The Devil's Submission (Fallen series) Read online

  “All right,” he said quickly. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Christ.

  Closing the door, he leaned against it, shock and dismay and hope swirling in his head so fast it made him dizzy. And aroused. Fuck, how could that even be? Countless nights of watching naked women and crops and toys and shows, and he’d gotten semi-hard at most. Eliza in the same building and his cock was about to split his trousers. Damned idiot appendage. Courtship Eliza, the one who had taken charge and pleasured him senseless, was a myth. A trick. The wife who awaited him down the hallway was a different woman entirely.

  With a low curse, Devil swiftly undid his trousers and adjusted himself. Hopefully his cock would calm down before he got to his chamber, but he couldn’t wait a minute longer.

  The return of Eliza Deveraux, he had to see to believe.

  …

  Fallen hadn’t changed a bit.

  Walking through the front door and into the foyer had been like slipping into a quilted dressing gown and savoring a mouthful of particularly fine wine. So elegant, so utterly decadent, and yet so comfortably familiar, too, with the marble floor, shimmering glass chandelier, and collection of exquisite paintings lining the walls, even one that she had personally chosen.

  But Grayson’s lavish second-floor suite, once upon a time a newlywed haven of laughter and love and indescribable pleasure, would surely crush her with memories.

  Early in their marriage she’d stayed here, despite her mother’s vocal protests. It had almost been amusing at the time, as it wasn’t the club Lady Brimley protested about—the wealth it created, along with its rumored list of haut ton patrons, quelled that—but Eliza’s “bluestocking activities” like filing paperwork, settling expense lists, and creating drafts because of Grayson’s truly appalling handwriting.

  It was both embarrassing and troubling to recall how much she had loved her bizarre, busy, and unconventional life. Especially when it was the reason the marriage failed. Every time her mother had visited, she had warned Eliza that her interference in men’s matters, her crowding, and tendency to instruct Grayson spelled doom. She should instead be demure and submissive. With every warning she had tried harder, taken part less, even dutifully retired to Grayson’s scarcely used townhouse. But she had missed him terribly. And even though the townhouse was perfectly lovely, it reminded her too much of Brimley Park and the academy. Lovely shells with no heart. No warmth. No joy or air of welcoming sanctuary. It had never felt like home.

  Not like this enormous, sprawling, three-storied red-brick structure in the heart of Portman Square. As soon as the Brimley carriage pulled up, footmen had dashed outside to help her with her belongings. Diaz, the frightening and formidable butler, actually smiled when he bowed over her hand. And dozens of maids, or the “harem” as Grayson always smilingly called them, squealed and cheered, clearly thinking this was a pre-planned, romantic, and heartfelt reunion. If only…

  “Well, well. Eliza Jean Brimley Deveraux, as I live and breathe.”

  The cool words in that rough silk voice hung in the air behind her, and she stilled, almost afraid to turn around. But she did.

  Oh God.

  The impact of her husband was as powerful as ever. Still that jolt where her body begged for an immediate disrobing, combined with the heart clench that made her want to cradle him and smooth the tension from his brow. Grayson remained unbelievably handsome, although his cheekbones looked more prominent, as though he’d lost weight. Miracle of miracles, he’d actually shaved, but as always, he needed a soapy cloth and a freshly pressed shirt. The adorable ink spot on his nose where he absently pushed his spectacles higher was as prominent as ever. Unfortunately the remoteness, the suppressed anger, and the haunted pain she’d so desperately wanted to reach and heal endured also.

  “Hello, Grayson,” she said softly, yearning to hold him while achingly aware of how unwelcome her touch would be.

  He ambled forward, one jerk of his head sending the trunk-depositing footmen scurrying on their way. “I’m a little surprised. Your last letter didn’t mention any plans to come to London, nor did you send an acceptance of the wedding invitation. If I’d known, I would have made the townhouse ready.”

  So cold. So polite. Abruptly the character flaw her mother loathed reared its head, urging her to crack the mask, to make him feel something. “No need,” she replied, smiling with determination. “Your chamber is most adequate. And if I have timed it with any luck, the left side of the bed should be currently vacant…”

  Her voice trailed off, not in embarrassment, but at what her lowered gaze spotted. Grayson’s trousers, incorrectly fastened, and a large bulge tenting the close-fitting fabric. Oh God. She’d interrupted him with a lover. Perhaps a temporary companion, or that woman, Charlotte, on her knees, stroking and sucking his thick length. Or maybe he’d been readying her, expertly licking and fingering between her legs while she moaned and arched in pleasure.

  “Something the matter, Eliza?” he said, one eyebrow raised, his emerald green gaze suddenly gleaming.

  “Not at all,” she gritted out, hating the woman, whoever and wherever she was. “I didn’t mean to disturb.”

  Grayson moved past her, then unexpectedly halted so he stood behind her. “Not at all, my dear,” he said silkily, and it took every ounce of her will to stay upright and not melt at the brush of his hard lips against her ear. “We are well-versed in accommodating unexpected guests.”

  Eliza clenched her fists at the barb. “Oh, of course you are.”

  “Tart words from my timid wife,” he replied. “If only you’d wanted to…damnation, Eliza, why are you here?”

  “Sin’s wedding,” she said slowly, her heart pounding at the slight crack in his armor. Dare she push him further? “He invited me, based on our past friendship. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Rubbish. You would have sent a charming gift with your deepest apologies. Something else prompted you.”

  Eliza licked bone-dry lips. Her blasted husband knew her entirely too well, but he forgot she knew him like the other half of her, too. And right now he balanced on an edge she could practically see. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Liar. Do you want me to petition parliament for a divorce? Or perhaps you are lacking a lover and wish to make use of Fallen. Well, my lady, I would point you in the direction of an activity room, but fucking a passionless and oh-so-proper society spouse is not a popular option. They want to leave those at home—”

  The slap echoed through the chamber like a pistol shot. Eliza stared at her hand in shock, but the pink hue of her stinging palm confirmed she had indeed just hit her husband across the cheek. Her gaze flew to his, bracing for anger and disgust at the unforgivable act. Instead, she caught a flash of something dark and raw. Hopeful. Almost pleading? “Grayson…”

  “Yes, Eliza?” he said in a voice she’d never heard: low and warm and rasping. He wasn’t even making eye contact now but staring somewhere over her left shoulder, and his whole body was tense like a bow pulled taut, his erection undiminished.

  A pulse thudded between her legs in the shrieking silence, and her nipples were so hard the muslin of her tea gown felt like sackcloth. All she wanted to do was kiss the mark she’d made. Haul Grayson over to the oversized four-poster bed, tear his clothes off, and take that thick erection deep inside her wet heat. Not passively underneath as usual, but riding him like a mount, gripping him, milking him, forcing him to release every drop of seed he had to give.

  Owning him.

  Horrified, Eliza jerked away, practically throwing herself across the room to slump onto the long embroidered chaise resting against the west wall. What kind of monster had she become? Hitting her own husband and being aroused by it?

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said hoarsely, tears welling in her eyes. “That was inexcusable. I don’t even know what came over me. But it won’t happen again, I promise.”

  Eventually Grayson turned and shrugged, yet an e
motion lingered in his eyes that looked incredibly like hollow disappointment. How could that be?

  “Forgotten already, my lady. Though should you tire of society life, you could probably make a few guineas in the ring. Pay a few spectators to rile that Irish temper of yours, and boom! Knock out, round one.”

  “That is not funny. I slapped you!”

  “Indeed. I was here for the experience, and I deserved it. For all I know, you could have a dozen lovers and an entire room for feathers, beads, and toys.”

  Shaking her head quickly before the inexplicably alluring thought of sexual accessories could lodge in her mind, Eliza stood. “Again, I apologize, Grayson. If you’ll just direct me to a guest room, I’ll have my trunks moved in there and make myself scarce for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Grayson blinked, then scowled. “There are no spare chambers. All have been taken by Sin and Grace’s out of town wedding guests until at least Saturday.”

  “Oh.”

  “I suppose we could share a bed tonight. I trust you’ll keep your pugilistic impulses in check, even if I do mutter something in my sleep. Not at all sporting to hit an unconscious man, no matter how provoking he is.”

  She laughed. “I shall be a statue, I promise. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  Instead of smiling in return, Grayson grimaced. “Oh, I’ll know. Dinner is at eight. Do you wish to join everyone or have a tray in here?”

  “A tray, if that is all right. Two days in a carriage and I’m quite exhausted.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll have one of the harem attend you. Until later, then.”

  The moment she was alone, Eliza buried her face in her hands. A half hour in Grayson’s company, an argument, and she’d hit him. If she’d been smarter, she might have asked for the bank draft to save her parents while the handprint across his cheek still glowed. Then maybe broken a few priceless vases and insulted Sin, Grace, and Vice to really impress.

  No way would this all end in disaster.

  No way at all.

  Chapter Two

  As promised, Eliza slept soundly on the left side of the bed.

  Well, not precisely on the left side anymore. During the night she’d inched closer and closer, and Devil was currently hard to the point of agony. Her citrusy scent surrounded him, locks of her wild, sunset-red hair spilled over his pillow, and as for her body—even a modest nightgown couldn’t disguise her mouthwatering hourglass lushness.

  “Grayson,” she said. He froze, then sighed in relief at the realization she’d merely mumbled his name in her sleep. Until she rolled onto her side and tucked her head against the curve of his neck, allowing her breasts, those ample, dusky brown-tipped curves of perfection, to press against his naked chest. One tug of a satin bow and he could lick her left nipple. Suck it. Scrape it with his teeth. If he slid his hand down and lifted the hem of her nightgown just a few more inches, he could cup her mound. Part the crisp red curls, stroke her petal-soft labia, tease her clit until his fingers were soaked in her wetness and she arched and screamed his name…

  Devil shuddered, muffling a groan.

  All in all, he was in sexual hell. Had been for hours. The erection he’d sported upon learning Eliza had returned was nothing compared to now, when he relived the moment she’d disciplined him for his purposefully goading comment. The incredulous joy at the sharp crack and delicious, heated prickle exploding along his cheekbone. If Eliza had touched him anywhere, he would have come in his trousers. Obeyed any instruction she uttered. But while he’d been aroused beyond belief, his wife had been appalled and tearful.

  Yet again, the crushingly familiar shame and guilt enveloped him. How typical, that the one woman who had gotten under his skin, who tormented him with glimpses of the power and authority he craved from her, wanted no part of it. But Eliza was in London for some damned reason other than Sin and Grace’s wedding. It would just be a matter of extracting the truth from her before he became a prime candidate for Bedlam.

  Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply. Even just a half hour’s rest would be better than nothing.

  “Grayson. Grayson! Wake up!”

  He didn’t open his eyes. That was not the tone used when one’s wife was about to suggest hours of torrid and athletically amorous activity, and he couldn’t think of another good reason to be awake. “Frightfully bad idea, my dear. It’s the middle of the night.”

  Eliza’s snort probably could have been heard down the hallway. “It’s not the middle of the night; it is a quarter past ten in the morning. We are going to be late for the wedding if you don’t get up right now.”

  Incredulous, he opened one eyelid the merest slit. But it was true. The heavy curtains were drawn, and golden sunlight streamed through the diamond-paned windows. Christ. He’d actually slept. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Well, as long as I don’t strangle myself attempting to tie a cravat.”

  His wife tilted her head and shot him a curious look. “You still don’t have a valet?”

  Under the blankets, his fists clenched, and cold sweat gathered at the nape of his neck.

  Don’t react. Don’t. She doesn’t know about Reyburn’s valet and his damned fists. Don’t let her guess.

  “No,” he replied eventually, with a semblance of a laugh. Hell, even in his mind he couldn’t bear to call the Marquess of Reyburn “Father,” yet another entry on his pathetic list. “Never could be bothered. Still can’t, no matter what society says.”

  Eliza grinned. “Anything other than charmingly crumpled wouldn’t really be you. At least you’ve taught yourself how to shave. Your jaw looked positively civilized yesterday.”

  A genuine chuckle escaped this time. “Actually, I haven’t. When I get too furry, Charlie marches me to a chair and attacks me with a razor blade. She’s a dab hand, so I always try to stay on her good side.”

  “She? Oh. Oh. You mean Charlotte Lewis.”

  “Yes,” he said crisply, irritated at the sudden coolness in his wife’s voice and the frown creasing her brow. Not everyone had the good fortune to be born legitimate. “Her half brother was a soldier turned valet. Taught her well before he passed. I’ll ring—”

  “No need. I called for hot water, and it was delivered a few minutes ago. I’ll help you with your cravat, then you can help me with my stays.”

  Devil raised an eyebrow at the unexpected offer, but he got out of bed and padded in his unfastened trousers over to the ceramic washbasin behind an embroidered screen. Stripping off the trousers, he swiftly washed himself with his preferred sandalwood soap, then pulled on the fresh shirt and trousers one of the maids had left hanging on a hook nearby. “All right, I’m decent.”

  Eliza stepped around the screen, a length of silky white fabric in her hands. “Well then, sit down so I can tie this properly. You’re as bad as Papa when it comes to hating cravats.”

  Obediently, he perched on a comfortable leather-covered stool, and she began expertly winding the cloth around his neck. The position put her luscious breasts right in his face, and he almost groaned as they moved and jiggled in front of him. Hadn’t he endured enough torture for one damned day?

  “Hell,” he muttered as his cock twitched.

  “What? Is the cravat too tight?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll wait out there while you wash.”

  Before he could escape, Eliza’s slim fingers encircled his wrist. “Grayson. What is wrong?”

  Devil started to reply with something false, something polite. But he was so goddamned weary of false and polite. “That nightgown is too small.”

  Her face fell. “I-I know. Mother says I’m too big, that if I just lost some weight…”

  “Why the hell would you want to do that? Damnation, Eliza, it’s not your weight, it’s your fucking perfect breasts straining against the fabric. I was hard all night looking at that little bow, thinking how easy it would be to undo so I could take one of your nipples into my mouth and suck it until it was so swollen, so sensitive, you scream
ed.”

  Eliza’s eyes widened, her cheeks pink. “Why…why didn’t you?”

  Because I want you to tell me to. To order me to pleasure you, like that time in your parents’ garden maze. One of the few nights I felt free…

  “You were asleep,” he said eventually, looking away and feeling like a damned idiot. Sin and Vice, not to mention most other men in his acquaintance, would laugh themselves catatonic if they knew about this need in him. God knew Reyburn had tried to beat the softness and weakness out after it had fully manifested in his last year at Eton, even requesting the masters never spare the cane. His younger son finding pleasure in pain was definitely a result the marquess neither expected nor wanted.

  Warm lips brushed his cheek, and Devil jolted in surprise. Eliza’s face was almost crimson now, but her gaze was defiant. Would she dare?

  A moment later she sank down onto his lap, cupped his cheek in her free hand, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. It was a swift kiss, a chaste one, yet heat scorched a path from his lips to his cock.

  “Grayson,” she whispered, her soft lips brushing his ear. “Kiss me back.”

  With a guttural groan he pulled her close and captured her mouth with his. She whimpered, but she wasn’t pulling away or flinching at his need. She was holding on and rubbing her breasts against his chest.

  “Eliza,” he said hoarsely, when he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

  “Do it.” She tugged on the bow of her nightgown so hard it tore and revealed the curves of her plump breasts. “Do what you said you wanted to last night.”

  Transfixed, he lowered his head toward the bounty in front of him. “Your wish is my command.”

  …

  She’d been bold. Bolder than she’d been in months, and heavens, what a reward.

  Around and around, up and down, Grayson’s lips were trailing across her breasts, his tongue a hot lash against her aching nipples. It felt so good all she could do was moan his name, and yet it wasn’t nearly enough. “Suck me,” she breathed.