Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

Nothing could stop him here.

Possibilities churned furiously in his mind. He could have her, just for one night. Satisfy her curiosity, slake his own need. Just this once. He could protect her from consequences; he was expert at preventatives. If he experienced a sudden attack of conscience, they could simply refrain from actual intercourse. He needn’t physically join with her to give her pleasure.

God, the vivid images that thought inspired … A groan scraped from his throat.

But where? There was no good place. This was Lily. He could not take her to Julian Bellamy’s house, the scene of so many illicit liaisons. He would never allow her near James Bell’s humble rooms. A hotel? Too public. A carriage? So sordid.

“Take me home,” she said, intuiting his dilemma. “Just see me home, then stay. No one will notice. No one will care.”

Her house. Leo’s house. Inconceivable. He might as well dig up the man’s coffin and spit on it. “Swift would murder me.”

She launched herself into his arms, sending him back against the brick wall. He landed with her straddling his leg, the luscious swell of her thigh rubbing against his arousal. Pleasure blanked his brain. He grasped her backside, rocking her pelvis against his. How could something feel so unbelievably good, but still be not nearly enough? He needed more from her. He needed all of her. There had to be somewhere they could go.

She licked his ear, and he bit back a growl.

Here. There was here.

“Greedy bastard!”

The shout from the end of the alley froze him in place. Lily, oblivious to the interruption, kept right on tracing the contours of his ear with her tongue, greatly impeding his ability to think. Had a man from inside followed them? Or was this someone new?

“’Ere now, lass,” the man called. “Give us some o’ that, eh?”

Julian’s stomach turned. Not only from the quite deserved implication that he was about to use Lily like a cheap whore in the street, but because the accent marked the man a Scot.

There were thousands of Scotsmen in London. Thousands.

Still, Julian couldn’t help but wrench Lily away and crane his neck for a glimpse of the shadowy figures disappearing into the mist. Two large, densely muscled men. As they moved around the corner and through the feeble illumination of a lamp, Julian thought he caught the light glinting off a smooth, hairless head.

Two men. Large brutes, the both of them. One a Scot, the other bald.

Jesus Christ. After all his futile searching … Could it be Leo’s murderers had finally found him?

Chapter Twelve

Lily hardly knew what was happening. One moment, she and Julian were entangled in a passionate embrace. The next, he’d set her on her feet and dashed off down the alley.

Her kiss couldn’t have been that bad. Could it?

She hurried after him, catching up to him at the end of the block. “Julian—”

He motioned for quiet, peering around the corner.

“What is it?” she whispered. “What’s going on?”

Pointless to ask. In the dark, it wasn’t as though she could see to read his answer. He knew it, too, so he didn’t stop to give her one. He just grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her around the corner, pulling her down the street. They walked quickly, clinging to the shadows that edged the narrow lane. Lily spied two men some distance in front of them, lumbering down the street with the unhurried arrogance of men who’ve had too much to drink. Julian seemed to be following them. For what reason, she couldn’t imagine.

She struggled to keep pace with him, skidding and sliding over the wet cobblestones in her impractical evening slippers. She would have been better off barefoot. Her heel caught in a narrow gap in the pavement, and her ankle turned. Surprised by the sharp twist of pain, she cried out.

Ahead of them, the two men stopped in the street.

Then, they began to turn.

For all that Lily did not comprehend who these men were, or why on earth they were following them, her viscera intuited one thing: She and Julian must not be seen.

Julian’s gut evidently agreed. His arm shot around her waist. Yanking her off her feet altogether, he whisked her to the side of the street, pressing her into the darkened doorway of a shop. He anchored her to the far corner of the alcove with his hips, putting his body between her and any threat. His free hand clapped over her mouth to silence her.

Hot tears sprang to her eyes as she adjusted to breathing through her nose. The aroma of his glove leather overwhelmed her senses, pungent and sharp. She couldn’t seem to draw enough air. The instinct to struggle was strong.