Her free hand settled over the crowbar lying next to her. With a grunt, she swung the crowbar hard. His head shattered like fine crystal, shards of ice flying from the force. “Your body is comprised almost entirely of water.” She let go, and the body toppled and broke into a thousand scattered pieces about her.
Dark smoke drifted up from the wreckage of Isley’s body and an ear-ringing screech filled the space. The smoke gathered, growing darker, more substantial, until it took on the shape of a man. The black, writhing man-shape hovered over her as red glowing eyes formed where the face ought to be.
Poppy climbed to her feet and faced the thing head on. The black mass broke apart only to reform around her, a storm of unnatural wind that plucked at her clothes and scraped her skin. Isley’s growl came at her from all directions. “Does Winston Lane know you cry for him? That you want him back so very desperately?”
He was grasping at straws, looking for her weakness. She held herself still within the storm. “Go back to hell where you belong, Isley.”
The wind picked up, blinding her. “Only if you come with me, Poppy Ann.” And then he was gone.
Chapter Fourteen
London, 1869—In Bed, Finally
It’s so hot.”
Winston choked out a laugh. “It most certainly is.” Pleasure and the fact that Poppy Ellis had her slim, cool hand wrapped around his overheated c*ck made him shiver. He drew a finger along the length of her neck before kissing the sweet little spot where her pulse pounded. “Which is your fault entirely.”
Lying on her bed, his shirt undone and his trousers unbuttoned, he marveled at how he’d arrived at this moment. Well, he knew how. He’d crept into her room like a thief. How it was that she’d managed to practically undress him while retaining her clothes was the mystery. One he was going to rectify. He undid another one of the hundred little pearl buttons marching up her nightgown as he kissed her softly.
She gave him an experimental stroke, and he groaned, his lips clinging to hers. “Poppy. You are going to unman me.” Another button popped free.
“I thought it would feel cool. Wriggly even.”
“Wriggly?” His voice was strangled. “How on earth… oh, God…” He canted his hips, pushing into her grip. “Do that again… harder.” His thighs trembled, and his cods ached. And he loved it. He licked his lips. “H-how did you come to such a conclusion?”
“Well,” she kissed his neck, her strokes continuing at a maddening pace. “From the renderings I’ve seen, it appears to simply hang, dangling away from the body.”
He laughed, the sound muffled against her damp skin. His fingers were somewhat frantic now, needing to get to their prize. The nightgown gapped, and the sweet curve of her small breast came into his view. Win’s mind went blank, then dark with lust. His hand actually shook as he slipped it beneath the fine linen and cupped her smooth flesh. Gods, but it was too good. He’d never felt a breast before, but he was fairly certain no other breast would have felt as good to him as Poppy Ellis’s breast.
Distracted by this touch, Poppy stopped her questing and made a little noise. Pleasure. He could tell by the way her lips parted on a breath. He leaned in, snatching a kiss before giving her breast an experimental squeeze. She made the sound again.
Beneath his palm, her silky nipple began to rise. Impatiently, he wrenched back the nightgown to get a better view. She was beautiful, gorgeous, and bloody perfect. The pink bud of her nipple was shrinking, growing tighter. He brushed his thumb over it, loving the way it moved against him, and how she squirmed at his ministrations. His mouth watered. He wanted to suck that nipple, bite it just enough to feel it give against his teeth. His c*ck swelled larger.
“Win.” Her mouth found his and clung, her tongue tasting and teasing as her hand went back to playing with him. “Win.”
“Present,” he murmured. What if… He pinched her nipple, and she moaned. Heat washed over him so strong that he couldn’t breathe through it. His c*ck thrust against her palm. He wanted inside of her. He had no notion of how it would feel, and suddenly it became imperative that he find out.
His free hand slid to her knee, pushing up her gown to get at her cool, smooth skin. Her legs were endless, and he wanted to explore them at his leisure. Some day but not now. They both sucked in a breath when his fingers touched her curls and then found her slick skin. Wet. That was how it would feel inside of her. Hot and wet. He stroked, exploring her in gentle touches that soon grew stronger. Then it was Poppy who canted her hips.
“Ah, God, Win.” She panted and moved against his fingers. “Do that again.”
He complied and came in contact with the hottest part of her. “How do you like it, Pop?”
Her throat moved when she swallowed. “Softly.”
“Softly? Like this?” He swirled his thumb around her bud, gently, so very gently.
She groaned, and her long legs spread open like the pages of a book offering up their secrets. Win swallowed convulsively. He looked down.
“Lovely.” Dark red curls, pink glistening lips. They caught the whole of his concentration, and he slowly discovered every inch as she writhed against him, tilting her hips, encouraging him lower. Unable to stop himself, he pushed a finger in. Hot, wet, and tight. He closed his eyes on a groan. She would be heaven. His c*ck agreed and ground itself against her now relaxed hand. As if hearing his plea, she gripped him hard. Her free hand grabbed onto his hair.
Determined brown eyes gazed up at him. “Win, come into me.”
Winston considered himself intelligent. And though he panted, and his body literally shook with needful lust, he paused. “We aren’t married.”
She froze at his whisper. Her red tongue swept out to lick her lips, distracting him. He forced his gaze to her eyes. She blinked as though dazed. “No. But Win…” Her cheeks went scarlet. “I need you.”
He kissed her hard, telling her with his kiss how much he needed her too. His finger sank deeper into her, earning a whimper, and his heart nearly pounded out of his chest. But he pulled back. “You know how much I want you,” he said, willing himself not to stroke her. “But I will not dishonor you—”
“It is not a dishonor.” She pulled him closer. “Not when it is what I want. What we want.”
He almost moved then. Almost. His gaze caught hers. “Does that mean we will marry?”
Maybe later he would analyze how one could feel such intense lust while being felled by equally intense pain. Now, however, he slowly took his hand away from her as her expression closed down, giving him his answer long before she spoke. “I cannot.”
He pushed himself up to sitting. “Poppy darling, I must ask…. Why the bloody hell not?” Cursing again, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “What are we doing here?”
“I thought that was obvious.” The bed squeaked as she sat. He risked a look. She was buttoning up her gown.
On a sigh, he tucked himself back into his trousers and tried to bring himself to rights as well before getting off her too-tempting bed. Rising, he faced her. “Do not double talk me, Poppy. You invited me to your rooms in the middle of the night—”
“I did not hear you complain.”
“Offered up your virginity,” he said over her, “and yet you continue to refuse my suit.” Which hurt, more than he wanted to admit. “Why? I confess. I do not understand you.”
She sat, long legs crossed before her, with a mulish expression pulling at her features.
“Why?” he said again, for she would not answer.
Poppy’s cheeks went pink, then red. “I did not expect this. I did not expect you. I did not think that someone would—” Her breath hitched on a hiccup. “That someone would—”
He took a step toward her. “Would what?”
She ducked her head. “Want me.”
“Want you?” he repeated, stunned. He sank to his knees beside the bed and took her cold hand in his. “I don’t simply want you. I love you!”
“I know,” she whispered, her face so very pale. “Which makes it so much worse. To have your love is a miracle to me. And I cannot accept it.”
For a moment, he could only stare at her. He’d never said those words in his life, never even felt them for another soul. And what did she say in return? Nothing. No reassurance. When he found his voice, it was weak and rusty. “For the love of God, Poppy, at least tell me why.”
She blinked rapidly. “You are the son of a duke.”
The numbness started in his face and then crawled along his arms, down to his fingers. From beyond the buzzing of his ears he heard himself ask. “Has my father contacted you?”
Her hand slipped away. “Not only me, but my father as well. We will be ruined if I continue my association with you.”
“We cannot let him win!” He punched the side of her bed, and the frame rattled. “We marry, and he will let it go—”
“Not even you truly believe that, Win.” Her brown eyes appeared so very old and tired then. “He will make us pay for defying him. I think you know that as well.”
“Then we leave. We can go to America or—”
“Win.” Poppy cupped his cheek with a hand that was remarkably steady. “I cannot leave London. My life is here. And it is complicated.” Her hand drifted away. “I never meant for it to go so far. Only I could not help myself with you.”
“You—” His breath hitched. Humiliating. And yet he could not stop his head from falling down into her lap. “Do not make me live without you, Boadicea. I cannot do it.”
He heard her swallow, felt her hand come down to stroke his hair. He did not acknowledge the touch; he was too cold. Cold enough that his body shook and his throat convulsed. “You are my cornerstone.”
“And you are my happiness. But we will both have to go on,” she whispered, breaking his heart, tearing apart his soul. Her body curled over his as she kissed his cheek. “Can we not have this night to say good-bye?”