Page 41 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“Will we…” She didn’t know how her cheeks could heat, not after what they’d done, yet she couldn’t stop them. “Will we do this again?”

His eyelids dropped, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and husky. “Is that what you want?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then,” he said, putting his lips to hers, “we will.”

The kiss was brief, but it singed her. He stepped back, his movements tight, as if he had to force himself away from her.

She pressed a hand to her chest, but her heart wanted to fling itself from her body. “Good.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so that she faced the door to the glasshouse. “Off with you, sparrow.”

She fought against the urge to face him once more and demand another kiss. Instead, she did as he bade her, and walked out on legs that were growing more secure by the minute. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was some means to be this new self for a little longer, if only she knew the way how.

No one stopped her on her way inside. She heard voices in the front parlor—Gideon talking to Liam—yet she was able to reach her room without running into Cyrus, for which she was grateful. The last person she desired to encounter was the volatile leader.

She reached her bedchamber and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the shut door, her heart pounding, unable to stop herself from smiling.

She had a lover. Granted, it was surely a temporary arrangement. Eventually, Hugh would heal, and the highwaymen would be on their way. Life would return to its same quiet loneliness, and the only pleasure she would have would be at her own hand.

Yet for now, she and Des could enjoy each other. Whatever she might feel in the future, she would face those consequences then.

She hardly knew herself anymore. Today alone, she’d defended herself against the Ballantines. Had actually ejected them from her home and refused their demands for shelter and her belongings. And then, moments later, she’d been…fucked senseless by a dashing, handsome highwayman.

She was turning into one of the characters from her secret novels. The kind who took lovers and let themselves do wicked, forbidden things.

The future could hold any number of possibilities. This was now. And for now, she’d revel in the changes in her life. Someone as exceptional as Des had shown up at her home in the middle of the night, and for that, she was grateful.

Night was already falling. She drifted to the window and looked up at the sky. Tonight was the full moon. Even without consulting an almanac, she knew the moon’s phases, feeling them deep within her body. Perhaps that was why energy surged through her now, why she felt as though she could open her window, perch on the ledge, and then launch herself into the sky to take flight like the sparrow Des called her. She would be like one of those women in her folk tales, enchanted beings who were human one moment, and a creature the next.

She would soar through the sky, held down by nothing, going where she pleased, viewing the world from up high, rendering everything below small. But she would be expansive as the heavens themselves.

Such fancies couldn’t be indulged.

At the washstand, she poured a liberal amount of water from the ewer into the basin. With one hand, she gathered up her skirts, baring her sex. Using her other hand, she took a cloth, dampened it in the basin, then began to more thoroughly clean herself. Des had done a decent job in wiping away his seed, but still more clung to her skin.

Heat filled her cheeks and a wave of arousal cascaded into her from this most intimate of tasks. And Des truly had spilled a plentiful amount in her. It wasn’t decent to love being coated with her lover’s spend. If that was so, then she certainly wasn’t decent.

Once the task was taken care of, she straightened her skirts and moved to her looking glass. A good thing that she hadn’t run into anyone on her way to her room. She truly did look like a woman who’d been swived within an inch of her life. Not only did her hair resemble a blond thicket, but her lips were swollen, her eyes slightly glassy—as befitting a woman who’d had countless climaxes at the hands of a very skilled lover.

She unpinned her wild hair, then set about running a brush through the tangles. Grimacing at the pull of the bristles tugging at her scalp, she finally tamed her tresses into something resembling order, then pinned everything back up again. Well, she wouldn’t pass for anything in one of the fashion periodicals that one read in London, but then, she didn’t live in London, and the only society she currently entertained made their living by holding up carriages.

One of them was currently recuperating in the Blue Bedchamber and needed her attention.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she lit a taper, opened her bedroom door and made her way to her patient.

She found Hugh alone, lying with sprawled limbs atop the coverlet, eyes closed. His shirt skimmed high on his legs to reveal his brawny thighs, densely muscled. It wouldn’t take much, a mere shift of his body, for the shirt to ride up and reveal his organ. Judging by the shape beneath his linen shirt, he, too, boasted considerable equipment.

Was it a requirement of this highwaymen’s gang that all the members possess ample…members?

Thinking about her patient’s cock was not part of her duties. Even if she could hardly stop the direction of her thoughts, she could at least try to curtail them.

She moved farther into the room, trying not to wake Hugh. Carefully, slowly, she bent to peel back the poultice so she might examine his wound.

He gave a sharp inhale, his nostrils flaring. As if he caught a particular scent. Eyes still closed, he croaked, “So—it’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?”