Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(69)

Apollo was an aristocrat. Richard was an aristocrat. These two things were facts, simple and true.

She drew strength from that. “He’s married with children, I believe. Two sons? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in years.” And for that she was very glad.

He took a step closer and despite her folded arms, she could no longer keep herself entirely apart from him. His body heat invaded her skin—her very bones. He said, “He has one green eye and one blue one. Like Indio.”

She took a careful breath. “Yes. He’s Indio’s father.”

His eyebrows drew together—not in condemnation but in puzzlement. “Lily, I—”

“Ross doesn’t know,” she said bluntly.

He looked at her in question.

“I never told him.” She stared at him, trying to convey this one truth. “It’s important, very important, that he not know about Indio.”

“But…”

She couldn’t hold herself together anymore. The danger was too close. She grabbed his arm with both hands. “Apollo, please, please promise me you’ll not mention Indio, or… or any suggestion that I have a child, to Richard.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course.” He frowned down at her hands and slowly took them in his own. “Did he hurt you? Because if he hurt you, I—”

“No.” She almost laughed—though not in amusement. “You have no need to play my protector. In fact, I wouldn’t be happy if you said anything at all to Richard about me.”

“He was your lover.”

She tried to pull her hands away, but he wouldn’t let her. “Is that what all this is about? Jealousy? God, I can’t believe—”

He did an odd thing then, something that startled her into silence: he laughed, a bitter, tormented sound.

“Jealousy,” he grated, pulling her close, pulling her into his arms, though she struggled to get away. “I would that it were something as easy, as simple, as mere jealousy.” He bent and murmured against her mouth, his lips caressing her with each word. “This is far more awful than jealousy.”

And then he was devouring her mouth, his breath hot and tasting of the coffee he must’ve drunk when he’d broken his fast. She wished, suddenly, that she might’ve been there when he had. That she could’ve watched those strong, unlovely lips sip at a cup, that she could’ve seen his throat move as he swallowed toast or eggs or gammon or whatever he’d consumed at that meal. She wanted to be there with him whenever he ate, whenever he rose, whenever he went to bed. She wanted to watch as he let himself go, as he succumbed to slumber and dreams. She wanted to see him shave. To find out if he raised his chin and stroked upward with the razor as she’d once seen Edwin do when she was very little.

She wanted… oh, dear God! She wanted everything. She wanted him.

And in that moment she forgot resolve and carefully plotted plans and all else. Her vision, her mouth, her very being were filled, simply and completely, with Apollo Greaves.

She opened her lips, desperate for him as if she hadn’t seen him for years, when he’d risen from her bed only hours before. She bit at him, whimpering.

He caressed her face, murmuring, “Shhh.”

There were others nearby, she knew that somewhere in a part of her brain that still worked, but it really didn’t matter to her. She clutched at his shoulders, his hair, wanting him naked with her. Wanting him to be Caliban, not Apollo.

He lifted her suddenly, setting her on a table nearby, which wobbled under her weight.

He cursed softly and tossed her skirts up, thrusting his hand underneath. He gave her no warning, no gentle persuasion. His fingers were at her mound, blunt and unhesitating. He traced through her folds, spreading and exploring, as if he had every right. Claiming her sex as he’d claimed her mouth.

She groaned and he broke away to admonish, “Hush!” against her cheek.

Then his thumb found her clitoris and he was pressing against her, moving in small, devastating circles.

She bit into his shoulder.

He bent and licked her throat.

“Shit,” he breathed. “I can’t—”

And then he took away his hand and she growled at him.

He laughed, low and sensuously, and flipped open his falls. He shoved between her thighs, making the table shake, spreading her thighs even wider to give himself room.

“Stop,” she hissed. “The table will break.”

He simply looked at her, grinned, and thrust.

She grabbed his upper arms as he entered her, rough, sudden, searingly hot—and so good she had to bite his shoulder again.

“Someday,” he panted as he thrust again, his cock stretching her, filling her, “I’m going to take you in a place where you don’t have to be quiet. Where I can hear all your moans and little squeaks. Where I can make you scream.”

And he seated himself fully, his pelvis pressed to hers, her skirts in a wadded mess between them.

He started to withdraw slowly and she pounded on his back with both fists. “Move!”

He braced one hand on her hip and one on the wall and thrust in again, making the table knock against the wall.

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. He was hitting her just there, and it was marvelous, but at the same time the table’s knocking would bring someone soon. She groaned. She didn’t want to end this but there was no lock on the door.