Unraveled (Turner #3)(67)

“Do you, now.” His heart was pounding.

“When I got this—” she held up a scrap of paper “—I nearly ran to Temple Church. I wanted to do it all by myself, to prove that I could handle it on my own.” She handed him the note. “I can’t.”

It wasn’t just a piece of paper she gave him, or even a story. It was a piece of herself, complicated and confusing. She’d trusted him to listen. In return, he trusted that no matter what had transpired in her past, she would turn to him first. If someone had told him he’d find this kind of mutual reliance with a woman who’d associated with criminals, he’d have scoffed.

He glanced over the paper and then folded it and set it back on her desk. “Well. There’s no need to worry. Right, wrong, whatever he is—the Patron cannot threaten you with me.” He leaned close to her. “You’ve forgiven enough of my faults. I can overlook this little thing.” He paused. “I’m not even sure if you’ve described a fault or a strength. You survived. I cannot quarrel with that.”

She let out her breath and looked up to him, not quite believing what he was saying. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, either, but he felt as if he were slipping into some dangerous world—one where answers ceased to be easy.

He had only a couple of weeks left with her. He brushed a piece of hair from her mouth. “Come with me to the opera.” It was the stupidest whim, especially after the debacle they’d made of the theater.

“What?”

“The opera,” he repeated. “Don’t let this bother you.” He set the paper back on the desk. “Come with me to the opera tomorrow, and show the Patron that you won’t be moved.”

He intended to show her more than that. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to mark her every bit as much as she’d marked him.

EVER SINCE HER CONFESSION, Miranda had felt out of kilter—waiting for Smite to realize what she’d said, waiting for him to walk away from her.

The opera only heightened her sense of confusion. She didn’t know why he’d suggested it—surely not just because she’d enjoy it. And he’d seemed uneasy through the entire performance. No; not uneasy. Tense. As if he waited for a particular moment. When the opera was almost over, that moment came.

He leaned over. “We’re leaving now,” he murmured.

“Leaving? Why are we…” She glanced up at his face. “Oh.” There was no mistaking why they were leaving. There was a hot need in his eyes, something dark and deep and roiling. He wanted her. And he wanted her now.

She took his arm as they slid out of their seats and picked their way to the back of the hall. It was dark, and the soprano had started in on the final aria. Nobody could see the way her fingers dug into his arm. Only she was close enough to sense his urgency. He practically dragged her into the empty entry. The marble pillars echoed with their footsteps; behind her, the soaring song climbed high, and then higher.

“In return for making me miss the aria,” she said, “I’m going to torment you the entire way home.” She pulled off her glove and ran her finger down his chest. “Think you can stand twenty minutes of me, Turner?”

He turned and took her hands in his. “You’re not missing the aria.” He spun her around to face the wall and his voice dropped a few dangerous notes. “We’re not going anywhere, either.” He raised her hands and set them against the wall, and Miranda shivered.

“Anyone might come out of those doors,” he said. His hands settled themselves at her waist, and he stepped up against her skirts. His body formed a warm, solid mass behind her. “Anyone at all. And if they do, they’ll see me doing this.”

His gloved hands slid up the stiff fabric of her bodice to cup her br**sts. His thumbs circled her ni**les. The material of her corset diffused the feel, spreading it out. But it did not mute the sharp spark of pleasure that shot through her.

“If that door opens now, of course,” he murmured in her ear, “I can step away and only the flush in your cheeks will raise suspicion.” His hands continued to chart a dangerous course over her body. He stroked her, caressed her, until she strained against him. He kissed the back of her neck. “So I think we should remove any doubt as to what is happening.”

At first she had no inkling what he meant. But he braced her waist. She pushed against the wall, the palms of her hands hot against the cool stone. And then she felt air against her ankles. Her calves. Her thighs.

He was going to have her here. Now. Like this.

“Anyone might see us,” she protested halfheartedly. But her pulse was already racing, and she found herself wet for him.

He didn’t flinch. “That is rather the point.”

Fabric rustled and he stepped closer. She could feel his frame, hot and muscular and hard behind her own. She was on fire for him—for this. Anyone might see. It scared her. It thrilled her. She felt as if she’d been brought to the climbing heights of the aria. His hands left her, briefly; she heard a rustle, and smelled a hint of vinegar.

“First,” he said, and slid what must have been a sponge inside her. His fingers were sure and steady. Miranda bit down on a moan.

“Now this,” he continued.

He shifted against her, and she felt the hard ridge of his erection naked against her skin.