Deb Marlowe - Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom - Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable

His heart thumped. His cock surged. He slid his fingers into her curls of red-gold, cradled the back of her head for one long, tender second, and then let go to grasp the bars on either side of her. Pain flashed in his arm, but she made no protest, and only anticipation showed on her face. Jack slipped loose from the last vestige of reason and control, leaned in and branded her with his hot, searing kiss.

Honesty. That’s what Jack gave her with his wild, insistent mouth. It was not what he’d set out to do. Lily had seen the calculation in his eye when he took his first step towards her. But she’d seen it disappear, too. Driven further away as he grew physically closer, supplanted by longing, and need and pure, undiluted want.

Almost from the first moment they met, Lily had asked, pes-tered, demanded that he come out of hiding and show her his true self. Now at last he’d taken the first step and opened a crack in the protective barriers around him. Her arms crept up, across the expanse of his chest and over his shoulders, locking behind his neck and pulling him close. No matter what he said, and despite his unreasonable request, she knew she had an obligation, a responsibility to meet him halfway.

He deepened the kiss, tempting and coaxing with lips and tongue and mouth, while a cascade of voices clamoured an alarm in her head. They threw accusations at her, ugly words like immoral and shame and sin.

She ignored them. This entire trip to London, she realised, had truly been about shutting out other voices and distractions, and learning to hear her own.

So she listened. At first she could only hear the clear and happy note that was born of his kiss. Jack , it hummed. Jack, Jack, Jack. But she forced herself to concentrate further. And what she heard was music, learning and debate. Camaraderie and intercourse with other people with similar interests. And a great clamouring for more. More of all of that, but above all, more of Jack Alden.

Joy erupted within her, stretching and growing until she had to give it voice. She moaned her approval and happiness and relief. And he answered in kind, emanating a low, appreciative rumble that originated in the back of his throat, but somehow ended up pooling hot and deep in her belly. Neither of them could deny the reality and the truth of this moment, just the two of them coming together with nothing else between.

Their kiss changed in the moment when her lips parted and her mouth opened under his. Suddenly he was inside, and the hot, slick slide of his tongue made her wild with need. Passion poured out of him and into her. She took it, honoured by the enormity of his gift, and gave it back to him twice over.

Slowly he coached her, taught her tongue how to play. An eager student, she met him thrust for thrust and pressed herself closer against him. His hands came off the bars and settled into the curve of her neck and shoulder, steadying her while he kissed her with long and languid strokes.

He drew back a fraction and Lily gasped, her breath coming fast and rough. It nearly ceased altogether when he buried his face in the curve of her throat. Her pulse tripped and pounded against him as he made his way down her throat with alternate hard, biting nips and soft, teasing kisses.

But honesty is a rare and fragile thing, and Lily should not have expected Jack’s first foray into the light to be a lengthy one. He gradually slowed and stilled, until they stood clasped unmoving in each other’s arms, his face still buried in the crook of her neck and her cheek pressed hard against his shoulder.

He was the first to disengage. Their hot breath mingled as their gazes met. His chest heaved as desire and need faded.

Lily knew how difficult this must be for him, and yet she had not expected to see regret loom so quickly, nor so strongly that it almost resembled despair. She shook her head. ‘Jack, don’t,’ she whispered.

But the breach was repaired and he had already retreated behind his walls and into safety. His head was shaking, too, in constant small movements that nevertheless signalled a large degree of denial.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right. It isn’t me .’

‘Jack.’

‘No! I’m sorry—you ask for something I just don’t have in me to give.’ His brow furrowed, his lips compressed. ‘All I want is to speak with your cousin. I’ll do everything in my power to help him, I swear. If you hear from him, tell him that.’

He spun on his heel and walked away.

Lily could not bear to watch him go. She turned and gazed through the gate once more. For the first time in a long time, she felt she truly knew what she wanted. And it was not the iron bars in front of her blocking her path to good fortune.

Jack did not wait for the gathering to officially end. He took a terse leave of his mother, a more polite one of his host, and then he traded a spot in the landau next to Lily for Keller’s mount. Within thirty minutes he was on his way back to London, cursing himself for an uncontrolled idiot and Lily Beecham for a damnably tempting vixen.

Why? He pondered his ridiculous dilemma as the miles passed. Why did the one time he needed to maintain his usual calm and rational focus become the one time he found it impossible to do so? The thought of how badly he’d botched nearly every moment with Lily Beecham sickened him.

He needed to think. Traffic entering London forced him to slow his pace and he cursed under his breath. He longed for the peace and serenity of his rooms. He would refocus, forget the taste of her, the incredible feel of her under his hands, and try to figure out what the hell his next move should be.

Fractious fate intervened, however. When Jack finally made his way home, he sprinted up the stairs—and froze at the sight of his door standing partially open. Wariness, confusion, and finally white-hot anger blossomed in his chest. Silent, he crept forwards. Tense, on alert for any sound or movement from within, he eased the door open. Nothing stirred. Amidst a rising, ever-more-familiar rush of rage, he stepped inside.

Whoever the intruders had been, they’d done a thorough job of it. Every drawer, book, stack of papers, even the clothes in his wardrobe had been torn apart and tossed asunder. Speechless, he stood in the midst of the devastation.

What in hell was this all about? He couldn’t explain this ransacking of his rooms, any more than he could stem his rising tide of temper.

Already weakened by his encounter with Lily Beecham, surrounded by the wreckage of his life, discipline stood not a chance. Jack reached down to pick up a book, sorely tempted to throw it against the wall himself. A whisper of a sound outside gave him pause.

He waited. It came again. The steady, slow sound resolved itself into a set of footsteps on the stairs and only served to fuel his fury. He sunk into a crouch and let it wash over him. Rational thought ceased and blind, pure instinct took hold.

His brain fought back, trying desperately to send the message that something about the approaching threat rang peculiar. But Jack was in thrall to his jangled nerves. The enemy approached, stood just beyond the still-open doorway, set a cautious step over the threshold.

And at his next rational thought, Jack discovered he held a man pressed to the wall. His uninjured forearm pressed tight and cruel into the man’s throat, even as he desperately wished for his knife.

‘Effendi.’ The soft voice in his ear cut through the angry red haze. ‘I do not think you wish to be doing this.’

Startled, Jack glanced to his right. That accent, the silent approach, it could only be … ‘Aswan?’ He looked back, then, to the man he’d pinned. He stepped abruptly away. ‘Oh, God. Eli!’