The Bourbon Kings

At least with the way he was now.

“I wish I had done this before,” he said in a voice that cracked. “My body was once something worth seeing. I should have … I should have tried to have you before, but I was too much of a coward. I was an arrogant coward—but the truth was, I could have withstood anything except you turning me down.”

“Edward—”

He cut her off by putting his mouth against hers.

Oh, she was good. As good as he’d always imagined she would be, the slick feel of his tongue slipping into her and the way she moaned like she’d been waiting a lifetime for this making him forget what he had become.

That gown melted away, falling from her body as if it were in on the gig—as if it were perhaps getting a kickback for making the session happen faster. And he took advantage of the skin that now showed, kissing his way down to her perfect breasts, suckling on her nipples, getting greedy fast. Bless the poor woman’s heart, she managed to fake things so well, her hands threading into his hair just as he wanted them to, her grip bringing him closer to her, even though that couldn’t possibly be what the prostitute actually wanted.

He tried not to be rough with her, but God, he was so hungry all of a sudden.

“Get into my lap,” he groaned. “You’re going to have to get into my lap.”

It was the only way he could have sex. Especially as he didn’t want to subject either one of them to the embarrassment of her having to help him off the floor after it was over.

“Are you sure?” she said roughly. “Edward—”

“I have to have you. I’ve waited too long. I almost died. I need this.”

There was a heartbeat’s worth of pause. Then she moved with admirable quickness, rising from the floor, kicking the gown free, revealing—sweet Jesus, she had a thong on and nothing else, no stockings, no garters. And rather than wasting time to take the thing off, she pushed it to the side as he fumbled with the belt that kept his pants from falling off his jutting hip bones.

In spite of how the rest of him had faded away, his cock was still as hard and long and thick as ever—and he was oddly grateful to that organ for being the only thing that wasn’t completely humiliating about this for him.

Shoving his arms into the chair, he pushed himself even farther forward, and she pretzeled herself, mounting him with enviable coordination—

His arousal penetrated her deeply, and the tight, hot hold she brought to him made him orgasm immediately—but that was not the amazing thing. Apparently the feel of him, by some miracle, did the same for her.

As she called out his name, she seemed to find her own release as well.

Either that or she’d missed her calling and should have been an Oscar-caliber actress.

Before Edward knew what he was doing, he began to move. It was weak, and rather pathetic, but she followed the lead, that first release soon getting eclipsed by an even greater orgasm for them both. Shuddering, rocking, straining, she held on to him for dear life, her hair getting into his face, her breasts pressing in to him, her body taking him on a ride like nothing he’d ever had.

The sex seemed to go on forever.

When it was finally finished, after a third orgasm for him, he collapsed back into the chair and panted. “I’m going to need you again.”

“Oh, Edward—”

“Tell Beau … next week. Same time, same day.”

“What?”

He let his head loll to the side. “Money’s over there. Only you. I only want you again.”

Abruptly, probably because he’d exerted himself more in the last twenty minutes than he had over the previous twelve months, he began to feel faint—and indeed, it seemed appropriate to pass out and let the prostitute leave on her own.

He could keep the fantasy going more easily that way.

“Thousand … by the door,” he mumbled. “Take it. Tip will come …”

Edward meant to say “Tip will come later. I’ll have someone drop it off at Beau’s” or something to that effect. But consciousness became a luxury he could no longer afford … and he gave himself up to the oblivion.

Once again, thinking only of Sutton Smythe.

Sutton stumbled out of Edward’s cottage. Her shoes were off and dangling from their straps, but unlike her earlier trip through the grass around the museum building, the porch boards and then the cobblestone path hurt.

It wasn’t as though she cared.

As she bolted for the Mercedes, she was a mass of contradictions, her brain a jammed-up mess, her body all loosey-goosey.

He’d thought she was a prostitute?

But why else had he been talking about money and some guy named Beau? Next week?

Oh, God, they’d had sex …

How had they done that? How had she let …

Dear Lord, his poor face, his body.

Around and around the thoughts spun in her head, until, as if by centrifugal force, everything weeded out except for the fact that Edward was not at all as he had once been. His handsome looks were gone, the scars on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose and forehead making it virtually impossible to reconstruct by memory the perfection that had once been there.

She’d been aware that he’d been treated badly. Newspaper and television reports, her only source of information because he had refused to see anyone, had detailed the lengths of his hospital and rehabilitation stays—and that kind of extensive treatment did not happen without tragically good reason. But seeing him in person had been a total shock.