Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

The air in the room was on fire. There was no other explanation for how each breath seared her nose. She was reduced to taking

small pants of air; deep breaths smoldered too painfully within her chest. The molten air smelled faintly of pine from the rough planks

that covered the walls and the heavy, wide benches that ringed the room. Two small candles cast patches of light in one far corner.

They both stood still a moment, letting the heat from the glowing red rocks in the brazier seep into their bones.

Melting ice dripped from Clayton’s hat across the dried blood of his cut, trailing streaks to his chin.

Olivia took the towel from him and dipped it in the water. “We should clean your wound.”

The corner of his mouth inched upward. “It hardly qualifies as a wound.”

The cut wasn’t bad, only an inch long, and the bleeding had already stopped. But she had to do something that involved touching

him.

He’d been incredible. And terrifying. She’d never seen a man move with such grace and precision. “Can all spies fight like that?”

He didn’t flinch as she dabbed the cut. “Most of the useful tricks I know came from Ian. But all spies have some training.”

“You were amazing.”

“The Trio had more practice than most.” He tilted his head after he finished speaking. “I expected that to come out with more

bitterness. See what you do to me?”

“What do I do to you?”

Clayton stripped off his greatcoat, then his gloves. She loved that he didn’t hesitate before removing them this time. “Get out of your

wet things, and I’ll show you.”

But he apparently didn’t think she was quick enough at following his directions, because his hands were suddenly on her shoulders,

lifting her sodden pelisse away. With the callused pad of his thumb, he brushed the powder burn on the back of her hand. “Next time

I tell you to run, you don’t come back.”

“Your death didn’t work so well for me before.”

Clayton laid her wet cloak over one of the benches that lined the walls of the room. “If both of us had died, no one would translate the

code.”

Ah, the one time she thought she’d actually been selfless, she’d been selfish after all.

She barely registered what he was doing before her dress was draped over the bench, followed by her petticoats and stays. She

kicked off her shoes, leaving her clad only in her shift and stockings. She should be shocked, but anticipation was flowing too swiftly

for that. “What was this you had to show me?”

He lifted the cool rag to trace across her forehead, down her cheek, and under her jaw. “The Russians claim these baths have great

restorative powers.”

She swallowed. “Is that so?” The cloth was cheap and coarse. It shouldn’t feel like paradise on her skin.

And from Clayton’s heavy gaze, he knew it did, too.

“From the steam?” she managed to ask.

“The steam’s only a small part of the tradition.” Clayton dipped the cloth in the bowl behind him, then trailed it down the other side of

her face. “After relaxing in the steam, most Russians would run outside and roll in the snow.”

She longed to quench her heated flesh in the icy powder. The shock. The clarity. How could she have dreaded the cold seconds

ago? Anything would be preferable to this inferno in her blood. “Naked? Like you aren’t?”

She couldn’t help it. Clayton inspired pure wickedness in her.

“Ah, but I must see to you first.”

“You always do.”

Clayton’s hand slowed for an instant where he dabbed along her throat.

Perhaps she’d said too much. “So they are naked, writhing in the snow. Then what happens?”

He resumed his ministrations. “Then they return to the steam and throw more water on the coals, raising the temperature even

higher.”

Why did they need water to do that? The room was growing hotter all on its own.

She needed to move far, far away from this. But she said, “What next?”

“The attendants would rub their bodies, releasing any tightness. Soothing sore muscles.” He moved behind her, his hands lifting to

her shoulders. His fingers, still cool from the water, dug into her neck and she leaned into them. How could she not?

He kneaded his way down her back. “Then more steam and more cold.”

More, more, more was the only thing her fevered brain understood.

She jerked as water replaced his hands, the sopping cloth leaving small strokes of comfort on her neck. The liquid dripped from the

cloth, under her shift, down the length of her body.

“I never thought to be jealous of water.” He traced a finger down one of the paths onto her collarbone, then followed its descent to the

neckline of her shift. He paused.

He was holding his breath, awaiting her decision. She knew with certainty that if she remained still he’d stop. But if she arched,

driving his finger lower . . .

She arched.

His finger slipped beneath the neckline. With a groan, Clayton cupped her breast fully, pulling her back flush against his chest.

“I’ve never had such trouble focusing on a code in my life. Do you know how these tight nubs taunted me? How long I’ve imagined

how they’d look bare to my gaze? I’ve dreamed about that for ten years.” He drew on the drawstring gathering the shift at her neck

and tugged it loose. The garment slid off her shoulder, held up only by her back pressed against him and the swell of her breasts.

With a brush of his palm, the linen slid from one breast, baring it to him.

His chin rested on her shoulder and she knew he was studying her. She couldn’t help looking down, too. His hand was dark as it

cupped the pale skin of her breast.

The contrast sent a stab of pure desire straight to her core.

He teased the tip with his thumb. His exhale was harsh. “It was worth the wait.”

When she shifted restlessly against him, the proof of his arousal pressed against her. When he groaned, she rubbed him again.

His hand tightened on her breast.

Apparently, he enjoyed that.

His other hand moved across her stomach, then dipped lower. She needed him to stop the ache. She twisted her hips. But rather

than touch where she longed for him, his hand caressed down the front of her thigh.

She couldn’t help her small moan of disappointment.

“Did you want my hand somewhere else?”

“Yes!”

“No ‘please’ this time?”

She was past politeness. Past anything but needing him. “Touch me.”

His hand dipped between her legs. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder as the pleasure robbed her muscles of strength. He

nipped her ear. “Whatever you desire.”

“You.” While her body hummed with the perfection of his caresses, her heart sang with the rightness of the man touching her. Slow

circles. Bliss.

A new pressure began to build, radiating through her body from the sensitive flesh Clayton caressed.

She shifted against him, suddenly needing more than slow. She needed this moment of pleasure to remember when they both