Floating hell.
“I told you. The name’s Hart.”
“Hart Sutton.”
There was something about her sweet, melodious voice and crisp aristocratic accent saying his name that sent a new rush of wicked thoughts into his traitorous mind.
“Do you know the name?” he asked sharply, trying to hide the effect she had on him.
He did not believe, for one moment, he would be known to her. Nor that her father would have mentioned any dealings with Loge.
“Should I have had cause to?” she returned, still standing far too near to him.
One step, and he could haul her against his chest, pull that mask from her lovely face, and kiss her until he was freed of this ceaseless ache.
“I’m nobody,” he said, which was true enough, and all she needed to know.
Jasper Sutton was the man who ruled The Sinner’s Palace with an iron fist.
“You are someone important enough for others to listen to you,” she countered. “This is your establishment, is it not?”
“Curiosity ain’t what you’re here for, love.”
“Then perhaps you would be kind enough to explain to me what I am here for, Mr. Sutton.” She moved closer, curse her, rather than farther away as she ought.
Did she not understand the danger she was in, the temptation she presented? Even in that angelic cloud of a night rail, she was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld. The darkness did not matter one whit. He knew what was within arm’s reach. Awareness of her pumped through him like the blood in his veins.
“You’re here to do what I tell you,” he rasped, hating himself for the thickness in his voice, the knot in his belly, the desire burning hot and bright despite all the reasons why it should not. “You’re here to please me, Emma.”
“How may I please you?”
Her low murmur was enough to undo a saint.
And Hart Sutton was no bleeding saint. She wanted to please him, did she? Or was this manipulation on her part? Tempt the man until he surrenders. Aye, he could see that. She was clever, Lady Emma Morgan. The bright light of intelligence glimmered in those beautiful eyes of hers, and he hadn’t missed it.
There was only one way to win this battle.
The words left him, sudden and firm. “Get on your knees.”
* * *
Emma did not knowwhat had come over her, why she was goading Hart. Her only excuse was that she was desperate for the waiting to be over. She had lain awake in a bed that smelled of him, awaiting him, and he had not returned. Slumber had never claimed her.
She was tired.
Exhausted, if she were honest.
But she was also aware of her body in new ways. Madame had tried to educate Emma about what would be expected of her. Some of her advice returned to Emma’s mind now. Above all, she was to be amenable. To obey her lover’s commands, whatever they may be, and to do so eagerly. Willingness, the bawd had said, would please any man.
And so, with Madame Laurent’s words mingling with Hart Sutton’s, she did as he asked.
You’re here to please me, Emma.
She knelt on the carpet before him, the cotton gown stretching over her knees, and told herself that the sooner she gave him the pleasure he had paid for, the better. She was no fool. She had prepared herself well, asking Madame Laurent questions, listening to every hint of advice. Learning her body and the effect it could have over a man.
And she would use those tools, that knowledge, to her advantage.
“Your mask,” came his low, sinful voice from above. “Take it off.”
She did as he commanded, reaching to the silken ties of the mask she had worn to shield her face from the crowded room of lords. Some of them, she had recognized, much to her shock. She had been momentarily frozen by the illicit glimpse into the true world of gentlemen. Where they went, how they spoke, what they looked like, when they were not elegant swains inhabiting a ballroom.
Emma laid the mask on the carpet beside her. The light was low, nothing more than the suggestion of a glow emerging from the dying fire in the hearth. Shadows flickered over Hart’s tall form, lending him an aura of danger. How impossible it seemed that hours ago, she had never known him, and now she was here.
Her instructions from Madame Laurent swirled in her mind.
Do not be hesitant. Touch him.
Aside from Lord Vincent, Emma had never touched any gentleman beyond the requisite touches during dances in the ballroom. And even her embrace with Lord Vincent had been polite and gloved. Nothing more than her hands on his shoulders as he kissed her in that wretched alcove, where she never should have allowed herself to go.
“What would you have me do now?” she asked Hart, not certain if she dared to reach for him.
His trousers fit his long legs perfectly, and even in the dearth of light, the sign he wanted her was clearly delineated. You have the power, Madame Laurent had said. You are the one in control.
“You want to know?” He caught her chin in a gentle grip, tipping her head back so she was forced to look up the length of him, to find his gaze.
Something new and strange unfurled in her belly. Before she had met Hart, she had believed that the act of losing her innocence would be hateful. But despite her weariness and the anticipation and uncertainty that had kept her awake, she felt not disgust or sadness. Instead, she felt the stirrings of her own desire.