and he gave himself up to her, shouting his release to the room and the countryside and the sun.

  And all the while, she watched him, hot for him, full of power. Of dominion.

  He was never letting her go.

  He leaned forward, pulling her up to him, taking her mouth with a wicked growl that told her how good she had been, his orgasm having not nearly assuaged the wild desire that consumed him now that he knew what it was to have her. One hand slid over her body to find her breast, her nipple hard and straining.

  She whined her pleasure as he toyed with it, and his own flared to life again. He released her and said, “Remember what you told me the other night, love? That I could simply fuck you?” He kissed her again, her hands tangling in the hair at the back of his neck.

  Releasing her, he stood, one hand still tangled in her curls, and helped her to her unsteady feet. “Now you see . . . nothing about what we do together is ever going to be simple. If we did this a thousand times . . . it would never be simple.” Another kiss, deep and slow. “It will always be earth-shattering,” he promised. “Shall I show you?”

  “Yes. Please.” That word. He would give her whatever she asked for, forever. And he’d make sure she liked it, forever.

  Starting that moment.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Since she’d joined Duchess and her crew, Adelaide had broken forty-three matches, saving as many women from a lifetime of unhappiness with myriad scoundrels, rogues, and monsters. In addition, working with the Hell’s Belles, she’d taken down six earls, two marquesses, a duke, and about two dozen rich, entitled gentlemen who had deserved everything they’d received.

  And still, that day, in that warm, wonderful room in that quiet house on that quiet hill in the quiet English countryside, as Henry turned his pleasure over to her and lost the control he held so tightly, unable to keep his hands and mouth from her as he found release, she’d never felt more powerful.

  Never more cared for, either.

  Because somehow, even as she fell to her knees and pleasured him in every way she’d ever imagined she could, it had been Adelaide who had felt worshipped as he’d watched her, his blue eyes riveted to her movements, his chest rising and falling with ragged breath, and finally, when he could no longer resist, his touch firm and careful and full of heat.

  And then he’d pulled her up into his arms and returned to the bed where she’d kept vigil for so many days, but instead of leaving her at his bedside, he drew her down with him, his hands warm and sure on her skin, his lips tempting and sweet.

  “Come,” he whispered, the word soft and sinful. “Like this.”

  He pulled her to straddle him, and she hesitated. “Your bandages . . .”

  He sat up, his hand running up over her back and pulling her down for a kiss. “Don’t worry, love. You have tended me well, and now . . . I shall tend to you.”

  She reached for him, her hands stroking over his chest. “I wanted you well,” she confessed. “I wanted you awake and moving. I hated how still you were.”

  He captured one hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “I am awake now. I move now.” He lifted her, guiding her up his chest. “Let me show you how well I move.”

  Her eyes went wide as he showed her, moving her up, over his chest, until she was straddling his shoulders. “Henry, what—”

  “Shh,” he whispered, reaching for her, parting her folds, running a single finger through her wet heat. “Let me look.”

  “I can’t—” She closed her eyes. It was too much. It was too . . . good. Another stroke and a wicked circle where she instantly ached for him.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. So wet and warm and”—another swirl of a finger, and she sucked in a breath—“wanting,” he finished, parting her and lifting his head, licking into her with a long, slow suck. She cried out, and he released her. When he spoke, he was all satisfaction. “You want me, don’t you? Here?”

  Before she could answer, he was there, against her, and she couldn’t contain her moan, her hands coming to hold him, her fingers thrusting into his hair, tightening as she held herself perfectly still, embarrassment threatening even as he sent a thundering pleasure through her.

  He stopped, his fingers tightening on her bottom, turning to press a kiss high on the inside of her thigh. “You taste like honey and sin.”

  Adelaide closed her eyes at the words, at the flood of delight that coursed through her at them.

  “Come closer, love,” he whispered there, at her core. “Give me more.”

  And then he pulled her down so he could cover her with his mouth, working her over with his tongue again and again, rumbling against her as she lost control, rocking against him. Just once. Just enough to get . . .

  “Closer,” he growled, swatting her bottom. She yelped, surprised by the quick bite of pain and the slow lick of pleasure.

  She looked down at him to find—dear Lord. He was watching her, his beautiful blue eyes tracking up the long line of her body, a wicked light of discovery there. You like that.

  He didn’t have to speak the words aloud. He could see the truth.

  “I—” She bit her lip. Another swat. His hand lingering over the sting. Large and warm. She moaned, rocking into his firm grip. “Yes. Henry . . .” His name came on a long, slow sigh.

  “What a very good girl you are,” he whispered up the length of her body as he pulled her to him, not looking away. “We are going to explore that at length another time. But now . . .” He rewarded her with a long, lush lick, enough to have her bucking against him, her head falling forward as she panted her pleasure. Another growl rumbled from him, the sound nearly too much.

  His magnificent mouth ate at her, licking and sucking and stealing her control until she lost herself to his touch, turning herself and her pleasure over to him, her fingers tight in his hair. He released her for a heartbeat, just enough to command, “That’s it, love. Take it. Take me.”

  And she did, unable to stop herself. Unable to resist his pull, closer and closer to the edge. Not wanting to stop as she rocked against him, his tongue tracking over her secret places and his fingers sliding over her bottom, finding another secret place, painting slow, languid circles until she was beyond herself, panting his name and begging him not to stop. He didn’t, not until she had taken her climax in a slow, increasing wave that crashed hard and fast through her on a scream.

  Even then, he didn’t release her, seeming to know what she needed—the flat of his tongue, the weight of his palm. And then a languid slide down his torso, where his cock waited, hard once more. Ready for her.

  She hesitated, lifting her weight from him. “Your bandages . . .”

  This wasn’t—they couldn’t—

  He moved, lifting her up and over the crisscrossing white linen, until she was seated below, straddling the straining length of him. “I swear to you, Adelaide, there is no pain right now. There is nothing but you.”

  “It’s too much,” she whispered, even as she rocked, just barely, just enough to make them both sigh. “It’s too soon.”

  “It’s been an eternity,” he replied, reaching for her face, running one thumb over her cheek. “You took such good care of me, love.” Then that hand fell, fingers finding the scar at her side, tracing it gently. “Now we are a match.”

  The words rioted through her, the idea that there might be a match for her. The teasing, tempting lie that there might be a partner for Adelaide, born alone, raised alone. That he might be that partner.

  Impossible.

  Tears came, unbidden. Unwelcome. She dashed them away, but he noticed them. Misunderstood. “No, love. I am well. I’ll never make you cry again.”

  She leaned into the touch, her eyes closing at the words. At the lie in them.

  There was no question he would make her cry again. When he left her—whether it was tomorrow or a year from now—she might never stop.

  He was not for her. Not forever. But that moment, in that room, in that cottage, on that hill . . . he could be for then.

  And that moment, as she straddled him, and his hand slid down over her breasts and belly and up her thighs to the place where she throbbed and ached for him, she did not cry. She reveled in him, in the certainty of him. In the way he took his cock in hand and worked it against her, making her impossibly wetter and more wanton.

  “Henry.” The word came out on a whine—desperate for him.

  “You want this,” he said, raw and perfect.

  “Yes,” she admitted, already lifting herself, already making room for him as he parted her folds, positioning himself at her entrance.

  “Adelaide,” he said, her name like a prayer.

  She met his eyes. “Henry . . .” She lowered herself over him. Barely. Just enough that they both groaned their pleasure.

  “Yes, love—”

  “That feels—”

  “Perfect.”

  She moved again. An inch. More. Her eyes sliding closed and her hands coming to his thighs behind her. “You’re so—”

  Warm. Wet. Full. Their words ran together. Yes. Please.

  His hands were at her hips, holding her tight as she continued, seating herself on him.

  “You’re a queen,” he said softly. “Reigning over me.” He thrust up into her and they both groaned at the sensation, her hands coming to rest on his chest. “Ruining me.”

  She lifted herself, just barely, just enough to bring his gaze back to hers, full of lust and greed. “Christ,” he swore, his hands gripping her. “Do it again.”

  Full of heady power and triumph, she did. Again, long and slow and languid, her hips rolling against his when she was seated once more.

  He cursed, low and dark, and she couldn’t help her smile.

  “You like that, don’t you?” he said, his hand sliding up over her body, between her breasts, to her neck, where his fingers caged her throat. No pressure. Just pleasure. “You like owning me? Controlling me?”

  She did, but she did not have to say it. He knew it. He knew it and controlled her in return, his fingers everywhere, on her breasts, playing down her body, seeking out the hard nub of pleasure that strained for him even as she rode him. Working it in tight circles as she rode him, slow and shallow and then in rolling waves, her own hand coming to his, to hold him tight against her and show him exactly how to touch her even as she chased her pleasure, rocking and begging for release.

  He teased her with it, slowing when she came too close to the edge, gentling when she started to come, until she opened her eyes and leveled him with a wild, dark-eyed stare. “Enough,” she said, setting her palms to his chest. “Give it to me.”

  The demand, firm and full of desire, summoned a low, lingering growl from deep in his chest, and he did, blessedly, as she asked, playing her body like an instrument, thrusting up into her as she ground upon him, until she was chanting his name and he was whispering hers, fast, then faster, his fingers moving in perfect circles, until she was wound tight as a spring.

  “Henry,” she panted. “I need you. I need it.”

  He pinched one nipple with his free hand. “I know, love. Take it. Take whatever you need. It’s yours. I’m yours.”

  I’m yours.

  Pleasure shot through her—the feel of him, the sound of the words, the promise in them—and she was there, and it was like nothing she’d ever experienced.

  “Now, love.”

  As though all she needed was his permission, she looked down at him, surprise and shock and a wild amount of fear coursing around her, and he sat up, catching her to him, taking her mouth in a deep, delicious kiss, thrusting up into her once, twice before ending the caress and grinding out, “Christ. Yes. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Come for me, love. Right now.”

  She did as she was told, her gaze fastened to his as the wave of pleasure washed over her. And only then, when she was lost to it, wild and wanton on him, did he follow her into bliss, thrusting and stroking and circling and groaning, until she collapsed on top of him, their hearts pounding in rhythmic unison, and he collected her in his arms like a treasure.

  At some point—seconds? minutes? longer?—she moved, loath to leave him but fearing that if she stayed, she would hurt him.

  Fearing that if she stayed, she would hurt herself.

  Still, with the tempting warmth of him and the soft kiss he placed at her temple, she found she was not strong enough to leave him. Even though she knew it was the best course of action to protect her heart. Perhaps she knew the truth, though. Perhaps she knew that it was too late, and her heart was no longer hers to protect.

  The sun, now high in the sky, painted the walls with dappled shadows of the trees outside, and they mimicked the actions inside, on each other’s skin. And Adelaide wondered at the quiet of the room. Of her thoughts.

  When was the last time she had simply . . . been?

  When was the last time she had felt purely . . . her?

  Never.

  Another might have heard that word whisper by and imagined a lifetime, cleaved in two—the past and the future. A new beginning, finally understanding what others meant when they said they were content.

  Adelaide knew better. There might be a past and a future. A new beginning. A new understanding of what could be. But what could be was not what would be.

  Moments like this . . . they weren’t forever.

  If her wildest, most private dreams came true, and Henry wanted to keep her—even for a short while, even for stolen nights in her rooms above The Place, for quick moments in the shadows of Westminster, for heated kisses on the docks—here, in the heart of Lancashire, in the middle of nowhere, unwed and secret in a place all their own—it would not last.

  It could not. And every time she looked at him, every time he smiled his beautiful smile that softened the stern lines of his perfect, aristocratic face, she would have to remind herself . . . he is not yours. Not really.

  Not forever.

  Could she live with that?

  She stiffened at the thought, the way it tightened her chest. The way it stung in her throat, even as he turned his head and kissed her temple again, breathing her in. Stealing more of her. Parts she would never get back.

  Already gone, promised to him, like the rest of her.

  He might not be hers, but she would always be his.

  “Adelaide,” he whispered, and she closed her eyes, trying to commit the word to memory. The way it sounded on his breath. On his tongue. In his perfect accent, honed in extravagant schools and the halls of Parliament, where he spoke for those who had no voice.

  “Henry,” she whispered back, wincing at the way her emotion revealed her truth. The jagged cobblestones of Lambeth. The twisting, uneven steps of the South Bank. The raw education of the thousands of pockets she’d picked.

  The rotten, soiled past reaching its tendrils up to remind her she could never have forever with someone like him. That this—whatever it was, whatever it might become—would mark him if it ever became public. The daughter of the leader of London’s largest crime ring, born in the gutter and raised in the streets, her proudest accomplishment her nimble fingers—a South Bank pickpocket. And a duke.

  It was laughable.

  Don’t laugh, she willed him. Not yet.