Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

Poppy might have answered but Winston walked in. How he always knew to appear the precise moment she was ready was a mystery. One that she put aside in favor of looking at her husband. Fitted out in crisp white-and-black evening kit that outlined his lean frame, he stood tall and just a bit defiant in the center of the room. His shaggy hair had been tamed and swept back from his strong face. And while she was sure there were those who would stare at his scars and not the man beneath, all she saw was a man who’d been to hell and back, and was tougher for it. Like steel wrought and forged, he’d transformed into something more than before.

Soulful eyes of blue-grey travelled over her, taking in her elaborate coiffure and evening gown with one glance. Not a glimmer of appreciation or emotion in that look. His voice was as crisp as his suit. “Shall we?”

Suffering, was he? Hardly. Poppy stiffened her spine. “Of course.”

Chapter Nine

Pink. She was wearing blasted pink. Poppy never wore pink. Never wore much of any color other than brown or grey. He hadn’t cared either way; he never really looked at her clothes, just her. But now. Now, she had to wear pink. Win stared down at his plate, at the pale slab of whiting fish swimming in cream sauce, and tried not to think of pink. He and Poppy had not exchanged more than a few words since their “chat” earlier, both of them clearly still angry, and his cods still egregiously sore. Which ought to have been enough to put him off lustful thoughts for a good while. But no, his baser self simply flew past that unpleasantness and went straight to the fact that Poppy had held him in her hand. Stroked him. And that it had been three months since he’d tupped his wife. Suddenly, it was imperative that he do so. Which was about when logic returned to tell him he hadn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell.

Poppy moved beside him, a slight adjustment of her seat, and he heard the rustle of that satin. Undulating yards and folds of shining, pale pink. Pink ought to have clashed horribly with her red hair. It did not. Instead it made him think of other places she was pink and red.

His fist curled around the cool, thick handle of his fork. The table and those around him faded in favor of another vision, of a nest of vibrant red curls and petal pink folds, glimmering and wet. Long, white legs spread in supplication, leading the way to that gorgeous pink and red offering. His c**k rose hard and insistent against his trousers. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grunting, God help him. He stabbed at his food, making hash of the fish.

Poppy was saying something, her low erotic voice stroking his sensitized skin. Something about being pleased that parliament passed the Explosive Substances Act, which seemed a fitting subject to hold her interest, given her secret work. Personally, he didn’t give a fig. The scent of books and lemons drifted across their small divide, and his lids fluttered closed.

“What say you, Lane?”

All eyes were on him. Win forced his head up. Mr. Babcock was looking directly at him, his bulbous and veiny nose quivering as if smelling Win’s weakness. They didn’t want him here. Every averted glance, the stiffness in which they held themselves around him, cried out that fact. English gentlemen did not have ruined faces, and if they did, they kept them politely out of sight, hidden away like Quasimodo within the bell tower. His words came out slow and as sluggish, it seemed, as his heated blood.

“I find I have no opinion.” It was a rude and unconscionable response, but he did not care. He was tired of pretending. Tired of everything save forgetting himself in the hot silk of pink and red.

Poppy’s gaze on him burned stronger than the rest. He ignored it and took a bite of what was before him. Only after he began chewing did he register that the waiter had replaced his fish with a plate of beef and mushrooms. He bloody hated mushrooms. His throat closed but he forced the bite down, gagging on the slimy feel of it.

At the periphery of his vision, her arm moved, and her hand came an inch closer to his plate, as though she thought to touch him.

Do not do it, sweet. Or I shall pull you down beneath this table and f**k you senseless.

The violence of his own thoughts shocked him. And perhaps she felt his disquiet as well, for she made no further move toward him. Even so, he felt her gaze remain on him as the conversation started up again, stilted and confused. Good Englishmen did not respond as he did. It upset the balance. Now they all sought to cover his gaffe. That small bit of pity he heard beneath it all squelched the desire that ran amok in his veins. And thank God for that, as his cockstand mercifully subsided. He’d had concerns of being stuck at the table indefinitely.

Win laid down his fork and pushed back from the table, and all those pairs of eyes followed his every movement. “If you will excuse me.” Carefully, he placed his linen next to his plate. “I fear I am not well at the moment.”

He did not wait for a reply but quit the table.

Mrs. Babcock’s voice chased after him as he went. “It’s seasickness. Happens to the best of travelers at times.”

Mrs. Babcock had no idea.

Poppy’s knees wobbled as she walked back to her stateroom. It was a humiliating thing to acknowledge, but true. She feared what she would find when she finally tracked Win down. His behavior at dinner unnerved her. Win always said the correct thing, always. And the way he sat, hunched over, his expression brooding, was almost frightening in its intensity. Jesus, the man had eaten a mushroom.

Her stride lengthened and became more natural, or as natural as the blasted evening gown would allow. At the stateroom door, she found herself faltering. She could almost feel him within. Her cold hand curled around the door handle. Taking a deep breath, she entered.

He was pacing the floor, his powerful body eating up the space with quick, controlled movements. He glanced up at her entrance, but then went back to pacing, his shaggy hair hiding his eyes from her. Win in a temper was a display to which few were privy, for he had always held his in so brilliantly. Poppy found them fascinating, a small peek at the man behind the proper façade.

Madness must run in her veins because his ire made her so very hot. Her breath hitched before she could speak. “What is wrong?”

He thrust up a hand. “Do not engage me, Poppy. I am in no mood for a discussion right now.”

She slammed the door shut behind her. Correction. He made her bloody furious. She ripped her gloves off and flung them on the side table. “Why is it that we must wait for your favor to engage in conversation?”

He stopped short, and his glare was a blaze of winter-blue anger. “Pardon, madam, but are you accusing me of being petulant?”

“Oh, don’t be coy, Win. You know you are, and it’s bloody annoying.”

A slow wash of red crept up his neck. Poppy held his gaze as her heart pounded. Win would never hurt her, not physically. He’d been a gentleman, careful and considerate. But that was before. There was a wildness in his eyes that had her breath coming short.

The moment stretched until she fought the urge to fidget or look away. But then it snapped when he spoke.

“Your dress is pink.”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“I don’t like it. Take it off.”

The bloody, rude, arrogant bastard. No one ordered her about in such a manner. She was of a mind to tell him just that. Only she paused. Win was not no one. He was her husband. And beneath the flare of anger in his eyes and the mulish set of his jaw, she saw something that made her breath catch—interest, need. He wanted her dress off, did he?

“No,” she said. Lust curled between her legs, and her pulse raced.

Win’s eyes narrowed. Poppy stepped away from the door and closer to him. Closer to the bed. There was more than one way to communicate. And if he refused to do so with words, then perhaps actions would take them past this impasse. Behind the folds of her skirts, her hands were fists, trembling and cold. But her chin lifted.

“You want my dress off, then take it off yourself.”

His mouth opened and shut. The line of his shoulders tensed. They regarded each other in silence until the mad rush of her blood filled her ears and drowned out all other sound.

“I have half a mind to call your bluff,” he said in a low growl.

“That would imply I am bluffing.”

His nostrils flared. Standing tall and tense, he was the most stirring man she’d ever seen. She’d loved mussing up his polish. Now he was all ragged edges, and she wanted to see it unleashed. Cold heat danced along her skin, lifted the tiny hairs along her arms, and tightened her ni**les. His gaze went to her bodice, honing in on her reaction with stunning precision. His body stiffened further.

“Do it,” she said. “Take the dress off me, Win.”

His wintry eyes held hers for one more moment, and then he was stalking forward. With every step he took, the heat within her coiled tighter. He stopped before her, and a visible tremor ran through him. Then his hands were on her, the pads of his fingers rough as he grasped her shoulders and whirled her around in a brisk move. His knuckles grazed her back as he caught hold of her dress and undid the hooks with hard tugs. Poppy braced herself so she would not fall back onto him. Not yet.

“Pink,” he muttered. “Have you any idea…”

The bodice loosened, gaping. “Idea?” Her voice was a breath, her legs trembling.

He didn’t answer but continued to undo her bodice with angry hands. The satin slid over her arms, the bodice falling forward and down to her waist. Cool air hit her exposed skin and she trembled, waiting for the rest. It did not come. On a curse, he stepped away, leaving her wanting. Slowly, Poppy turned, not bothering to hold her bodice up.

But he did not look at her body or the deep pink corset she wore. His eyes held hers. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

Was he blind? The expanse of his chest lifted and fell with each labored breath he took. She let her gaze travel down the length of him, still properly kitted out in his fine evening clothes. Oh but there was one thing about him that was most improper. Her mouth went dry. His massive erection was straining to break free of his trousers.

One of them made a sound; she couldn’t be sure whether it was she or Win, but that magnificent cockstand seemed to grow. Poppy ached to take it in hand, stroke and squeeze, tease it to completion. She knew exactly how to do it, exactly how he liked to be worked. Her body swayed with wanting. She could practically feel that c**k in her mouth, filling it up, and she licked her parched lips.

“Finish what you started, husband.”

He uncoiled like a snake, his hand catching her on the shoulder. One deft push and she was falling back onto the bed. She went willingly, anticipation thrumming through her veins and making her heart pound. He loomed over her, still so very angry, his body tense and his eyes flashing. But she could see the cracks forming around the façade, and it thrilled her.

“What do you want, Poppy?” His voice was sandpaper against steel. Satin rustled as he yanked her skirts up around her hips. Fabric tore, the shining pink billowing about her waist.

“Do you want this?” He cupped her, his hand hot and rough against her silk drawers. She almost groaned, but held it back. He would have to work for some things. A shiver went through her as two long fingers delved between the slit in her drawers and stroked through her wetness. “Do you want me here?”

He leaned in, not touching her with his body, only his hand and his tormenting fingers. Anger flashed in his eyes as he fondled her, not with finesse but with base intent. It made her white hot, and her thighs parted for him.

Win’s nostrils flared again as he looked down at what she offered. “Pink and red,” he murmured. “Enough to drive a man mad.”

She swallowed hard, and he glanced back at her. “Do you want me, Poppy?”

She held his gaze, willing herself not to plead, not to say a word, but his fingers suddenly plunged into her, and her body tensed. It was too good, too much. Her thighs quivered with the need to demand more, and harder, damn you.

Win’s eyes blazed, his mouth parting as he breathed. “Answer me.” His free hand went to the fall of his trousers. “It won’t change a thing. Getting me to f**k you won’t change a thing.”

Everything had already changed. She wanted to shout at him, rail with her fists, but she lay compliant and simply stared back, waiting, letting him finger her as he opened his trousers.

His c**k bobbed free, pulsing and dark and enormously erect. Win’s cock. That her staid, serious husband had such a large and thick c**k was a secret she took almost perverse pleasure in. Nobody had seen it but her. Only she knew what he hid beneath his unassuming suits and his elegant manners. Her breath left in a rush, anticipation drawing her so tight that she trembled.

Their gazes clashed, each waiting for the other to yield. His h*ps moved between her thighs, a brush of wool against silk drawers. The hot crown of his c**k touched her, and she almost jumped.

“It won’t change a thing,” he said again, weaker yet insistent, almost as if he were willing it so.

Defiance surged through her, and she opened her legs wider. “Prove it.”

He grabbed her h*ps and thrust. Poppy’s entire body tensed, the invasion of his thick length almost painful, and so damn intense that she bit her lip to keep from crying out. And it wasn’t even all of him. She knew he had more to give. He pulled back and plunged again, delving further, rendering her incapable of speech. Heat swirled and spread from where he plundered. He moved automatically, as if he was determined not to feel, only take her.

The bed ropes squeaked in a steady rhythm. In. Out. Push. Pull. His h*ps slammed into hers, each thrust shoving her farther up the bedding, only his hands on her thighs keeping her in position. Harder. Make me feel it.

His eyes held hers as his c**k moved, filling and emptying her. Oh God, but when he invaded, she could scarcely bear the pleasure of it. Inside she quaked, her body so very hot that she longed to rip free of her clothing, longed to rip his off as well and feel his skin upon hers. But she did not move, barely breathed, for fear of breaking the spell.