Page 96 of Where the Heart Leads
He nuzzled her nape in response, his own form of wordless thanks.
But as soon as he’d caught his breath, he murmured, “So that’s what you could enjoy whenever the mood strikes you.”
Her answering chuckle was the definition of sultry. “Whenever? Surely I’d need you to achieve the desired result.”
“True.” That was precisely what he wanted her to realize. Lifting his head, he set his lips to her ear. “But as I’m here…”
With one hand he resumed fondling her breast, while he skated the other down, splaying it across her lower belly and pressing lightly as he moved suggestively behind her—reminding her that he was still inside her. Recalling the pleasure she’d derived from that.
As if she needed reminding. Suppressing an altogether unnecessary shudder—he patently didn’t need further encouraging—Penelope was finding it hard to believe that she’d lived so long without comprehending that pleasure this deep, this warm and satisfying, existed. That with the right male, she could indulge to this extent, to where glory seemed to sing through her veins. That the simple joy of intimacy could be so intense.
With the right male; presumably that was why she’d never before felt inclined to explore in this direction. Barnaby Adair was different—to her, different in so many ways. She didn’t think him weak or unintelligent, not even less intelligent than herself—and she felt a secret thrill at his size relative to her. He was so much bigger, hard, stronger, yet they seemed to fit together, not just intimately but in other ways, too; she’d grown used to having him, a wall of masculinity, hovering at her shoulder.
Which was quite a turnaround, given her usual reaction to large hovering males.
“It’s rather remarkable, when you consider it”—his voice, relaxed and deep, floated past her ear; she sensed he was speaking as much to himself as to her—“that we deal so well together.” His fingers drifted across her breast. “Not just in bed but beyond it—in society, and even through our investigations.”
He paused, then went on, his tone pondering, “I actually enjoy talking with you—and that, I have to confess, isn’t the norm. Your mind doesn’t revolve about fashions, or weddings, or babies—not that I imagine you never think of those things, but you don’t feel compelled to discuss such matters with me, and instead have other ideas, other concerns, ones I can share.”
Penelope stared unseeing across the room, conscious not just of the warmth of his body cradling hers, of his hand idly stroking her breast, but of that other warmth that dervied from shared thoughts, shared endeavors.
“You’re not, thank heaven, shocked by my work.” He paused, then went on, “Then again, I’m not shocked by yours.”
She chuckled, then said, “We do seem to be rather complementary.”
He shifted behind her, reminding her of that. “As you say.”
She laughed at his dry tone, but her thoughts—driven by his—claimed her. They did seem to have a natural meeting of minds, one she—and it seemed he, too—had found with no other. They were from the same select social circle, one whose strictures neither he nor she felt overly bound by, yet that similar background made it easier for them to understand each other, how the other would react in any situation.
A slow swell of warm pleasure rolled up and through her, and she realized he was moving, very gently, within her. Realized he’d got his second wind, so to speak.
She glanced at the window; even though it appeared fuzzy, the light had faded even more. Ignoring the passion already wreathing through her, she forced herself to say, “I have to leave. We don’t have time.”
Her disappointment colored her tone.
In response, his hands tightened, holding her in place; he withdrew, but then thrust more forcefully in again, surprising a shivering gasp from her.
“We have time.” He withdrew and thrust again, hands gripping more definitely, anchoring her before him. “Andthenyou can leave.”
A lick of delight slid up her spine. Her lips curved, but she forced out a sigh. “If you insist.”
He did, delighting her thoroughly once again before he allowed her up, allowed her to dress, then escorted her home to Mount Street.
Smythe appeared in Grimsby’s rooms late on Sunday night. Grimsby looked up—and Smythe was there, filling the doorway to his private chamber.
“Gawd almighty!” Trapped in his ancient armchair, Grimsby clapped a hand to his heart. “Give a bloke some warning, or you’ll likely be the death of me.”
Smythe’s lips twitched; walking in, he snagged an old straight-backed chair, swung it around so the back was facing Grimsby, then sat. “So—what’s the problem?”
Grimsby pulled a face. He’d left a message at the Prince’s Dog tavern, the only known way to contact Smythe. He had no idea when Smythe would get the message, much less when he would comply. “We’ve a spot of bother.” Shifting to reach into the pocket of his old coat, Grimsby hauled out the printed notice and handed it to Smythe. “Rozzers have got the word out.”
Smythe took the notice and read it. When he reached the announcement of the reward, his brows rose.
Grimsby nodded. “Aye—I didn’t like that part, either.” He went on to relate how he’d learned of the notice, and what Wally had told him. “So it’s too dangerous to take the boys out to train, leastways not during the day. I’m not about to ask Wally to do it—last thing we need is the rozzers catching him with two of them, and then coming around here and nabbing the lot of them.”
Smythe was gazing into the distance. He nodded.
Grimsby waited, eyeing him, unwilling with Smythe to push.
