Griffin was making love to her, and she knew in that moment that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Here and only here would she ever be truly free. She held him close, terrified he would somehow stop and leave her behind.
But he didn’t. He gently bit down on her nipple and rocked against her faster and faster, sweat gleaming on his neck and on his chest, until she shattered under him. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, and he filled it with his tongue and lips, shuddering into her, continuing his ride, until he suddenly left her.
She felt the splash of warm liquid on her belly and opened her eyes. He was above her, his cock in his hand, his face relaxing from the sexual tension of before.
It was over. She was no longer a virgin.
CHARLIE WATCHED AS the dice fell from his fingers. A deuce and a trey. Five could be lucky or not; it just depended on the play.
“The attack failed, then.” He knew without looking up that Freddy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Aye. Three men killed outright and another two injured and lyin’ in bed.”
Charlie grunted, scooping up the dice. He rolled them between his fingers, the familiar clink of the bones soothing to his ears. “And we’re still dealing with the duke’s damned informers.”
Freddy didn’t answer that, probably because there was no need.
“But you say Reading was seen with the duke’s sister?” Charlie asked thoughtfully.
“Twice in St. Giles,” Freddy replied.
Charlie nodded, feeling the skin on his cheeks pull as he smiled. “The duke, the duke. It always comes back to the duke, doesn’t it? The duke and Reading, our dear friend.”
Freddy licked his lips nervously.
A thump and a feverish murmur came from overhead.
Charlie glanced up as if he could see the woman lying above. “How is she today?”
Freddy shrugged. “The nurse says she took some broth this morn.”
Charlie looked down without comment and threw the dice. They tumbled to the edge of the table, a trey again and a cater—four. Lucky seven. “Perhaps it’s time we use the duke’s informers to our own end. Perhaps it’s time His Grace learns what Reading really does in St. Giles.”
Chapter Eleven
That night, Queen Ravenhair again called her suitors to her throne room and asked them what their answers were.
Prince Westmoon snapped his fingers. Instantly a groom led a prancing black stallion into the throne room. Westmoon bowed low. “This horse is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Prince Eastsun waved a hand, and a huge warrior marched into the throne room, his chest armored in silver, his sword sheathed in a golden scabbard. “This man is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Finally, Prince Northwind presented a snowy bullock with gilded horns. “This bullock is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
—from Queen Ravenhair
Griffin slumped to the bedsheets, his body slaked. He lay there on his back, an arm over his eyes, his mind entirely blank, and all his muscles in a state of total relaxation. He might as well have been poleaxed.
Which apparently could not be said of Hero.
When the bed shook, he realized that his lover might not be in a similar state of enervated shock.
Griffin cracked one eyelid and watched, bemused, as Lady Hero jumped from the bed and ducked below the side. She straightened a minute later, trying to struggle into the remains of her chemise.
He yawned. “I know you’re new to this, sweeting, but the usual thing is to lie about for a bit, perhaps do the thing over again, God and my cock willing. No need to go haring off.”
As soon as the words left his lips, his brain finally—belatedly—roused itself, and he knew, absolutely and fatally, that it was the exact wrong thing to say.
She gave up on the chemise and bent to pick up her stays. Her face was half averted, but he could see even in profile when her lips thinned. “I must go.”
He couldn’t think very well—something more than the ordinary had happened here—but he knew he didn’t want her to go. Griffin scrubbed his hand over his head, trying to find some measure of wakefulness. “Hero—”
She ducked down again.
He propped himself up and peered over the side of the bed. She knelt, rummaging through her pile of clothes. Her head, even down-bent, did not look welcoming.
He sighed. “Stay a little while and I’ll call for some tea.”
She stood again, pulling on her petticoats. “I can’t be seen here.”
He was tempted to ask why she’d bothered to come in the first place, then, but prudence—not usually a virtue of his—stilled his lips. He knew he should talk to her, but he couldn’t think of the words that would persuade her to stay. His head felt thick, filled with dirty lint and smoke left over from the night awake in the warehouse.