He walked her in the front door.
The Bronze House was already busy. Gentlemen crowded the tables, where chips and dice were flying. Clay led the bewigged Florence into the midst of the action in the casino. No one would recognize her, and they’d reach his bedroom faster this way.
Heads turned but not for long. He knew what they saw, a woman dressed in an orange wig and matching skirt on a man’s arm. They’d assume she was his for the night, and they wouldn’t be wrong.
Anticipation coiled in his belly. The carriage ride had been pure torture, her body pressed against his for the entire journey. She’d laughed at his discomfort, teasing him. He had promised to make her pay for that teasing when they were alone.
Jack strode over to block their path. “What are you doing?” he snapped at Clay, his expression livid. “Have you lost your—”
“Good evenin’ to ya, Jack.” She’d adopted an accent, similar to what one heard downtown. Not her polished, genteel tone, but a huskier, rougher sound with longer vowels, and Clay tried to hide his smile.
Jack immediately relaxed when he recognized her features. “Ah, I see. Indeed, this is unexpected but a great relief to all of us at the Bronze House. Welcome, miss.”
She looked up at Clay, mischief in her eyes. “A great relief, is it?”
“Don’t listen to him,” he said. Then he glanced at his partner. “I’m unavailable for the rest of the night.”
“Ooo, lucky me,” Florence said in her fake voice as she snuggled closer to Clay’s side.
“Take good care of her,” Jack warned before bowing to Florence. “Enjoy your evening, miss.”
Clay took her hand and crossed the floor. The inner corridors of the house were empty, the staff either working in the casino or the kitchens. He and Florence moved quickly, up the stairs and along the halls, until they reached his private sanctum. Withdrawing a key, he unlocked the door to his apartments and ushered her inside.
The fire had been lit, the soft glow leaving enough light for him to see the way to the bedroom. He bent and picked her up, and her arms wound around his neck. “Clay,” she sighed against his temple. “Hurry.”
Seconds later, he placed her on his bed, coming down atop her. He couldn’t be bothered to undress or remove his shoes. He needed to kiss her, right now.
She met his mouth eagerly, her lips parting to wind her tongue with his. He’d never tire of this, of her slick heat and taste, like mint and oranges. He devoured her, the kiss hard and deep. Rough and raw.
Kissing had previously felt like a tame prelude to other activities, a stepping-stone on the way toward getting to a woman’s pussy. Florence was different. Kissing her felt necessary, a connection that filled something inside him. He loved the sounds she made, the greedy pulls of her mouth, the bold swipes of her tongue. Her breath against his skin. The way they fit together.
She was absolute perfection.
Her hands skimmed his shoulders, his chest, anywhere she could reach, each gentle sweep like fire on his skin. He was burning for her, his cock aching and hard against the cradle of her thighs, separated from her sex by layers and layers of cloth. Christ, he could weep for all the fabric that must be dealt with before he could fuck her properly. He still wore his coat, for God’s sake.
Frustrated, he ripped his mouth from hers. “I might die if I don’t get inside you soon.” She nipped his jaw with her teeth and slid her hand between them. Then she gave his shaft a squeeze. A shudder went through him as his lids fell closed. “Have mercy, Florence.”
She pushed on his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. “Relax. Perhaps I can help you.”
With her assistance, he removed his coat. When he tried to get atop her again, she held him down. “Stay there. Or don’t you want my help?”
A list of ways she could help at the moment rolled through his mind, none of them suitable for a lady’s ear. His conscience wouldn’t permit him to corrupt her further. “With my clothes?”
“No, with what’s under your clothes.” She moved down the bed and reached for his trouser fastenings.
Lust raced through his blood, his cock twitching at the idea of her mouth taking him deep. Distracted at the mental image, he was slow to react as she opened his trousers. “Wait, you don’t have to do this. It’s not proper for . . .”
The words died on his lips at the withering glare she sent him. “Not proper for your chorus girl?”
He swallowed his complaints. Florence knew her own mind, knew what was best for her. It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit, but he didn’t wish to anger her again. He folded his hands behind his head. “Not proper for me to be wearing so much clothing,” he said absently as she started on the buttons of his undergarment.
“I see. You could help, you know.” She flicked her eyes to his vest.
His fingers flew along the black buttons. He tossed the silk vest to the floor just as she reached into his undergarment to grasp his penis. The touch of her skin to his, hers cool on his burning hot flesh, caused him to groan. He rocked his hips, pressing upward. Begging.
She laughed quietly as she curled over him. He held his breath, muscles locked, as the tip of her tongue touched the smooth head of his cock, licking him. Gasping, he screwed his eyes shut. He’d never last if he watched her.
“It would help,” she said, the sultry air from her mouth gusting over his skin, “if you told me what you like. I’ve never . . . I mean, there’s not much opportunity to practice these skills with the other dancers.”
Had she done this before? God, the idea that his cock would be the first one inside her mouth made him crazed, like a lunatic on Blackwell’s Island. It was barbaric, this sense of possession, but the animal side of his brain relished it. Craved it.
Requesting this was wrong, but he would not treat her like a fragile princess. If she wanted to proceed with this, he only knew how to be himself.
“Suck me,” he growled. “Take me in your mouth as deep as you can. Use your tongue, your hand, your lips . . . use them all on my cock.”
She apparently liked the words because her gaze went hooded, dark with desire. Was it the power of controlling his pleasure . . . or the way he spoke to her? Those inept uptown lovers had likely used silly euphemisms like “love stick” or “mizzen mast.” Loads of “please” and “thank you,” along with fumbling in the dark.
Clay had been raised in the streets. Knew every curse word invented, and some others he’d come up with on his own. If a woman didn’t care for dirty talk, she was better off bedding a different man.
Florence wrapped her hand around his shaft and angled it toward her mouth. “Yeah, that’s it,” he encouraged. He thought she might ease into it, tease him a little. Work up the nerve to really get going.
He should have known better.
She opened wide and took him deep on the first pass. Wet, tight heat enveloped him and he threw his head back. “Oh, fuck.” His legs locked to keep from thrusting into that slick heaven, pleasure coursing through him like sparks. “Christ Jesus, woman.”
His reaction must have satisfied her because her eyes were dancing when he regained the ability to focus. She set to her task, sucking and licking him from root to tip, her painted lips working his flesh to perfection. The sight of her bobbing over him, the ridiculous orange wig so out of place, her cheeks hollowing as she moved, was damn erotic. He didn’t hurry her, not even when he felt his orgasm gathering steam.
Except, he didn’t wish to finish this way.
He levered up and reached for her. In one smooth motion he lifted her on top of him so that her knees straddled his hips. “There’s plenty of time later for that. Right now I want inside you.”
Moving her skirts out of the way, he found the part in her drawers. She was drenched and hot, ready for him. He inserted a finger into her channel to stretch her. “Show me your breasts,” he rasped.
She unfastened the tight, ruffled bodice. When it fell away, she was left in a corset and her shift. He pushed in another finger and she gasped, her hands coming up to cover the mounds of her breasts.
“Keep going, Florence.”
She popped open the corset to reveal more skin to his hungry gaze. I need her now. He licked the thumb on his free hand and worked it under her skirts until he found her clitoris. The bud was swollen and ripe, and he stroked and circled until she rocked on his fingers, seeking.
“Lift up.” He shoved fabric out of the way, positioned her over his cock. Tossing the corset to the ground, she gathered her skirts in her fists and began lowering herself down. He couldn’t look away from the sight of her body swallowing the head of his shaft. Gripping him. Squeezing him.
It was torture, the pace at which she took him. He gritted his teeth and dug deep for patience. Her sheath was every bit as snug as he remembered, those slippery walls clamping down on him like a vise. When their hips met, they both moaned, their chests heaving. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this vulnerable and powerful with a woman at the same time.
“Oh, God,” she wheezed. “It’s too much.”
He froze. “Am I hurting you?”
She shook her head. “No, I think I’m on the verge of . . .”
Coming? Sweet Mother of God, he was close, as well. Grasping her hips, he showed her how to move to rub that spot high inside her. Her lids fell and she braced her hands on his stomach, rolling her pelvis over his. The friction made him dizzy, her walls surrounding him, massaging him. When she started moving faster, he rubbed her clitoris again, desperate for her to climax first.
Her rhythm soon faltered, so he began thrusting upward, keeping up the pressure, until she quivered around his shaft. Nails dug into his stomach and her body trembled. He watched her face through it all, this flawless creature who humbled him with her adventurous spirit and bold nature. He needed to make her come a thousand more times just to see if her expression changed for each orgasm.
The pressure on his cock overwhelmed him. He was coming then, too, the world exploding in colors all around him, a sky of warmth and light that bathed him in contentment. A respite from his bleak and gloomy thoughts.
She dropped onto his chest and burrowed closer. He was still inside her, his body clinging to the tiny aftershocks of serenity. Real life would intrude soon enough. For now, he had her in his bed and that was all that mattered.
“Happy birthday, my dearest granddaughter.”
Florence hugged her grandmother. This evening the entire Greene family was gathering for Easter dinner. They had spent the morning at church then joined nearly all of society in a promenade along Fifth Avenue. It was an excuse for ladies to show off their new hats and Easter dresses, the men their top hats and tails. The tradition was Mama’s favorite, one her three daughters were not allowed to miss. “Granny, my birthday is in two days.”
“True, but it’s never too early to shower my favorite grandchild with love.”
“You shouldn’t say that. Mamie and Justine may overhear you.”
Granny pulled back and patted Florence’s cheek. “I would hate to hurt their feelings, though I don’t think either of them would be surprised should they learn of my preference.”
Probably not. Linking her arm with her grandmother’s, Florence started down the corridor. The rest of the family had already settled in the grand salon used for more formal occasions. Florence liked to enjoy a quiet moment with just her grandmother.
The past week had been a flurry of lessons with Clay, sleeping with Clay, lying to her parents and thinking about Clay. In other words, quite busy. “When you first met Grandfather, did you believe your marriage would turn out happily?”
“Heavens, no. The betrothal was arranged by my father and I cried for two days. I fancied myself in love with someone else.”
Florence gasped. “I’ve never heard this story. Who was this young swell thrown aside for Grandfather?”
Granny paused by an oil painting of an English garden. Some renowned artist had painted it but Florence couldn’t recall who. “A passing fancy,” Granny said. “We would have been miserable together. I never brought it up because I wouldn’t like for you girls to fear your own matches. Why do you ask? Has your father set up—?”
“Goodness, no,” Florence rushed out. “You know I won’t marry any man Daddy finds. If I ever decide to marry I shall find my own husband.”
“Yes, so you’ve said. But there comes an age where the opportunity for marriage passes you by. You shouldn’t wait that long. Not to mention your father’s patience won’t last forever.”
A fact she was painfully aware of. To realize her dream, however, she needed Granny’s help. Taking a deep breath, she said, “What if I didn’t want to get married? What if I wanted to do something else instead?”
Granny’s brows dipped as her lips pursed. It was the same perplexed stare she gave to debutantes who didn’t know the dance steps. Florence didn’t wither or fidget, though. Those were qualities both she and Granny despised. Instead, she waited, her expression patient and calm.
“Like what?”
The time wasn’t right. Not here in the corridor with their family milling about. She needed to tell Granny when they were alone and had time to discuss the idea. “I promise I’ll come by and tell you one day soon.”
“You’d better, seeing as my curiosity is piqued.”
Florence leaned over and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“Now, let’s hurry or they’ll be worried we got lost.”
Smiling, Florence followed her grandmother into the grand salon. Aunts, uncles and cousins relaxed on various pieces of French furniture, while the servants served champagne on silver trays. She hurried to snatch a glass of bubbly before it disappeared.
“There you are,” Daddy’s voice boomed. “Mother, have a seat. While we have the whole family here tonight, I thought I’d best give everyone some news.”
Florence dropped onto the sofa next to Mamie. Her older sister cast her a worried glance just as their grandmother said, “What is this regarding, Duncan?”
“The houses on this block.” When the room quieted down he said, “As you’ve all likely seen tonight, many of the neighboring houses have been purchased and demolished.”
“Hard to miss,” Uncle Thomas muttered. “Why is this important?”
“I am curious myself, as I’ve told them I won’t sell,” Granny said. “What have you learned?”
“A developer has bought up the entire block. Plans have been filed for a club to be built here.”
“A club?” Mama asked. “Where, on the corner?”
“No,” Duncan said. “They plan to use the entire block.”
“That’s impossible. I’ve refused to sell.”
“They are planning to build around this house.”
Florence’s jaw fell open and she heard Mamie suck in a breath. Build around this house? What did that mean?
Everyone began shouting questions and observations, but Florence sat perfectly still, wondering how they planned to accomplish such a feat. This house had been her oasis away from the pressure and conformity of her own family home. And someday it would belong to her.
With a club surrounding it?
Duncan held up his hand. “Quiet down. Thomas, to answer your question, I have a contact at City Hall who told me of the plans.”
“Are they able to do that?” Mama asked. “Doesn’t your mother or the city have some way to prevent it?”
“Unlikely. There is nothing in the zoning laws to prevent it. In addition, the homeowners on this block have already sold and many have left, so there’s no way to pool our resources. This house is the only one remaining.”
“This is ridiculous.” Granny placed her glass on the side table with a thump, her bracelets clinking together. “They cannot mean to wrap another building around this house like a fur stole. The idea is ludicrous.”
“Ludicrous or not,” their father said, “the developer is bound and determined to build here. It makes no sense but it’s clearly a land grab for someone.”
“Who is this developer?” Uncle Thomas asked. “Perhaps we should speak to him.”
“I am in the process of discovering the name or names of the people behind the project. You’d best believe I will be paying everyone involved a visit.”
“Daddy, your lawyer, Mr. Tripp,” Mamie said. “He might be able to come up with a way out of this.”
Florence snorted softly. “You could not be more obvious,” she muttered. Her sister was in love with Frank Tripp but trying to keep it hidden from the family.
“Shut up,” Mamie said out of the side of her mouth.
“I plan to consult him, Marion,” her father replied. “We should prepare ourselves for the worst, however.”
“Meaning I either live surrounded by some club, with hooligans coming and going at all hours, or lose my home?” Granny practically screeched. “Is that what you are saying?”
“Mother, I’ll do everything in my power to prevent it,” Duncan said.
Considering her father’s indomitable will, Florence thought it likely he would succeed. No one went against Duncan Greene and came out unscathed.
She wondered for the hundredth time this week why Clay hated her father. What had possibly happened between them? Clay didn’t even know Duncan Greene. Her father had been raised uptown, in this house, in wealth and privilege. Clay had grown up on Delancey Street, which was far downtown. Under no circumstances would their paths have crossed at any point, especially considering her father didn’t gamble.
Granny pushed to her feet, the lines in her face deep and tired. “I would like to go up and lie down. You all carry on dinner without me.”
“Are you certain, Mother?” Uncle Thomas came forward and took Granny’s arm. “Why don’t I help you upstairs?”
“I am not infirm, Tom. You may stay here. I’ll see myself upstairs.” Lifting her skirts, she glided across the floor and over the threshold, where she disappeared into the corridor.
Florence’s heart ached for her grandmother. For her family. Not to mention for herself, as this was the loss of a piece of her future. She’d been so quick to dismiss marriage because this house would give her a home, husband or not. If her father couldn’t prevent the construction, her plans were even riskier.
“Duncan, what are we going to do?” Mama asked. “Your mother loves this home.”
“Our father built this home for her,” Thomas said. “We were all raised here. We cannot let anyone take it away from her.”
Duncan held up his hand in that way of his that Florence knew meant stop talking. “I am aware. I will handle it.”
“I almost feel sorry for whoever is behind this development plan,” Mamie said under her breath.
Florence couldn’t agree more. “Indeed. Whoever he is, he has no idea of the hell he’s just unleashed.”