Page 21 of Her Beast

Thanks to Brian, Malcolm loved getting sucked off while he worked. But then who wouldn’t?

While Maisie was no Brian Harlow—still the best gamahucher Malcolm had ever known—she still had superlative skills. For at least two hours she’d brought him to the edge of release and then eased him down, just the way he liked it.

As a result of her fine work his bollocks were heavy and full, his sac so tight he felt like he might explode just from the pressure of his trousers. But as primed as he was to empty his load into her, he’d still held back.

Mainly because he liked the sharp edge that such restraint gave him.

But he also enjoyed denying himself pleasure, punishing himself for being alive to enjoy such earthly delights while his wife was nothing but bones in a box.

That didn’t mean Malcolm was a martyr to his guilt. No, not at all. Not only would he fuck Maisie tonight, but he’d been watching her every day this past week.

Indeed, sometimes he liked that—spying on the whores he hired—better than having sex with them.

Avoyeurwas the word he’d recently heard for what he did. At the orphanage they’d just called thempeepers: perverts who enjoyed watching others engage in sex.

Malcolm refused to be ashamed of his prurient proclivities; when a man’s face was enough to make women vomit or scream that man had to take his pleasure when and how he could find it.

A huge man appeared in the open doorway Butkins had just passed through.

Malcolm nodded his greeting. “Come in, Joe.”

“Evenin’, guv.” Joe moved with the grace of a boxer, light on his feet for a man who weighed at least twenty stone. He was pure muscle, bone, and gristle; one tough bastard. He was also as smart as a whip and a hard worker.

“What do you have for me?” Malcolm asked.

Joe handed him a stack of papers and then lowered himself into the oversized leather chair across from Malcolm’s desk and pulled out a small notebook, ready to report.

“Go ahead,” Malcolm said.

“The Marquess of Basingstoke—heir to the Duke of Angleton—announced his betrothal to Julia Harlow two years ago. That top picture is from the announcement that was in the newspapers.”

Malcolm greedily studied the photograph. Bloody hell she was gorgeous. Seeing a picture of her right after looking at Maisie made him realize there really was no comparison. Maisie was the proverbial mutton dressed as lamb.

As for Basingstoke?

Well, Malcolm knew women would find him attractive with his tall, elegant gentleman’s body and fine-boned classical features. Not to mention his impressive title.

Malcolm thought he looked like a bloody tosser.

Buther.

Christ. She was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The feeling in his chest when he looked at her was …

Hell, he didn’t know what the fuck was clawing at him so painfully.

It’s longing, Mal. You’ve been alone far too long.

Malcolm shoved Sukey’s voice away, not interested in chatting with his dead wife at the moment.

He looked up at Joe. “Why the long engagement?”

“They were actually supposed to marry two years ago—when the girl left school—but a death in each family put the date off, twice. Also, from what I could learn, his lordship—Sebastian, his name is—wasn’t exactly eager for the union.”

Sebastian.Malcolm hated that poncy name; just hearing it made him want to punch the man in the face.

“Why is Basingstoke dragging his heels? I assume Harlow will pay generously for a duke’s heir and marrying a woman who looks like her can’t be any hardship.”

Joe flipped a page. “Apparently he had his mind set on marryin’ Lady Cynthia Beasley, the Earl of Carlton’s daughter. In fact, everyone thought the two had an agreement. But Sebastian’s papa is skint and the estates aren’t entailed. So, if somebody don’t pour some brass into His Grace’s coffers there won’t be nothin’ left to inherit.

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