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My amusement dies down as Cordelia spins the handle, her brow furrowing like she’s imagining how it works. Her desire floods the air around me.

It could be mine, though. Because all I can think about is her lying on her bed with her gorgeous pussy wrapped around that damn thing.

I force out a breath. I’ve got to get my head on straight.

Those kinds of thoughts have been running rampant for days, and I can’t wind up in a position with her in my lap again, so close to feeling her come on my hand.

“Sorry, but I don’t have any coins on me,” Cordelia says, handing it back to the vendor. “Your work is so lovely, though.”

She saunters away, searching the crowd for something. Searching for me.

“Why are you all the way back there?” She gathers the cloak’s extra fabric around her throat. “Is something wrong?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s getting late, and we don’t want to miss the show.”

The Misty Pearl stands at the end of the street where it bows out into a small court. A line is forming outside the three-story building’s pink doors, the crowd a sea of lacy corsets and fine wool jackets against the powder-blue clapboard siding.

The usher takes our tickets and tells us to enter the stairway to our private box seats. Normally I’d shrink and hang out on a rafter beam, but I have Cordelia with me. This is her first time seeing a performance like this on land.

I want her to experience it in luxury, and my gifts make it easy to obtain money. Too easy.

Filling my pockets lost its appeal a long time ago, but today, I enjoyed scraping a man clean after catching him following a young woman in an alley a little too closely.

The lobby on the top floor is lined with royal blue velvet carpets, and the chandeliers drip with delicate glass baubles shaped like fish and bubbles. In the candlelight, they look like they’re swimming above us.

Gentlemen toss coins in the mug on the edge of the cocktail cart, taking strong spirits back to their mistresses. The area is humming with sensuality, the flirtatious banter of the duos and trios huddled together tipping into salacious territory.

Some women giggle and duck their heads low to avoid being seen. Others tease potential patrons by loosening their corsets and swinging the strings to lure them into the dimly lit recesses beside the doors to the box seats.

A beautiful woman is standing in one of the shadowy alcoves, the candlelight barely touching her auburn hair and fair, freckled skin as she digs her fingers into the back of another woman’s jacket. I recognize her companion’s black waves curling around her collar and the set of her shoulders.

I spin Cordelia to the other side of the hall and push her against the wall, blocking her with my body before Darcy sees her. Or she sees Darcy with her hand up another woman’s skirt.

I’ll tell her, but she doesn’t need to witness it for herself.

Her heartbreak is still fresh, and I want to protect her from that awful sinking feeling she gets almost as much as I want to protect her from the sea witch.

I brace my forearm beside her head and curve my shoulders, hiding her in the curtain of my cloak. Her hood falls to the bridge of her nose as she lifts her face, her grimace flipping into a brazen smile.

I sense what’s about to happen before she rises onto her toes.

I know I should back up an inch or two, but I don’t. My hands go to her waist, and she throws her arms around my neck, our bodies syncing perfectly as our lips meet in a quick peck that shocks us both.

Cordelia laughs against my mouth. I stroke my hand along the column of her neck, and she shudders a breath as I lift her chin to kiss her again.

The aether is pulsing, but I don’t let myself give in to that sense of urgency.

I move in softly, pressing slow, sweet kisses to her mouth until we’re both opening up, eager for more of each other. My tongue flicks past the junction of our lips, and hers is already there, waiting.

I’m not prepared for how good she feels.

How long have I wanted this? Five years? Ten?

There’s no telling. I’ve never allowed thoughts of her to fully form in my head. I’ve buried that longing so deep, I only recognize it as an abstract feeling. She wiggles closer to me, seeking release.

No one would blink an eye if I lifted her skirts. That’s what most people come here for, and I can already hear the muffled moans of those who aren’t waiting for the show to begin.

But I’ve already done too much.