Page 53

She holds his gaze, and then, pushing the chair back, she gets to her feet. “Why?”

A smile emerges, slow and measured, on his lips. “Something to remember me by. In case I run away with Grace.”

She stands still, taking his words in. And at this moment, she wants him so badly, she’s grateful for the distraction. So she turns away and walks down the hallway to her studio. He follows her, and with every step they take, the undertow of her desire hums beneath her skin.

“Sit down right there.” Jo points to the settee. “No, not in the middle. By the corner table. Place your arm on it. Look at me and don’t move.”

Smiling fractionally, he follows her instructions. When he puts his arm on the table, he rolls his shoulders, lifts his chin. His back is rigid. His posture is unnatural.

Jo grins. “Relax your shoulders a bit. You look stiff.” She adjusts the angle of the lens. “Don’t stare at me. Look right here.” She points with her finger at the camera. “Be still.”

“I don’t feel like myself. This feels awkward,” Finn notes after a few seconds, fidgeting in his seat. “I’m not used to sitting still.”

She takes a step back, giving herself space to look at the composition. He’s handsome. Striking, even, in the dim light of the room. The hard line of his shoulders tells her he’s still extremely tense. Perhaps it’s the pose she made him assume. His brows furrow, and Jo suppresses a smile. He isn’t used to being so thoroughly scrutinized by a woman. Or commanded by one.

“Turn your head slightly to the left,” she says. “I need the light to hit you differently.”

He says nothing but turns his head. Sits very still. She walks up to him and gently turns his head at a different angle. He looks up at her, amused.

“I don’t think this is working,” Jo says, walking back to her camera.

His eyebrows lift. “Is your camera broken?”

Jo laughs. “The camera’s fine. It’s the lighting.”

“Or is it the photographer?”

His eyes hold hers.

There’s no point in resisting. And why should she?

She tilts her head, and says, “Take off your shirt.”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t show any surprise. He doesn’t ask why. After a beat, he gets to his feet, his gaze pinning her to the floor. He unbuttons his shirt slowly, taking his time. He shrugs it off. The light warms his skin in gentle hues of gold. She takes him greedily in. There’s a thin scar on his shoulder that healed years ago. His broad frame and muscled chest, the hardness of his stomach she wants to feel under her fingers. His eyes never leave her face as he folds his shirt neatly and places it on the table by the settee. A rush of relentless heat runs through her veins as she watches him step closer and closer, all fluid movements and the elegance of a wolf on the prowl. When he stops in front of her, his scent of spices and whiskey blends with the crisp chilliness of the studio air.

Neither of them speak. A craving, sizzling and wild, swirls in the shared space between them. His hand closes around her wrist, at once impatient and unyielding. His eyes linger on her lips for a second, and then he pulls her into himself. She gasps; the sudden move is unexpected. All the oxygen is sucked away from the studio when he takes her face in his palms. His mouth is on hers, hard and bruising, and she forgets to fill her lungs with air.

His lips are ruthless. His tongue is firm yet fluid. His hands wrap around her face, taking a step back and pulling her with him. Another step. Another pull, and both of them are on the settee. The concept of space is elusive, and she doesn’t care as she wraps herself around him. They fit perfectly, her body melting into his, and his pressing heavily against her. She’s rushing water and a raging fire at the same time. The world recedes, and all that’s left are his lips, his tongue, and his hands on her body, undoing the buttons of her shirt with frenzied tugs, pulling it off her shoulders.

She traces the muscles of his chest, and he tenses even more under her touch. Gripping her neck with his warm palm, Finn deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring, tasting, consuming. The tugging ache in Jo’s core, the need she forgot how to feel, is about to pull her under.

“Finn, slow down,” she mumbles against his mouth, forcing herself to open her eyes. Her breath is heavy as she pulls away. “Finn,” she says again, savoring the shape of his name on her lips. He leans forward, following her pull, but when he looks up at her, he stops. His face darkens.

“I’m sorry.” He drops his hands. “I must’ve misunderstood.” He sighs. “Again.”

Jo laughs softly. “It’s not that. I have one rule.” She scrambles to her feet. Straightens her skirt. “We cannot do it here. Never in the studio.”

His grin is wide when he gathers her in his arms, and Jo wants to tell him that she can walk, that she doesn’t need to be carried, but when he lowers his mouth on hers again, she forgets the words. And then they’re in her bedroom, tumbling on her bed in a tangle of limbs and clothes. Jo writhes against him, trying to get his trousers off, and he’s trying to get her blouse off while kissing her hungrily. And finally, finally, an eternity later, he’s inside her, his grip on her thighs deliciously painful.

Inevitably he will leave, and she’ll be left alone with the noises of the city behind her window, and her loneliness, and the last vial of opium awaiting her on the vanity. But for now, he’s all she needs. All she craves.

And so she lets herself take what she wants, a borrowed moment of bliss in the middle of the night.

My Darling Girl

Finn leaves in the early morning when the light is still hazy and the sky is stained with muted gray bruises. As soon as she locks the door behind him—he makes sure she does actually lock the door—she rushes upstairs, to her opium. There’s so much she needs to tell Millie. So much to ask.

She drains the drink, and before she closes her eyes, she’s already tumbling into her slumber.