Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(88)

Each time Sophia drew on him, Ross sank his tongue deep inside her, matching his rhythm to hers, until she shuddered hard as her pleasure finally reached its zenith. She cried out against his groin, her mouth still clamped around him. His own culmination approached rapidly, and he moved his hands to her head. But she resisted his attempts to dislodge her, and the silky strokes of her tongue became too much to bear. The cl**ax broke over him, and he arched and gasped as he was consumed in an explosion of pure white fire.

Eventually Sophia turned and climbed over him, resting her head on the center of his chest. Ross held her tightly. His lips moved against her throbbing temple as he spoke. “I don’t care who your brother is. He could be the devil incarnate, and I would still want you. I love everything about you. I never expected to find such happiness. I love you so much that I can’t bear the thought of anything coming between us.”

Sophia’s slim, damp body flexed against his. “There is nothing between us now,” she said throatily.

Ross parted his legs to allow her to settle between them, his c**k stirring briefly against her stomach. Sighing in relaxation, he clasped his hands behind his head and contemplated her thoughtfully. “Sophia,” he murmured, “I don’t think there is any way I can save Gentry from the hangman. Nor am I particularly disposed to try. I can’t overlook his crimes, even though he is your brother. The fact is, Gentry is beyond redemption. He has proved that on many occasions.”

She shook her head in disagreement. “My brother’s life has been very difficult—”

“I know,” he interrupted as gently as possible. It was apparent that any arguments concerning Nick Gentry would result in nothing but frustration for both of them. Sophia would never stop hoping that her brother’s ruined soul could be salvaged. He smiled slightly, stroking the fragile sweep of her jaw. “Only you would continue to love a brother who blackmailed you.”

“No one has ever given him an opportunity to change,” she said. “If he had just one chance at a different life… think of the kind of man he could become.”

“I’m afraid my imagination fails me,” came Ross’s sardonic reply. Rolling over, he pinned her beneath him, his muscular thighs straddling hers. “Enough about Gentry. He has occupied my thoughts enough for one day.”

“All right,” Sophia agreed, although it was obvious that she wanted to discuss him further. “How shall we pass the rest of the evening?”

“I’m hungry,” Ross murmured, bending over her na**d br**sts, “I want supper… and then more of you.” His mouth covered one swollen nipple, his teeth catching at it gently. “Does that sound agreeable?”

Thanks to Ross’s preparations, there had so far been no violent demonstrations from agitators on behalf of Nick Gentry. The following day, however, he expected a few public skirmishes. Therefore Bow Street had been blocked off with troops and militia, and a party of three runners and a dozen constables was busy clearing away onlookers who tried to gather at Newgate. Families of magistrates had been given notice to barricade their homes, while employees at banks, distilleries, and other businesses were given guns to help defend against possible looting. Sophia had vehemently refused Ross’s attempts to send her to the country until the situation was resolved. She did not want to be bustled off to Silverhill Park to sit helplessly with Catherine, Iona, and Ross’s grandfather while her brother’s fate was being determined.

As the day progressed, Sophia sat in the private parlor in Bow Street No. 4, frantically considering what might be done for her brother. Her head ached and throbbed. Ross did not take luncheon, only sent repeatedly for jugs of coffee while a stream of visitors came to the magisterial office. Gradually evening approached, and the city swarmed with armed foot patrols that kept a lid on the simmering rookeries and flash-houses. On his way to deliver a message to a justice in Finsbury Square, Ernest stopped at No. 4 to give Sophia a brief report of the situation. “I ‘eard Sir Ross and Sir Grant talk as ’ow they’re surprised the public ‘as taken Gentry’s arrest so quiet-like. Sir Ross says it’s a sign that many opinions ’as swung against Gentry.” Ernest shook his head at the masses’ disloyalty. “Poor Black Dog,” he murmured. “Bloody ingrates, all o‘ ’em.”

Were Sophia not so miserable, she would have smiled at the lad’s ready defense of his tarnished hero. “Thank you, Ernest,” she said. “Be careful when you go out. I would not like for you to be hurt.”

He blushed and grinned at her concern. “Oh, no one’ll lay a finger on me, milady!”

He dashed off, and Sophia was left to brood alone once more. The sun set, leaving London covered in hot, black night. The air was pungent with coal and the stench of a foul east wind. Just as Sophia considered changing into her nightgown in preparation for bed, Ross strode into their private apartments. He stripped off his sweat-dampened shirt as he crossed the threshold.

“Is there any news?” Sophia demanded, following him into the bedroom. “How is my brother? Are there any reports? Has there been agitation near the prison? I’m going mad from the lack of news‘.”

“Everything is relatively calm,” Ross said, pouring water into a washbasin. The long muscles of his back flexed as he sluiced water over his face, chest, and beneath his arms. “Fetch me a clean shirt, will you?”