Amusement danced in her voice. “You're an old lecher, are you?”
He was thinking of becoming so. Should she, say, move her hand a few inches to the left... He cleared his throat. “Old enough.”
She made a noise under her breath. “Liar.” She was at his left hip now. “Your form doesn't feel elderly in the least.” If she only knew. “You're musculature is quite-”
He felt the precise moment when everything changed -the subtle increase in tension in her hand, a stutter in the efficient way she moved, the shift in her breathing from strong and determined to light and agitated. The answer in him was instant, painful arousal. For a moment, he couldn't think. He hadn't been noticed as a man in so long that his mind barely held the echo of such memories. But his flesh...his flesh remembered the pleasure of touch all too well.
Slowly, her slim hand smoothed over the swell of his buttock, lingering there. A shocked laugh choked his throat, the sound muddled by a stifled groan that her intrigued touch elicited. The saucy little sneak thief was copping a feel. He felt inclined to turn around and let her get a handful. Christ, this was madness.
Her breath came in hard rasps, audible and so like those of a woman being tupped that Archer's head grew light, all available blood surging down to the throbbing pain in his cock. His forehead fell against the brick wall with a thud. Bits of mortar drifted like dust over his wrists as he clung to the wall like a buoy.
Inquisitive fingers combed his inner thigh, testing its hardness, and surely feeling the trembling there. His cock swelled, drawing so tight and hot it quivered. Sweet Christ. This time he could not bite back the low groan that filled him. It broke whatever spell she was under. Her breath caught sharply, and her hand was snatched away as if scorched.
He forced himself to turn, grateful for the protective cover of his cloak. She stood gaping at him as if she couldn't quite understand what had happened. A lovely rose tinted her cheeks, her fiery hair swirling in the cold wind. Already she was fading away, stepping back into the moonlight. The heat in him cooled, leaving him with a familiar hollowness just under his breastbone. His throat closed in on him.
“No weapons,” she whispered.
“No.” He clenched his fist to keep from reaching out.
“Well, thank you, then.” She backed up another step. “For speaking out. Unnecessary, but kind.”
“Wait.”
She halted.
He stared blankly for a moment not knowing what to do. When she looked as though she might move, he fumbled with his pockets. Give her something. Make her stay.
“Here.” The coin in his hand flashed in the weak light as he held it out. “Take it.”
She did not hesitate. One second it was between his fingers, the other it was gone. He watched as she inspected it, the red wings of her brows knitting together. “West Moon Club?”
“It isn't proper currency,” he said as the frown grew. “Just a silly trinket made by men who have nothing better to do with their time. I've no use for it any longer.” No, because they had cast him out. The emptiness in him became pain. He hated the coin and everything associated with it. Of all the things he could have reached for in his haste, why had it been that?
One red brow rose as she glanced up at him, considering.
“It is pure gold.” He was babbling like a maiden. Irritation flushed within him. He bit it back. “Melt it down and sell it when you have need.” The idea gave him a certain joy.
Her fingers closed around the coin. “You think I'll be too proud to take it?”
His lips twitched. “On the contrary. I think you pragmatic enough to make good use of it.” He didn't offer her the wad of bank notes he had in his pocket. A gift was one thing. Charity was another.
Green eyes slanted up at him. “Silver-tongued devil. But you're wrong. I don't take gifts from strangers.”