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Authors: Meljean Brook
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smoothed the oiled sheath over his thick length, pressed the broad head against her burning flesh. With a heavy stroke, he pushed deep.
Sweet heaven. Her body bowed with the force of his possession, hands bunching in the coverlet. They froze together, locked in the moment—as they had every time since they’d married. No matter how frantic their coupling, the moment he was fully embedded, Rhys looked down, as if capturing her, and she looked up at him, taking in his stark beauty, his rough need. She had the barest second to realize that he hadn’t even tied the sheath, but held it on with his fingers wrapped at the base of his shaft, as if his need to come into her had been so great that every triviality had been tossed aside. His hands trembled now as he tied the strings, each tug teasing the sensitized flesh stretched around him, making her wetter, hotter, making it almost impossible to remain still until he finished. His callused thumb stroked over her clit. Urgent pleasure stole her breath. Her body tightened.
He surged forward. Again, again, his hands braced beside her shoulders and his mouth devouring hers, until she cried out, convulsing around him. He raised her knees alongside his ribs and drove harder, pushing away reason, pushing away every sensation but the heat of his skin, his thick intrusion, her clamping flesh. He pushed until she shook uncontrollably, ecstasy wringing little sobs from every breath—until he was shaking with her, and the tension finally left him.
Then he shed his clothes, came up on the bed, and savored her slowly again.
Chapter 4
Mina loved mornings. She loved waking up to Rhys’s furnace of a body against hers, to his exquisitely slow possession. She loved reading the newssheets over breakfast with him, loved talking with him—and usually, she loved teasing Anne, whose surly scowl in the morning was only matched by her mischievous grin after she’d fully wakened. She loved riding with Anne to the Blacksmith’s in the Narrow, and then loved her time alone as she traveled the remaining distance to headquarters.
This morning, Mina kissed Rhys farewell over an early breakfast eaten hastily in bed. She climbed into the waiting steamcoach alone. Traffic was light, and the steamcoach made good time—good enough that she could first stop at Leicester Square, and see Anne before she and Mina’s father left for the day.
Though Mina visited her parents often, even after eight months she still couldn’t decide whether to knock or to walk through the front door. This time, she chose to walk in. A new wind-up butler waited in the foyer, as tall as her shoulder—and naked. Her mother must not have been satisfied with his performance yet, and had left his gears exposed so that she could tweak and adjust him as necessary.
A new blue rug ran the length of the hall. After her parents had paid off their debt to the Blacksmith, her mother’s automatons had provided a large and steady income, supplemented by her father’s position at the Crèche—but like Mina, they found it difficult to spend, fearing that it might all disappear again. Aside from hiring another maid and an assistant for Cook, they’d barely undertaken any improvements to their home, and had only made the most critical repairs.
The rug told Mina that some of their fear must have eased. Good. Perhaps within a year or so, when she learned to throw away money like a duchess, they would let her spend Rhys’s money on them, too.
She heard a noise from the top of the stairs and looked up. Sally had paused to glance over the banister, her dust rag in hand.
“Good morning, Sally.” Mina smiled up at the young maid. “Are they still at breakfast?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
It still felt odd to be addressed as “Your Grace” in this house. At the mansion, everything felt new, and the “Your Grace” had been a part of that newness. But Sally liked to say it, and took pride in knowing that her inspector was married to the
Sweet heaven. Her body bowed with the force of his possession, hands bunching in the coverlet. They froze together, locked in the moment—as they had every time since they’d married. No matter how frantic their coupling, the moment he was fully embedded, Rhys looked down, as if capturing her, and she looked up at him, taking in his stark beauty, his rough need. She had the barest second to realize that he hadn’t even tied the sheath, but held it on with his fingers wrapped at the base of his shaft, as if his need to come into her had been so great that every triviality had been tossed aside. His hands trembled now as he tied the strings, each tug teasing the sensitized flesh stretched around him, making her wetter, hotter, making it almost impossible to remain still until he finished. His callused thumb stroked over her clit. Urgent pleasure stole her breath. Her body tightened.
He surged forward. Again, again, his hands braced beside her shoulders and his mouth devouring hers, until she cried out, convulsing around him. He raised her knees alongside his ribs and drove harder, pushing away reason, pushing away every sensation but the heat of his skin, his thick intrusion, her clamping flesh. He pushed until she shook uncontrollably, ecstasy wringing little sobs from every breath—until he was shaking with her, and the tension finally left him.
Then he shed his clothes, came up on the bed, and savored her slowly again.
Chapter 4
Mina loved mornings. She loved waking up to Rhys’s furnace of a body against hers, to his exquisitely slow possession. She loved reading the newssheets over breakfast with him, loved talking with him—and usually, she loved teasing Anne, whose surly scowl in the morning was only matched by her mischievous grin after she’d fully wakened. She loved riding with Anne to the Blacksmith’s in the Narrow, and then loved her time alone as she traveled the remaining distance to headquarters.
This morning, Mina kissed Rhys farewell over an early breakfast eaten hastily in bed. She climbed into the waiting steamcoach alone. Traffic was light, and the steamcoach made good time—good enough that she could first stop at Leicester Square, and see Anne before she and Mina’s father left for the day.
Though Mina visited her parents often, even after eight months she still couldn’t decide whether to knock or to walk through the front door. This time, she chose to walk in. A new wind-up butler waited in the foyer, as tall as her shoulder—and naked. Her mother must not have been satisfied with his performance yet, and had left his gears exposed so that she could tweak and adjust him as necessary.
A new blue rug ran the length of the hall. After her parents had paid off their debt to the Blacksmith, her mother’s automatons had provided a large and steady income, supplemented by her father’s position at the Crèche—but like Mina, they found it difficult to spend, fearing that it might all disappear again. Aside from hiring another maid and an assistant for Cook, they’d barely undertaken any improvements to their home, and had only made the most critical repairs.
The rug told Mina that some of their fear must have eased. Good. Perhaps within a year or so, when she learned to throw away money like a duchess, they would let her spend Rhys’s money on them, too.
She heard a noise from the top of the stairs and looked up. Sally had paused to glance over the banister, her dust rag in hand.
“Good morning, Sally.” Mina smiled up at the young maid. “Are they still at breakfast?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
It still felt odd to be addressed as “Your Grace” in this house. At the mansion, everything felt new, and the “Your Grace” had been a part of that newness. But Sally liked to say it, and took pride in knowing that her inspector was married to the
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