To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

For his appeasement and her satisfaction.

For his pleasure and her delight.

She twisted sinuously beneath him, caressing the hard rod of his erection, flagrantly inviting, suggesting, luring.

And succeeded in stoking his fire as he was stoking hers, succeeded in adding an edge of driven passion to his already tense muscles, succeeded in invoking a dangerous shadow of deeper, darker desire.

She shifted again and he swore.

Between them, he reached down, wrenched the front of her nightgown to her waist, with his thighs spread hers wide, then settled heavily between.

She writhed and suceeded in brushing the blunt head of his erection with the slick pouting lips of her entrance.

He hissed and went still, a tremor of unruly passion barely leashed rippling, a threat and a promise, over and through him.

She arched again, blatantly inviting; she was scorched and open and so empty—she ached to feel him inside her, filling her, thrusting deep.

“Tell me what you want.” The order rasped across her senses.

Trapped in mindless need, she sobbed and squirmed, but he held her down.

“Tell me. Say the words. Do you want to be ravished? Do you want me to ravish you?”

“Yes!” The plea escaped her on a gasping sob as she fought to free her hands.

But he held them down, held her trapped beneath him in the dark as he covered her lips with his and ravished her mouth, covered her, and thrust deep into her body.

She cried out—in pleasure, not pain—tried to arch and meet his next thrust but with his body hard and hot, unyielding and powerful, he allowed her not even that much sway.

In the dark, freed by her plea, her wanton invitation, he rode her hard and deep, filling her body, overwhelming her senses.

Ravishing her in truth.

And all she could do—all he let her do—was rejoice in the primitive taking, in the powerful, unfettered act. And glory in the raw passion that drove him, the greedy, needful hunger, the stark, undeniable evidence of his desire for her.

As her senses tightened, coalesced and started the now familiar climb, she shuddered, gasped, and embraced all he gave her. She might be the one ravished, but he was giving more than taking…or perhaps his taking was a form of giving.

That was the last semicoherent thought she had as with one shatteringly deep thrust he brought glory crashing down on her. Sent her spinning into the golden void, then with a guttural shout, he joined her.

They clung, lips touching, brushing, fingers tangling and clutching as they struggled to gasp, to breathe as the storm winds of passion buffeted them, wracked them, as desire raked one last time, then receded.

And left them exhausted, wrung out, flung like flotsam and jetsam on some distant shore, together, still whole, yet irrefutably changed.

Phoebe still felt faintly skittish, uncertain of just what had changed and how, when she arrived at the agency that afternoon to discuss placements with Emmeline.

Deverell was there, long legs stretched out under the table, the agency’s account books scattered before him; he looked up as she walked in, met her eyes—rapidly read them, then smiled. At her, for her. A private, knowing, yet reassuring smile.

Without conscious thought, her lips curved in response. Inclining her head, she swung off her cloak and dropped it on a chair. “Well, then.” She slipped into the chair beside Emmeline, next to Deverell. “Let’s get started. Has Loftus found anything that might be suitable for Miss Spry?”

Deverell returned to his books, and she gave her attention to Emmeline.

Ten minutes later, Loftus arrived and joined them. With a nod to Deverell, he took the chair on Emmeline’s other side and tossed a note on the table.

Phoebe pounced on it, eagerly opening it and scanning the information inscribed within.

“I think those people might do for Miss Spry.” Loftus had returned yesterday and demanded a full accounting of Miss Spry’s background and credentials. Clasping his hands on the table, he nodded at the note in Phoebe’s hands. “They’re gentry, wealthy enough, well-connected enough, a trifle scatterbrained, the pair of them, but as kindhearted as any you’ll find. They’ve found themselves with a rapidly increasing family, and when I visited them a few hours ago, it was abundantly clear they’re in desperate need of help.”

She and Emmeline peppered him with questions about the Follingworth household, located in Bloomsbury.