Upstanding newspaper editor Hamish McTavish has tried to resist his fascination for the beautiful, scandalous young woman he first met as a ragged street urchin. Here, she finally reels him in…
Of course, it was a blatant lie that Hamish was headed to his club, but he didn’t care.
Just rewards? Truth to tell, he didn’t much care to think that far.
Mrs Eustace’s invitation was burning a hole in his pocket, and now he couldn’t wait to see what she had to say to him.
What she wanted of him.
* * *
It was not difficult to find the house, a charming little residence nestled amidst a row of similar structures where both the respectable, and the occasional nicely set-up mistress resided, he knew. She’d chosen well, and his presence here would not be remarked upon should someone of his acquaintance recognise him.
Hamish barely glanced at the young maid who relieved him of his outerwear, though he thought vaguely she seemed familiar.
And then the door was opened for him, and he was admitted to the drawing room, a charming, light-filled chamber tastefully furnished with an admirable collection of art upon the walls. She was more of the connoisseur than he’d thought, and the urge to know her better ratcheted up a notch. The deepest, starkest, darkest truth of her.
Regardless of the consequences.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” She rose as he entered, the light in her eyes beaming their way across the decreasing distance between them, her mouth a curve of pleasure, her tea gown falling in suggestive folds from a low neckline…he swallowed…contouring a body that sported no corsetry, he was certain of it, in the brief glance he allowed before swinging his gaze back to her lush mouth.
“Please take a seat, Mr McTavish,” she murmured, angling him towards the sofa and lowering herself beside him, her fragrant bosom crossing his line of vision as she bent to adjust what he realised, shockingly, was the garter holding up a white stocking that encased the shapely leg pressed against his.
“Thank you for the invitation.” He hoped he didn’t croak the words as much as he felt he did.
“And thank you for coming.”
The words sounded simple enough, but as she placed her hand over his, which was in his lap, it was as if an electric eel had just wound itself from neck to groin and discharged a volt that made him jerk into combustible awareness.
He should have known how it would be. There’d been enough warning that his defences were crumbling with every acerbic exchange; that the time would come when his every attempt to ward off the attraction he felt would come to nought.
And that time had come.
Instinctively, his hand closed over hers, and he brought it up to his lips to kiss, his eyes trained on hers, not breaking contact as with seemingly infinite slowness their lips drew nearer.
The silent, subtle connection between them had been apparent from the start so why should he be surprised when the mere brush of her lips provoked a response like nothing he’d experienced?
“Mrs Eustace,” he murmured, grazing the impossibly soft barrier between hope and hell as he responded to her kiss. Incinerating the last vestige of restraint that now plunged Hamish into the lust-driven demon she knew him to be at his core.
That she was clearly requiring at this moment.
“Lily,” she corrected him, softly, in that brief moment before their mouths fused and, with bodies hot with need, she gripped his hand and rose.
As if unable to draw apart, they stumbled into the passage, through the gloom, and into a dim bedroom, collapsing with soft sighs and heated breaths upon a cool pink eiderdown, Lily’s soft, womanly curves and contours pinioned beneath him, her long, creamy limbs twining about his waist as she laced her hands behind his neck.
End of Extract