A Rogue by Any Other Name

Hazel darkened to brown, and his voice turned to smoke. “I do.”

“It makes me feel like I could have anything.”

He tugged gently at the bow that kept the bodice of her dress tight across her br**sts, the movement loosening the ribbon and causing the fabric to gape. His finger dipped below the hem of the fabric, hinting, teasing there. “I would give you anything you want. Anything you ask.”

Love me.

Not that. That, she knew, he wouldn’t give her.

But before she could trace the thought, he was lifting her hands and unbuttoning her gloves, sliding them off slowly, the lush stroke of kidskin against flesh ensuring that she would never again be able to think of the donning or doffing of a glove as anything other than a sexual act.

He slipped one hand into her gaping bodice, beneath the edge of her chemise, to cup one breast and lift it from the fabric. She gasped at the sensation, and he leaned in to capture the sound with his kiss. “I want to lay you down in the light of The Angel and make love to you.” The words were punctuated with the rough stroke of his thumb across one nipple, and the scrape of his teeth down her neck. “And I think you want it, too.”

She could not stop her nod. Or her confession. “I do.”

As long as it is with you.

He released her, turning her to face the massive painted-glass window. She looked out on the floor of The Angel, teeming with people, as he worked at her buttons, releasing them methodically. “Tell me what you see,” he whispered, his lips pressing hot and soft along the curve of her shoulder.

“There are . . . men . . . everywhere.” Penelope gasped and clutched the fast-loosening fabric to her chest.

He reached her corset and made fast work of the laces, releasing her from the bone-and-linen prison. She sighed at the sensation, and his hands stroked across the cotton chemise, soothing the skin beneath. One hand came up to the window to hold her steady at the sensation, so welcome against her worried skin.

He seemed to understand the sound, and he licked at her ear, his hands sliding beneath dress and corset, stroking, leaving a path of pleasure in their wake. “Poor love,” he whispered, the words like fine brandy. “You’ve been neglected.”

And it felt like she had been. It was as though her skin ached for his touch alone. For his kiss. For the long, warm strokes that brought her nearly excruciating pleasure.

“Only men?” he whispered, snapping her attention back to the room through the mottled glass that defined Lucifer’s beautiful, corded neck.

His hands came around to cup her br**sts over her chemise, lifting them and shaping them with his warm palms before he took the aching tips between his fingers and pinched just barely, just enough to send a spear of pleasure straight through her. She gasped. “Answer me, Penelope.”

She forced herself to focus on the tableau before her. “No. There are women.”

“And what are they doing?”

She focused on one woman in a lovely periwinkle silk, her black hair piled high on top of her head, curls falling down around her. “One is sitting on a gentleman’s lap.”

He pressed against her then, rocking his hips into her bottom, and Penelope wished they were not separated by layers and layers of clothing. “What else?”

“She has her arms around his neck.”

He took the hand that braced her against the window and wrapped it behind her, around his neck, affording him better access to her lovely curves. “And?”

“And she’s talking in his ear.”

“Coaching his card game?” His fingers pinched again, and she gasped, closing her eyes and turning toward him.

“Michael,” she whispered, wishing he would kiss her.

“I love the way you say my name. You’re the only one who calls me Michael,” he said, before he gave her what she wanted, his tongue stroking deep and smooth until she was squirming in his arms, pressing her br**sts into his magic hands.

“You hated it,” she protested.

“You’ve worn me down.” He sucked gently at the soft skin of her neck. “Tell me more about the woman.”

Penelope turned back to the window, struggling to focus once more. She watched the woman lean forward, allowing her partner a view straight down her bodice. He smiled, leaning in to press a kiss on her collarbone before one of his hands slid over her thigh and along her calf before finally disappearing beneath the hem of her dress.

Penelope arched back, against Michael. “Oh, he’s touching her . . .”

His fingers lightened at the words, the caress barely there, its softness making Penelope wish they were both naked in the dark room. “Touching her where?”

“Beneath her—” She paused as Michael’s hand moved downward, toward the place where she ached for him. She sighed the next word as his fingers found her core, stroking softly. “—skirts.”

“Like this?” Despite the fabric of her skirts, Michael’s knee found its way between her thighs, spreading her wider as his hand slid into the heat there, the heel of his palm rocking against her.

Her head fell back against his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“What do you think?”

“For her sake, I hope so,” she whispered, as he stroked her.

He laughed, the sound a low rumble behind her. “And I for his.”

She closed her eyes as his hands moved in concert, one at her breast, toying, tempting, there and the other between her thighs, stroking masterfully. The caresses went on for several long moments before Penelope sighed, relishing the feel of him against her, pressing herself back to fit as perfectly as possible to him. He rocked into her movements, hissing at her ear. “If you keep up with that, darling, you shan’t be able to watch them much longer.”

“I don’t want to watch them, anymore, Michael.”

“No?” The question was curious at her shoulder, where his teeth were scraping across her skin.

She shook her head, tilting to afford him better access. “No,” she confessed. “I want to watch you.” His fingers did something wonderful between her thighs, and she sighed. “Please.”

“Well,” he said, and she heard the teasing smile in the words. “Since you asked so nicely . . .”

He turned her to face him, his eyes flickering over the place where she still held the fabric of her dress to her chest. “Let go of the dress, Penelope,” he ordered, the words liquid smoke, and her grip tightened.

“What if—”

“No one can see you.”

“But . . .”

He shook his head. “You cannot imagine I would let anyone see you, my glorious darling. You can’t imagine I’d allow that and not murder them.”

The words were so possessive, she could not help the pleasure that coursed through her at them. No one had ever called her glorious. No one had ever seemed the least bit interested in possessing her.

But in this moment, Michael wanted her.

She watched him carefully for a long moment, loving the way his eyes begged her to bare herself to him, before she released her grip on the fabric, letting it drop to the floor, leaving her bare, save for her stockings, to the dim light of the room . . . and to her husband.

He went still, his eyes roaming over her body, finally settling on her face before he said, reverently, “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”