Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(51)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

She cocked her head, listening anxiously. The shots had been very near. If it was Winter being shot at, then he must be close. Unless the shots had hit their target…

A shadow moved in the gloom.

Her heart jolted. Isabel flung open the door even before she recognized the long-nosed mask. “Quickly! In here.”

He leaped inside the carriage without waiting for it to slow. Isabel slammed shut the door and rapped on the roof. “Home, John!”

Then she sat back on the squabs and stared across at him. His gloves were torn, but otherwise his costume was in place. He was alive. Alive, alive, alive! Thank God and all the angels and any saint that happened to be hanging about. Dear God, she was so relieved!

He took off his floppy hat and threw it on the cushions and then began removing his gloves as if he weren’t put out at all. As if she hadn’t just died a thousand deaths looking for him. And—and!—were it up to him, she wouldn’t have been looking at all because she wouldn’t have known he was the Ghost. Rage—white, hot, and clean—began boiling in her breast.

“You idiot man,” she hissed low. “Don’t you know that every soldier in London is searching for you with orders to take you dead or alive?”

He simply sat, breathing hard, not saying a word as he tucked the gloves into his belt.

She wanted to shake him. “Winter!”

He stilled before tearing the leather mask from his face and the silk mask underneath. His expression was forbidding, but she could see that his eyes were burning even in the dim carriage. “So you know.”

“You weren’t ever going to tell me, were you?” She laughed angrily, too many emotions swirling in her breast. “Of course I know. Do you think I can kiss a man and not know who he is?”

If anything, his face became more stern. “Then you knew earlier tonight when you…”

“Sucked your cock?” If she thought to shock him, she was disappointed.

He didn’t even flinch. He simply watched her with eyes she could not read, no matter how she tried.

Her laughter this time verged on the hysterical. “Were you jealous of yourself, Mr. Makepeace, or did you think me such a wanton that I seek out gentlemen at balls specifically to—”

He never let her finish the awful words. He lunged across the carriage, grabbing her in strong arms, and hauled her back before she could even gasp. She lay across his lap like some thief’s prize, entirely at his mercy.

Something inside of her quieted.

“Don’t,” he muttered, staring at her mouth. “I swore I wouldn’t do this. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

He never let her answer; instead he caught her mouth with his.

Her mouth trembled and she sobbed, just once. For the scare he’d given her, for the grief Lady Margaret suffered, for all the hopes and dreams that would never be.

That was all behind her, though. Here, now, there was only this man.

So Isabel framed his face with her palms, accepting his kiss, opening her mouth for his tongue, reveling in his sudden aggression. He was big and hot beneath her, his kiss urgent with male need. It lit an answering fire within her. She wanted this man. Wanted him inside her. Wanted him now. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and gently bit down and was rewarded by a feral growl from him. His wildness should put fear into her heart, make her more cautious. Instead it spurred her own feminine urges.

She slid her hands down his tunic, feeling the hard muscles of his chest beneath her fingers. He was like a young tiger, all muscle and passion, and she wanted to ride him—not to tame the beast, but to feel for a small moment all of his vitality.

She reached for his falls, and he groaned and canted his head to kiss her even more desperately. He was already erect beneath her fingers, alive and hot. She fumbled, her usually nimble fingers made clumsy with want, and for a moment she thought she might have to rip the cloth, so desperate was she for his bare flesh.

But the buttons finally gave way and she mewled into his mouth as she felt his hot skin against her palms. He was so hard it was like grasping iron draped in velvet: soft and yet unyielding. She caressed his flesh, squeezing gently.

When he began to urgently pull at her skirts, she lifted her bottom to help him drag them aside.

This was madness; this was delirium.

He found her bare hips under her skirts and flexed his hands against them, his kiss growing wilder. She felt his fingers stroking her buttocks, then circling her thighs.

They were in a carriage, for God’s sake. She should end this now. But she didn’t want to; it was as simple as that. So much was denied her—was it terrible to take what she could?

She threw one leg over his and straddled his lap, then reached under herself and found him again.

He tore his mouth from hers. “Wait.”

“No.” She looked him frankly in the eyes. “I don’t care if you spill at once. I need you inside me now.”

His beautiful eyes widened and then narrowed. “You’ll not always hold the reins, my lady.”

She smiled sweetly. “Naturally not, but I do now.”

And she placed him at her entrance. She was already so slick that he slid partially in at once.

He moaned and his eyes closed, his head tilting back against the carriage seat as if she were torturing him.

The sight made her wetter.

She slowly slid down on him, biting her lip, smiling with the pure pleasure of it, watching his face as she sat completely on him.

He swallowed, his throat working, the muscles of his neck standing out in strong relief. Gently, tenderly, she rose, careful to keep his cock inside her, the friction making her sigh with pleasure.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “I’ll spill too soon.”

“I know,” she crooned, and licked his neck. “But you’ll never forget this. Never forget me.”

His eyes opened, his sensuous upper lip twisting in a snarl. “I’ll never forget you no matter what.”

And he grasped her hips firmly, shoving up into her. He was untried, inelegant, jerky, and rough—and she loved it.

She flung back her head and laughed breathlessly.

“Damn you,” he growled, jamming himself in and out of her, his cock ruthless and hard. “Do it.”

She looked down at him, a goddess supreme. “Fuck, you mean?”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Make love. Make love to me. Now.”

His low words started her climax. She shivered, no longer laughing now, frantic to bring this to an end no matter what he cared to call it. She leaned against him, raising her bottom, slamming it down on him, making him gasp with the feel of their bodies working together.