A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Framing his face, she succinctly replied, “Shut up, and let me fix this.”

Then she kissed him.

Hard.

Demandingly, commandingly, a summons he didn’t have it in him to refuse. His lips parted under her onslaught, and she boldly tasted him; a minute passed while he tried to hold aloof, then he gave up, clamped one hand at her nape, surged into her mouth, and took control.

Through the kiss she smiled, smugly satisfied. The idea that with this she could heal him, that through dallying with him she could banish the dullness from his hazel eyes, succor him, and ease his pain, seemed nothing short of miraculous. She had to put it to the test. She certainly wasn’t going to wait until that night.

Heat bloomed, then raced down their veins, pulsed beneath their skins, pooled low. Jack broke from the kiss, his breathing ragged, his control sliding away far too fast. “Damn it, woman!” He growled the words against her swollen lips, luscious, so tempting. “There’s no lock on the door.”

She calmly leaned back and reached for his waistband. “Your exceedingly stiff majordomo is far too well trained to interrupt. Now”—laying the flap of his breeches wide, she slid her hand inside—“how do we go about this? Show me.”

He gave up, and did; he simply didn’t have the strength to fight against that order, not with her, all long rounded limbs and lush curves, squirming in his lap, not with her clever lips and even cleverer fingers urging him on. Not with his head in its present state.

Yet when he lifted her hips, then lowered her, easing his aching erection into the slick haven of her scalding sheath, even as he struggled to bite back a groan of sheer sensual pleasure, he realized that the throbbing in his temples had ceased.

Something else was throbbing now.

Apparently his body couldn’t throb in two places simultaneously.

Making a mental note to tell Pringle he’d been right, he slumped back in the chair; hands locked about her hips, skin to skin beneath her rucked up skirts and petticoats, he guided her and let her have her wicked way with him. He was simply glad she was facing the other way, and couldn’t see the blissful expression he was sure had claimed his face.

He didn’t even want to look too closely himself, to analyze the breadth and depth of the joy that filled him as she rode him, driving him and herself to a shattering completion.

Driving away his pain, replacing it with marrow-deep pleasure.

When she finally lay slumped back against him, boneless as a rag doll as they waited for their hearts to slow, for their breathing to even out, for the blissful golden aftermath to fade, he bent his head and pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. “Thank you.”

She reached up and gently riffled his hair, letting the strands fall through her fingers. “I think it’s my turn to say it was entirely my pleasure.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Is your head better?”

“Amazingly, yes.” The saber-edged pain had reduced to a vague shadow. He suspected his head might ache dully later, but the difference was striking; he could think without pain.

Yet as she lay in his arms, languidly sated and replete, his first thought remained one of simple disbelief that she had acted as she had. He couldn’t imagine any other lady of her standing doing the same. This, apparently, was what came of treating with warrior-queens who would, without a blink, sacrifice social strictures to succor their consort’s injuries.

The thought made him smile.

Then she shifted, and he sucked in a breath. His body reacted predictably to the warm boneless weight of her, to the hot clasp of her wet sheath.

Tempting fate was never wise.

He stirred her, then lifted her to her feet. She came back to life, shook out her skirts, readjusted her bodice while he righted his clothes. Then she sat once more in the chair facing his; as coolly col

lected as any dowager, she looked inquiringly at him. “Right then. What should we do first? I rather think we need to visit the Bishop of London.”

Mildly amused by her sudden focusing—and the effort he knew it cost her to achieve it—he agreed. They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing their plans, whom they needed to speak with, and the best order in which to do so, then a tap on the door heralded Gasthorpe with a tray.

“I took the liberty, my lord, of bringing your usual breakfast fare.”

Looking over the selection of dishes Gasthorpe set out on the low table, Jack recalled he hadn’t yet broken his fast. “Thank you, Gasthorpe.”

Gasthorpe had also brought a pot of tea for Clarice and a plate of delicate cakes. As he set those out, he glanced at Jack. “Indeed, my lord—we must remember you need to keep up your strength.”

Excruciatingly correct, Gasthorpe bowed to Clarice, who nodded regally, then he bowed to Jack and departed.

Clarice met Jack’s gaze, raised her brows.

Jack shrugged and reached for the coffeepot. “Make of that what you will.”