Shadowdance (Darkest London 4)

Talent ought to look vulnerable, undressed as he was. In all their years of acquaintance, she’d never seen him in anything less than full and proper attire. She did not count the dark day when she’d found him hanging nude and bloodied in that torture chamber. Honor demanded that she keep that image separate from the man she knew as Jack Talent. It had been merely a tormented body, not him, not his soul. Now the impact of seeing him struck her like a fist. The corded strength of his neck and the tight swells of his shoulders alone could hold her in thrall.

His reflection in the tall vanity mirror was clear, and the front of him was as glorious as the back. His na**d chest was brutish in its musculature. Flat, wide pectorals, small brown ni**les, abdominals like tightly packed cobbles, and smooth, taut skin. The image of it all burned into her memory with just one glance. Dear God. It should not affect her so, his animalistic strength. She’d never favored such physiques, and yet her attention was riveted.

She ought to go. Talent was merely undressing. Nothing untoward. Unless she counted her own actions. Guilt swamped her. This was unconscionable. She really ought to…

He dipped a hand into the basin, swirling the water with his fingers, and the network of muscles along his torso rippled, a breathtaking display of power in motion.

She found herself sinking down, her spirit reforming into the shape of her physical body as her defenses weakened. She wasn’t flesh, she ought not feel a thing, yet unbearable heat flooded her being.

His fingers swayed back and forth, a meditative movement, as he stared at the water, his expression somber and his big, strong body stooped forward. Atlas holding up the world.

It hurt to witness. More so when he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. And kept looking, as if he couldn’t quite recognize his reflection. Or perhaps he didn’t like what he saw.

It was that lost, almost hopeless darkness in his eyes that made her want to go to him, despite the numerous rejections he’d volleyed her way over the years, and despite the very real possibility that, if she did, he’d be furious. But he wouldn’t see her at any rate. She was invisible to him. Sorrow held her there, heavy and painful. She ought to go. She couldn’t leave.

The pure, tinkling notes of dripping water broke the silence as he lifted a rag to his chest and began to wipe it. The movements were perfunctory, a swipe up his neck and down the other side, the hard scrub under his arms, then over his chest and stomach.

The heat surrounding her became a pulsing thing. It was as if she were the one holding the rag, drawing it along that dense flesh, feeling his warmth, wiping him clean.

Crystalline beads of water trickled over his skin, found the valleys between his muscles, coalescing and traveling down to the dark thatch of hair just peeking out above the line of his drawers. Linen drawers that were growing wet from his bath, growing transparent against his long, large…

Talent stopped, the rag in his hand spilling water in a steady drip, drip, drip. Fear tingled through her. Had he sensed something amiss? But he did not look up. The wide column of his neck shone wet as he kept his head bent. And though the fan of his lashes hid his eyes, the direction of his gaze was unmistakable. As was the growing bulge beneath his drawers. The shaft thickened and rose, curving in a painful looking bend as it met with the resistance of the fabric. Idly, he scratched the skin of his taut belly, his fingers drifting nearer to his burgeoning cock.

Mary’s being went utterly still. Surely not. Surely he wouldn’t.…

But he did. The rag fell back into the basin with a loud plop as his hand went to the ties of his drawers. The linen snagged on his c**k before he eased the fabric away. And then, good God, but his member rose up, proud, ruddy, and straight, so lovingly displayed between a dark nest of hair and his heavy cods.

She almost fled, dissipated right then and there, save she could not look away. Not from that glorious, rude cock, nor his firm arse and powerful thighs. He was extraordinary.

Ignorant of being watched, Talent gave himself a slow stroke, skimming it really, as if contemplating further intimacies. He caressed it again, up and down, clutching the wide shaft in the circle of his fingers with absolute authority, going slowly as if letting his pleasure build. Up. Down. A chuff of breath left his parted lips, and his eyes fluttered closed, his thick brows furrowing. His speed increased, the tendons on his forearms shifting and straining as he moved.

Mary stayed. Transfixed. Yearning. I want to be the one doing that. She coalesced further, until she could feel her ghostly palms pressing against phantom skirts. It made no sense. He was horrid. She didn’t care. She wanted to fondle Jack Talent’s cock.

The soft slap of flesh working against flesh, and Talent’s light pants, filled the air. One arm came down to the basin, bracing, his muscles flexing. His expression was one of near agony, his lips parted.

His h*ps were working now, rocking and thrusting his c**k into his clenched fist, and he grunted, small, helpless sounds. He undid her with his magnificence and the unfettered passion he let loose. It felt strangely intimate, as though she were locked in the battle with him, sharing the moment in some small way. Equally, she was utterly apart from him, watching without touching, spying without his knowledge. The divergence rattled her soul.

The massive muscles of his thighs twitched and bunched, and his heavy cods swayed with the force of each tug. The knuckles bracing him up turned white with strain. And that cock, so engorged now that the fat head was nearly purple. As if it were weeping for release, a gleaming drop of moisture welled from the tip and rolled down like a tear. Talent’s thumb swept over it, spreading it around, making the head gleam. Mary’s soul flared white-hot. Had she a mouth, she would be crying out, begging for mercy.

It was too much. And not enough, because she wanted to touch him. Her whole being strained closer, watching as his bu**ocks clenched and his calves lifted. A series of guttural, helpless groans broke from his lips, his fist positively slamming over his poor, abused cock. Then he came, all those glorious muscles bunching hard and tight. Her mind went blank.

A pregnant stillness settled over the room. Jack leaned forward, shaking and hunched over the basin as if his legs might give out. His chest heaved, his abdomen taut and quivering with each breath. And then his dark eyes, glittering in the reflection of the mirror, looked right at her. As if she were flesh.

Sheer terror, tinged with hot humiliation, prickled through her being as his husky voice lit over the room. “Was it good for you, too?”

Chapter Sixteen

Dread was an emotion well known to Mary. But not like this. It permeated her bones, made her movements lax. Every step she took was an exercise of will. Her gown weighed a ton, and the heavy fabric tangled about her limbs as if trying to hold her back. She appreciated the favor. Yet she walked on, aware of the very air about her and the fact that, with each step, she was closer to facing Jack Talent.

Like a rank coward, she’d stayed home far past the hour at which she was to meet him. Now it was going on luncheon time, and headquarters was all but deserted. Perhaps he wouldn’t be there. Perhaps he’d gone out on his own. She could report in and go out on her own as well. But she knew better than to hope. His presence changed the vibrations of the building. The strong souls could do that. And he was waiting.

Ye gods. Her face positively burned. Every moment of the night before was etched in her memory, as sharp as a blade. She did not have to close her eyes to see his molded torso, or the water trickling in glistening drops along that honed flesh. She could not stop the vivid, heat-inducing image of his cock, thick, hard, angry red at the tip.

Her step bobbled, her knees weakening. Mary fisted her skirt. She could not face him. Last night she’d fled so hard and fast that she’d slammed back into her body with enough force to make it buck.

The tendons straining at his neck, the sounds of his pants and the slap of flesh against flesh. Her breath grew agitated once more. Pressing a hand to a nearby wall, she stopped. Beneath her closed lids, illicit images played out before her. A strangled sound left her lips before she gathered her courage and pushed off the wall.

Her heels clicked along the marble corridor, and then she halted so abruptly that her skirts swayed forward. Talent leaned against the doorframe that led to the main offices. His big body appeared at ease, yet when his dark eyes homed in on her, they narrowed with tight focus, and his jaw tensed. Color flooded his face as his lips pressed together. He’d flushed when he reached completion as well.

Mary’s head swam, her lips going numb. Gods, she was going to swoon. Sucking in a breath, she turned and fled, but not before seeing Talent launch forward, his expression twisted with outrage.

“Chase!” His deep voice cracked out like a shot. “Get your arse back here and face me!”

She could not. Her steps quickened. And so did his, hard and loud behind her. She could all but feel him bearing down on her, a wildcat running her to ground. Her throat burned raw.

“Stop.” His voice was too close, a rumble laced with equal parts anger and annoyance. “Now. Or I’ll be forced to stop you.”

The very idea of his physically restraining her made Mary balk. Cursing inwardly, she halted halfway down the dark, unused corridor that led to the archives. Where had she been going? She’d been running blind. Talent stopped as soon as she did. He was just behind her, close enough to feel his energy and heat.

Ahead of her lay a long stretch of floor, and escape. But he’d only follow. Her br**sts heaved against the tight structure of her bodice as she waited. Oddly, she had the fleeting notion that perhaps he did not know what to say either.

A theory crushed when he spoke directly at her ear. “Did you wonder if it was you I thought of when I took myself in hand?”

The gears of her heart ground to a halt as her mouth went dry and her sex grew wet. Staring blindly ahead, she could not formulate a reply. She hadn’t thought… Had he been?

Talent’s smooth voice turned to a gravel-laden purr. “That it was your plump lips I imagined stretching over the head of my cock? Sucking it in deep.”

Her knees buckled. She held fast to her skirts, closing her eyes as if it would drown him out.

“Drawing back out…” His hot breath buffeted her cheek. “Tormenting me to completion.”

“Stop.” She could not think of it. Her br**sts swelled against the edge of her bodice, her ni**les throbbing points of pain.

The tips of his fingers touched her side, and her body jerked. “Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?” He traced the seam of her bodice, a light glide. Beneath the silk, her skin tightened.

“Your…” She drew in air. “Your anger is deserved.” It irked her to say, but she could give him that much.

A small, wry laugh left in a burst of breath. “Anger?” he repeated lightly, his lips tickling the outer shell of her ear, though they didn’t truly touch her. “Is that what I’m feeling?”

Irritation bloomed under her skin. “I have no notion of what it is you feel, Mr. Talent.”

“Hmm.” The sound buzzed against her flesh, and suddenly he seemed closer, as if his body might meet hers should she breathe deeply. “Perhaps I am merely curious if you’d prefer to do more than watch.”

Mary ground her teeth together. “Do not mock me.”

“Why?” Talent’s grip tightened along her waist for a quick moment. “When you seek out my home and watch me as a woman starved.”

Mortification prickled along her cheeks. “What you observed was horror, not starvation.”

Strange how she could sense his body tensing.

“Oh, yes,” he said after a moment. “You have no interest in the carnal.”

Mary winced, hearing the disbelief there. The heat of his palm against her waist burned through the layers of dress, corset, and chemise. Then his hand moved, gliding upward, leaving her flesh shivering in his wake.

“A man’s touch doesn’t affect you.” His hand drifted higher, toward her breast. He touched her as Lucien had often done, mocking that show, seeking to recreate it now. But there was a proprietary perusal in his hold that Lucien never employed. His mockery turned her blood to ice, yet, horribly, her sex clenched and her br**sts grew heavy and waiting for the inevitable moment when he would fondle her.

But he paused. Indecision coloring the move. Together they stood, waiting, their breathing matched in quick, light draws. Mary found herself fighting the urge to move, to beg of him to travel that small distance and cup her. She wanted that touch with a ferocity that frightened her.

“Do not do this,” she whispered, raw and desperate. Not like this.

His hand tensed, and his thumb pressed against the underside of her breast with enough pressure that she almost whimpered. His voice was but a breath. “Why? When you violated my privacy so thoroughly.”

She had, and it shamed her to the core. Even so. “I have not given you leave.”

“As I gave you last night?”

“I—I was in the wrong. Do not make the same mistake and ruin whatever remains of our relationship.”

“A relationship?” He laughed shortly, bitterly. “Is that what we have?”

What else could she call it? They were part of each other’s lives, indelibly, even if they did not want it so. If Talent used her as a toy, something within her would break. He had to know this. “I will not forgive you for it, Talent.”

A beat of silence stood between them. Then he spun her around. Before she could draw a breath, her shoulders met with the cold, stone wall. His large hand framed her ribs, and the other hand went to her jaw, a firm, warm touch that had her stilling. Dark brows slanted over gleaming eyes, a fierce glare, and one that gave her enough time to know what he would do. One that spoke of possession and retribution. The scowl settled on his lips, and he swooped down, the movement stiff and angry.