Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

“And when you were there, did you…” She waved her hand.

“Sample the merchandise?”

Her jaw tightened at his mocking tone. “Never mind. I was only curious about the running of a brothel, the logistics involved.” She made a show of picking off a piece of fluff from her skirts. “If Rockley was a regular patron, I thought perhaps it would be a good business strategy to keep the men in his employ happy, as well, but it truly does not—”

“I didn’t.”

She stopped fussing and gazed up at him. He wondered if she knew how hopeful she looked. “You can tell me the truth,” she said.

Anger flickered to life. “I’ve never lied to you. When I say that I didn’t fuck any of the whores, I mean it.”

She didn’t blink at his crude language. “You must’ve had opportunity.”

“Plenty. But I don’t pay for sex.” He tore his gaze away from hers, folding his arms over his chest. “When she couldn’t make enough coin from doing sewing and mending, my ma walked the streets. I swore I wouldn’t let the same thing happen to Edith. Tried to keep her from that … life.” He spat the word.

“Didn’t matter, though,” he continued, glaring out the carriage windows. He didn’t see the fine shopfronts and flats of the West End, but the narrow tumbledown hovels of Bethnal Green and the hollow-faced women who walked its filthy streets. “She became a whore, just like our ma. I told her, Be a shopgirl, go work at a factory . Gave her money. But she wouldn’t leave it. She said, The only way a girl like me’s going to get anywhere is on her back .”

His words like rusty nails in his throat, he said, “So, no. I didn’t sample the merchandise. Because the damned merchandise was someone’s sister. Someone’s ma.”

His sodding eyes burned. His goddamn chest ached. He’d spent five years on the rack of his own thoughts, his own condemnation, but it hadn’t been enough. It was never enough.

He started when Eva’s hand cupped his face. Caught up in his self-blame, he hadn’t noticed that she’d moved to sit beside him. But in an instant, it was all he was aware of.

The cool reserve surrounding her fell away. Her gaze searched his. It almost killed him, seeing the compassion and sadness in her eyes—he couldn’t stand anyone’s pity. He didn’t want it. Pity was for weakness.

And yet … she showed him a kindness that went beyond pity into something deeper. A shared understanding.

“I should’ve tried harder,” he rasped. “Nabbed her off the street and locked her up somewhere, a place far away in the country. But I chose to believe her lie when she said she was happy at the brothel where she worked. It was a fancy place, a place where gentlemen went. The girls there looked healthy and comfortable. So I let her stay. I fucking let her stay,” he growled. “And then she’d been killed. By my own sodding boss. He liked his bedsport rough. Must’ve gotten too rough that night. I didn’t warn her to stay away from him. I may as well have stuck the knife in her.”

“ Rockley killed Edith,” she said quietly. “Save your anger for him, not yourself.”

“Oh, aye,” he said, bitter. “I’m a goddamn hero.”

“I never said that.” Her mouth curved into a soft, bittersweet smile. “But maybe you’ll become one.”

He took up most of the seat, so she squeezed tight next to him. Her hand still cupped his cheek, and though he wished she weren’t wearing gloves, he still soaked up the feeling of her touching him.

He became, suddenly, conscious of everything. The sensation of her leg pressed against his. How she was warm and cool at the same time, and smelled of flowers and her own satiny skin. The desire for her he’d been feeling as a continuous pulse now thundered through him.

Though shadows were heavy in the carriage, he was close enough to her to see the widening of her pupils, hear the low, edged catch of her breath.

The atmosphere between them changed. She’d been offering kindness a moment before. Now, kindness turned to hunger.

He raised his own hands. Slowly. Cupped the back of her head with one, and curved the other around her neck. She stared up at him, her breath coming fast.

Then he put his lips on hers.

He’d watched iron-hulled ships being built in dockyards, and how, when the welders had put torch to metal, sparks had showered everywhere. Liquid light.

Those same sparks, that same heat and light, poured through him now as he felt and tasted Eva’s mouth for the first time. She was silk and steel, and so delicious he wanted to gulp her down. He traced his tongue across her lips, catching the flavor of champagne. Her lips opened to him, and he sank farther in. Where she was wet and fever-hot.

He didn’t think she’d resist him—he’d seen the desire in her face—and she didn’t. More than that, she kissed him with the same hard hunger that burned in him. She gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer. He growled. Yes.

It was everything and not enough. Roughly, he pulled her onto his lap. She moved to wrap her arms around him, but he held her back. Holding her gaze with his, he used his teeth to take off his gloves and tossed them aside. He wrapped one hand around the back of her neck. The other pressed against her chest, just beneath her collarbone. She gasped, and he gave another growl. He urged her down for another kiss.

Gliding his hand down the span of her chest, feeling the pounding of her heart, he dipped his fingers beneath the neckline of her gown. At his first touch of her breast, his whole body ached with need. And when his fingertips found the hard point of her nipple, she moaned, pressing closer.

Goddamn him, but he’d never touched or kissed a woman as fine as her, or known this keen fire. She also pulled off her gloves, and they joined his on the floor of the carriage.

“Eva,” he rumbled, when her own hand slid beneath his evening coat to grip his shoulder through the thin cotton of his shirt, her nails digging into him. “Good bloody Christ.”

“Blasphemer,” she murmured, then nipped at his mouth.

He took his lips from hers, running them over the line of her jaw, then down her neck. Her smell made his head spin and his cock ache. He scraped his teeth across her skin, and she made a sound of pleasure as she writhed against him. The carriage swayed as it jolted down the street, the rhythm urging both Jack and Eva on. She rocked her arse into his groin. He pinched her nipple and caught her pleasured cry in his mouth.

He knew, he knew it would be like this between them. Hot and wild. Not pretty but honest and bare. And he also knew that if he wasn’t inside her, now, he’d lose his damn mind.

He released his hold on the back of her neck to reach for the hem of her skirts. The carriage shuddered to a stop.

“Here we are,” the cabman called down.

Gasping, Eva broke away. She stared at Jack through lowered lids, and color spread across her cheeks. With slow, rigid movements, she moved off his lap to sit on the opposite seat. Her hands shook as they struggled to smooth her hair and skirts.

Jack also panted as if he’d gone twelve rounds in the ring. He watched her try to tidy herself, and all he wanted was to pull her onto his lap again, have her straddle him. There were other options, too. She could brace her arms on the seat, and he’d lift her skirts, baring her from behind. She could sit, and he’d bury his face between her legs. They’d both get very, very untidy.

“Change of plans,” Jack called up to the driver. “Take us to Sydney Street.”

“Right, gov.” The cabman clicked his tongue at his horse, and the carriage began to move.

“Wait,” Eva exclaimed. “Don’t go anywhere yet, driver.”