It should be said that Imogen was generally quite brilliant.
She was extremely good at maths, a scientific genius to rival any man at the Royal Society of Chemistry, and in the past two years, she’d discovered three separate chemical reactions that proved extremely useful when it came to catching criminals, distracting peers, and rendering unconscious men who . . . well . . . deserved it.
So it was not without thought that she proposed that Thomas Peck kiss her again. The way he made her feel was so uncommon—so out of the realm of her prior life experience—that she really did hypothesize that kissing him might calm the wild beating of her heart and return everything to normal.
The moment his lips found hers, however, his arms coming around her waist and pulling her tight to him, it was clear that Imogen did not need to complete the experiment to prove that her hypothesis had not only been incorrect, it had been nonsensical.
But she was going to complete the experiment anyway. Obviously.
For science.
Because the kiss might not have calmed the chaos inside her . . . but it was the closest thing she had ever felt to an explosion.
A wild ka-boom of an explosion.
And as a woman who enjoyed explosions, she was keen for more.
She ran her hands up around his shoulders and tilted her head, opening to him with a little sigh of pleasure, delighting in the way he received her, sliding his tongue over her bottom lip with a sinful lick and dipping inside, bringing flame with him.
Imogen sucked in a breath at the touch, stilling for a moment, unable to move or think or respond because it was happening. He was kissing her again. Not outside of The Place after she offered him a trade. But because he felt it, too—this wild pull.
And that knowledge, along with the feel of him, warm and strong and for this mad moment hers . . . was enough to set her aflame.
She met the kiss, and they burned together, sliding, stroking, clinging, their breath coming hard and fast and his hands moving, slow and deliberate, a smooth promise of pleasure down her spine, over the lush curves of her hips and around to her bottom, pulling her tightly to him, lifting her into his kiss, making her forget everything but this man, this kiss, this moment.
No, there was nothing calming about Thomas Peck’s kiss.
It was the opposite of calming.
It was . . . exciting.
So exciting that she couldn’t keep the discovery to herself.
She pulled away with a quick “Oh,” her fingertips running through the soft pelt of his beard.
He stroked one thumb over her cheek and caught her eyes. “Oh?”
“It’s just—I was wrong.”
He stiffened and made to pull back, to put distance between them.
“Oh, no. I don’t mean . . . Don’t do that,” she insisted.
He stopped and let out a quick exhale. “I think I ought to.”
She clutched his arms to stay his movement, and couldn’t ignore the steel of his muscles beneath his beautifully tailored coat. “Oh,” she said again, unable to keep the approval from the word.
A low sound rumbled in his chest. Something suspiciously like pleasure. Her gaze flickered to his, and he said, low and rich, “What were you wrong about, Imogen?”
She blinked. “I thought the kiss would solve everything.”
He cursed, soft and wicked in the dark. “It didn’t. It was a mistake.”
No. It wasn’t. That much, she knew. “It should have,” she insisted. “It’s a matter of science. Of exposure.”
One dark brow rose and he cut her an amused look. “Exposure.”
“Precisely. In the same way one exposes a child to a disease. To get it done with.”
“Lady Imogen,” he said, the words slow and easy. “Am I a disease in this scenario?”
“You don’t have to be,” she said. “I am happy to be the disease.”
“You are not a disease,” he replied, the words clipped, as though she’d offended him.
She smiled at that. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”
“I should not be here with you.”
“My brother hired you as my guard,” she said. “Where else would you be?”
“I remain a man. An unmarried man outside of your world. If we were discovered—”
She would be ruined. Without doubt. “Sesily would be thrilled,” she muttered.
“What?”
Imogen lifted her chin, dismissing the question. “Mr. Peck, are you my guard? Or not?”
His hands—still holding her tight to him, as though he could not find the willpower to release her—flexed at her round bottom. “I am.”
“And you have reason to believe it is necessary?”
He closed his eyes at the question. “I do,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “Though I am not sure you aren’t the danger.”
Feeling wicked, she pressed back into his grip, reveling in the way his eyes opened and his fingers tightened, sending a thrum of pleasure through her. “I like to think of myself less as a danger and more as an adventure.”
He huffed out a laugh. “You are that.”
“And if you are to be my guard on this adventure,” she said quietly, “perhaps the solution to this particular problem is a longer exposure.” The words fell between them, and she knew they were a risk, but she added, “An investigation, of sorts.”
“Ah,” he said, lifting one hand to stroke over her cheek, back and forth in a slow, maddening slide. Imogen held her breath, waiting for his answer. And then he dipped down and pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss to her jaw, just beneath her ear, where he whispered, “We have established that I am very good at investigating . . .”
“Tommy,” she whispered, wanting more. Wanting him.
He stilled at the sound of his name, and then, with another low growl—frustration? desire?—he lifted her off her feet, into his arms. Imogen couldn’t remember ever having been carried about in her entire life, and this man had done it three times in a little over a week. She shouldn’t have liked it. She should have resisted it—she was perfectly capable of moving herself from place to place. She did not require some brute from Scotland Yard to carry her about.
But every time he did, she couldn’t help but marvel at his enormous muscles—she was not small, after all—and the way he seemed to have absolutely no trouble at all with lifting her, carrying her, touching her . . .
She loved it.
Tommy set her on a nearby table, where she knocked into a heavy brass lamp.
She gasped and turned, but before she could reach to catch the heavy fixture, Tommy was there, his reflexes instantaneous, grabbing it from midair with one large hand before it hit the ground and the glass shade smashed.
In one smooth movement, he returned the lamp to the table and set his hand to the side of her face, pressing his thumb beneath her chin, and tipping her face up to his.
She couldn’t help her breathless “That was impressive.”
“Mmm.” He dipped his head and stole another kiss, acknowledging the compliment before he whispered at her lips, “I like impressing you.”
“I am impressed,” she said softly. “By so much of it.”
He pulled back, barely. Just enough that she could look into his eyes. “For example?”
She gave him a little smile. “Are you searching for compliments, Mr. Peck?”
He didn’t hesitate, his blue eyes going deep and liquid. “Yes.”
She lifted a hand and stroked one finger down his nose. “This bump.”
“Bar fight.”
“Did you win?”
His shoulders straightened, chest broadening at the question, as though he were a champion presented to his queen. Her guard. “Yes.”
She nodded. “It suits you.”
“Winning?”
A little smile. “That, too.”
He matched her smile. That suits you, too. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she let her fingers trail down to his beard, smoothly oiled, loving the sound that rumbled in his throat. “You like that.”
He pressed against her hand, urging her on. “Mmm.”
“It makes you look”—he took hold of her hand and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, stealing her breath as she finished—“wild.”
Another rumble in his chest and he leaned down to coast his lips along the soft skin of her neck, the barely-there kiss punctuated by the stroke of his beard and the slow slide of his tongue tasting the pulse that hammered there. Without thinking, she lifted her chin, giving him permission to continue, and added, “It makes me feel wild.”
“Shall I tell you what makes me feel wild, my lady?” The words were low and lazy, as though they were not at a Mayfair ball at which she would be missed. As though he had a lifetime to be distracted by her shoulder, to trace the curve of it to the edge of her dress.
She wanted to tell him not to call her that. Not to put the distance of her title between them. But she liked it too much, the claiming in it, the idea that she was his. That it was his choice. “Please,” she said, the word barely there as his fingers returned to the edge of her gown, tucking inside, setting her on fire.
“Here?”
She nodded, looking down at the place where he tugged at the rough silk, at the gold thread. “Wait—” She reached for the brooch she always wore—obsidian set in silver. Removed it, slid it into her pocket. And when that was done, she whispered, “Yes.”
The fabric stretched as he followed her silent instructions, hooking his finger and tugging it lower. “You make me feel wild,” he said, and she could hear the surprise in his voice. “You upend all my good sense. I’m to question you. I’m to watch you. I’m to keep you at a distance.”
She tugged on his hair until he looked up at her. “Why?”
“You’ve been tampering with my crime scenes.” Another tug, and the fabric scraped across her nipple, baring it to the cool room and his hot gaze. He stared down at her, and she recognized the emotions on his usually well-guarded face.
Recklessness. Chaos. Desire.
“You’ve been tampering with my bodice.”
He shook his head. “I can’t help myself.”
She nodded. “You know what they say . . . best to keep enemies close.”
Tommy didn’t reply, and for a moment, she wondered if there was something wrong. She had never done anything quite like this . . . never revealed herself to another, let alone a person who made her feel the way he did. But she’d heard plenty about the act—difficult not to with Sesily and Adelaide nearby—and as far as she knew, men did not . . . stay still for it.
Was it . . . was she . . . acceptable?
The thought crashed through her and she released him instantly, moving to cover herself.
“No,” he said, the movement unlocking him. He caught her hand in one of his, strong and warm and unyielding. “Let me look.”
Her cheeks went red with embarrassment. “Is it . . .” She paused. Rethought. “Am I . . .” Oh, no, she couldn’t ask that. She took a deep breath. “Are you . . . satisfied?”
He looked up at that, meeting her gaze. “Am I satisfied?” He gave a little laugh. Barely there, but recognizable as a laugh nonetheless, and Imogen wondered if it was possible to perish from embarrassment. “No, my lady. I am not satisfied.”
Perishing from embarrassment would not be the worst outcome, she decided. At least she would not remember that reply when she was dead. “Oh.”
“Imogen,” he said softly. When she did not meet his eyes, he said, “Look at me.”
The demand was raw enough to tempt her, and when she did, it was to find him stern and serious. “I am not satisfied by looking, because looking isn’t enough. I want . . .” He looked down at her breasts, bare and aching for him, and stroked one hand over his mouth, like he was starving. “Christ, I want to touch you more than I want my next breath.” His eyes found her, light with desire. “May I touch you, my lady?”
That honorific again. Asking permission. Setting her on fire. “Yes,” she replied. “Please.” She bit her lip, unable to ask for what she wanted.
She didn’t have to. Because he knew. He wanted it, too. And when he gave it to her, his tongue painting over the straining tip of her breast like a promise, it was glorious. She gasped, sliding her fingers into his hair, finding purchase as he bent her back over one arm and turned his attention to her other breast, taking the peak into his mouth and—Oh!—sucking in lush, lovely pulls, again and again, sending pleasure pooling deep within her, making her ache for more.
“That is . . .” His gaze found hers at the words, but he did not stop, instead licking over her with the broad flat of his tongue, daring her to finish. She did. “. . . wicked.”
He smiled at the assessment. “Not wicked so much as an adventure, no?”
She couldn’t help the little laugh as he notched her legs wide beneath her skirts and pressed closer, worshipping her. He scraped his teeth across one nipple, soothing it immediately with tongue and lips, and her fingers clenched, holding him tight to her as she begged, “More.”
He didn’t hesitate, his hands stroking down her legs as he lifted his head to claim her mouth in a wild kiss—one she matched until his fingers found her ankle beneath her skirts and she gasped at the sizzle the touch sent through her.
His lips slid across her cheek to her ear, where he repeated on a low whisper, “May I touch you, my lady?”
She wanted to scream her approval, but settled on a quick, harsh “Yes, please.”
“Mmm,” he rumbled, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear. “These stockings are so smooth,” he marveled, stroking up her leg, palming the curve of her calf as his teeth worried her ear. “And here.” He played at the back of her knee, and she laughed. “Ticklish?”
She lifted her chin to give him more access—aching for more of his touch, his kiss, whatever he would give her. “I didn’t know until now. No one has ever . . .”
Breath punched out of him. “No one has ever touched you here,” he finished for her, the words dark and full of something like pride. “No one but me.”
She turned her head to meet his gaze. “You like that.”
“I shouldn’t,” he said. “I have no right to.” And still, he pushed her thighs wider, pressed closer, let his fingers travel higher.
“But you like it, nonetheless.”
“I do,” he said harshly. “It makes me want to lay claim to you.”
“You already have,” she said. “You do every time you call me my lady.”
He stilled at the words, turning his face to the ceiling and closing his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Imogen . . . don’t say that. This . . . it’s one time. After this . . . we must . . .”
“One time. For exposure.” She reached down and pressed her hand to his, where it lay just above her knee. “But I am glad it is you, Tommy. Touching me. First.”
He stole her lips for another deep, wild kiss, exploring higher, until—
He stopped, breaking the kiss. “Imogen?”
She grinned, knowing what he’d found. “Tommy?”
“Is this a blade?” His fingers stroked over the leather strap at her thigh.
“It is.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
Her fingers tangled in his hair. “One never knows when one might meet a nefarious character in the darkness.”
His touch traced the holster on her thigh. And then a gruff, “You don’t need a blade.”
“I don’t?”
“Not tonight.”
She shivered at the words, punctuated by the stroke of his beard at her neck, and then replied, breathless, “Experience tells me it’s much better to have a weapon and not need it than it is to need one and not have it.”
A beat. And then, “This is your weapon of choice?”
“No, but they tend to frown upon explosives at balls.”
“Mmm,” he said. “Unfortunate.”
His hand was still on her blade, unmoving. “Isn’t it? But if I have to carry a blade, that one is quite special.” His nearness turned the words to breath more than sound. “It was made for me by a lady bladesmith in Scotland.”
“I am unsurprised you have a lady bladesmith.”
“I have a lady most things,” she replied. “You should try it.”
“Mmm. I confess, there is a lady I am tempted by right now.” The words sizzled through her. “But you misunderstand,” he added. “When I say you don’t need a weapon tonight, it’s because I am your weapon, now. You have me.”
Her eyes flew open and she pulled back to meet his, intensely blue. “My guard?”
“Your blade.”
She shouldn’t have liked it, but it sounded so . . . romantic. As though he were a Scottish warrior and they were in the wilds of the North Country and he was about to wrap them both in his plaid for the night—putting his back to the cold with the single purpose of protecting her.
His lady.
Her man. Not for long, of course. She was not being coy when she said marriage was not for her. That she was too wild for marriage. But tonight, in that moment, in that place, he was hers. And so she did what any self-respecting woman would do—she reached down and grasped his hand, guiding it off the hilt of her blade, higher, along the curve of her thigh, to the tops of her stockings. Where she stopped, because he’d reached skin, and she’d never felt anything like it.
They both groaned, and he added a second hand to the first, toying with the ribbons. “Tell me . . . are these tied with pretty bows the color of fire?”
It was difficult to find her voice. “Yes.”
“May I see them?” A pause, and then, “My lady?”
She trembled at the question, but caught her skirts in her hands, lifting them up, over her thighs, revealing herself. He watched, his body tense, jaw set like steel as he stroked over the wide satin ribbons. “I wondered how soft it would be,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Your skin. And now I have my answer. Too soft for hands like mine.”
She instantly shook her head. “No.” His rough fingertips were strong and work-hewn and perfect, stroking along the edge of her stockings, tracing her inner thighs.
He cursed again. “So soft. How are you softer than silk?” He traced further over her skin, and her thighs opened wider, giving him access to the place where an ache had begun that she did not recognize but absolutely understood.
Tommy also understood, his blue eyes capturing hers in the darkness as he followed her silent instruction. “Here,” he said, the word a marvel. “I wondered about this.”
He was so close—a fraction of an inch from where she wanted him. “What else did you wonder?”
“It would take a lifetime to catalogue all the ways I have wondered about you, Imogen Loveless,” he said. “I have wondered about the color of your skin and the shape of your body and the feel of you against me . . .”
She should have been embarrassed by the whimper that came at the words, but she couldn’t find room for embarrassment for all the desire that coursed through her. “Tommy—” she said, urging him on.
“I wondered how soft your skin would be. And now, I wonder . . . how soft will you be . . .” He trailed off, his words hot at her ear as he moved in exquisite torture to—
She gasped and he growled, low and dark and full of arrogant pride, like he’d known what he would find and was more than pleased to be proven right. “And now I don’t have to wonder,” he whispered, holding her gaze. “Here . . .” His fingers stroked over the seam of her and she couldn’t keep her eyes open. “Impossibly soft, aren’t you? And so wet.”
His words threatened to undo her even as he gave her the kiss she was aching for, a long, lush claiming that captured the cry of pleasure she couldn’t keep in when he parted her folds and delved inside, painting over her again and again until he found the place she strained for him and circled once, twice, pausing only when she rocked her hips into his hand, urging him closer. He broke the kiss, lingering on her full lower lip with a little suck before he said, “There?”
Imogen sucked in a breath. “Yes.”
Another circle, devastatingly slow. “Like this?”
The breath punched out of her, ragged and fierce. “Oh, dear God.”
“He’s not here, love,” he whispered like sin. “It’s just me.” Her hand scrambled down his arm to his wrist, clutching it tightly. “Go on, then,” he urged. “Show me.”
Her fingers tightened on him and she rocked her hips against him, searching for his touch, wanting him to resume it. “Please, Tommy.” He gave her what she wanted—what she could not find the words to ask for, the slow, unyielding circles that tracked the movement of her hips. Over and over in a rhythm that she couldn’t have imagined for herself—like in all the time he’d wondered about her, he’d somehow divined the exact way she liked to be touched.
He knew it in detail when, if she’d been asked an hour earlier, she would have said, simply, By him.
Soon, her thoughts were scrambled, nothing but the pure pleasure he wrought as he teased and tempted and played without purchase.
The muscles of her thighs tensed as she held him in the exact place she wanted him, and he widened his stance, holding her open. “No,” he said. “I want to watch it hit you.”
It was coming—roaring toward her as she held him tight to her and said, “Don’t stop.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, low and dark, the words barely more than a growl. “It’s yours, love. Claim it. Use me.”
And she was using him, rocking against him, along his strong, knowing fingers, as his thumb continued in perfect rhythm. “That’s it.” He caught her jaw in his hand, tipped her up to him. “Look at me. I want to see you—”
“I’m—” She gasped, and he caught her scream as she pressed her mouth to his, going wild against his hand and his lips, needing him to guard her—to guide her—through her pleasure as she came hard and fast against him, rocking against his touch as he drank down her cries.
As she returned to herself, he held her, pressing soft kisses along her jaw to her ear, where he praised her for what she’d done, calling her a half-dozen things that no one had ever called her. Magnificent. Beautiful.
“Like fire,” he spoke at her ear, moving just slightly, just enough to send a shock of pleasure through her before he lifted his hand and, looking directly at her, sucked his fingers into his mouth.
It was wicked and sinful and made her want to do it all over again. Her eyes went wide and he grinned. “Like fire, and like honey.”
She couldn’t stop herself—she reached for him, pulling him down for another kiss, knowing even as she did that it was a very bad idea. That she was supposed to walk away from him now—that they were to go back to their lives, having achieved a level of exposure that afforded them some immunity.
Except she was not immune to him.
She feared she was the opposite.
But she kissed him rather than think about it, and he seemed perfectly satisfied with the plan, tipping her back, licking into her mouth, stroking down over her chest to toy with her breast, which sent a fresh jolt of excitement through Imogen, making it her turn to wonder . . . if perhaps they could continue their investigation. Immediately.
Before she could suggest it, however, he lifted his head. “Do you hear . . .” She opened her eyes and met his gaze, feeling unmoored. He cursed, soft and wicked. “Christ, Imogen. You are so pretty.”
It was not a word that was ever used to describe her, and so she couldn’t help the way she dipped her head, looking away from his attention.
And then she heard it, too.
A bell. In the hallway beyond.
She froze for a moment, at once knowing what it was, and wishing it to be anything else. Anywhere else.
Not now. Not while she was here in Tommy Peck’s arms, and he was telling her she was pretty.
The bell sounded again, and it was her turn to curse.
“What—”
She released him and pushed him away, and he went, the gorgeous man, watching as she lowered her skirts and hopped down from the table, and made for the door.
Imogen threw the lock and opened it a crack, peering out to discover Adelaide in the hallway beyond. “Oh!” Adelaide said. “Good. You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?” Imogen asked, pulling the door tighter around her as Adelaide craned to see inside the room.
Her friend cast an amused look at her. “You realize you are quite short, Im . . . and that man is very tall. And directly behind you.”
Imogen turned. “One moment, if you will, Detective Inspector.”
He stepped back and spread his hands wide, and she stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
Adelaide’s brows were halfway to her hair. “When we have more time, I shall want every detail.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Imogen said, nodding at the bell in her friend’s hand. “What is it?”
Her expression grew serious. “No time. Duchess has the carriage waiting.”
Imogen looked over her shoulder, toward the closed door.
“Your body man won’t like it,” Adelaide said softly.
“No, he won’t,” Imogen agreed, already moving down the hallway. “But there’s no reason to make it easy for him.”
A wide grin broke across her friend’s face. “It’s to be a hunt, then?”
Imogen’s heart was pounding at the idea that he might follow her. She shouldn’t like him chasing her. She should want him to leave her alone. And still, she couldn’t stop her reply. “I prefer to think of it as an adventure.”
