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Derek raked his gaze down Jonas’ body in a leisurely perusal. Jonas’ skin broke out in gooseflesh everywhere Derek’s eyes touched, as if responding to invisible fingers tugging at his clothes and stroking him in forbidden places. Jonas shifted on his feet and ignored the pangs of hunger resounding through his gut. This was what being near Derek did to him. He might have felt desire toward other men before, being titillated by an impressive pair of calves or a firm backside in well-tailored breeches. But only Derek ever threatened his composure. Only Derek could make him forget that such feelings were dangerous.
“Very well,” Derek said. “Tonight, after the ball. I look forward to it.”
“As do I,” Jonas snapped, turning on his heel and attempting to put as much distance between them as possible.
He had walked halfway across the ballroom before remembering Julia. Berating himself for being an inadequate chaperone, he turned back. Searching the crowd, Jonas found no sight of Derek, though he found no comfort in that. He was here somewhere, inescapable and all too real. The only way Jonas could ever be free of Derek was by ensuring he could not wed Julia before leaving London, for good this time. It was too difficult to be in this city, knowing Derek could appear before him at any moment. Even more painful was the realization that if he remained, he would eventually witness Derek as a husband to some faceless woman. Jonas had every intention of ensuring he could never marry Julia, but that did not mean marriage would cease to be an option for Derek. He was handsome, wealthy, and came from a titled family. If he tossed Julia over, once the scandal of it had died down there would be others willing to have him. If Derek truly wanted a family of his own, he would marry someone someday, and Jonas would be damned if he had to bear witness to the spectacle of a wedding or the years that would follow. Derek doting on a wife, bearing children, living a life so far removed from what they had shared in Paris … it would destroy Jonas.
As he waited for Julia to finish her dance, Jonas berated himself for a fool. Jonas told himself it should not matter what Derek did with himself once Julia was freed from his grasp. But even the knowledge that his victory would put a stop to one wedding did not chase away the thought that there might eventually be another. He was not certain why it should matter. It wasn’t as if he wanted Derek for himself.
“I don’t,” he whispered, clenching his hands so tight that his fingernails bit into his palms. The sting was a paltry distraction from the tempest of anger and despair swirling within him. “I don’t want him. I don’t.”
He had to finish this. Coming back to London had imperiled him, as Jonas had always known it would. He must finish this business with Derek and find a haven someplace where he could be free from this entanglement. Seven years of isolation had not lessened the complication of it, nor had it robbed Jonas of feelings he had hoped would die with time. He had to finish the game, and he could not lose.
When Jonas walkedinto Perdition in the late hours of the night, he found that Derek had not yet arrived. However, as he stood in the midst of the club, he found Giles, standing near the entrance to the brothel side of Perdition. He was nearly naked, with only his groin covered by some sort of primitive loincloth—undoubtedly a costume meant to entice his customers. He gave Jonas a coy smirk and motioned for him to approach. Jonas stood rooted to the spot, uncertain how to proceed. Giles had disappeared into the dark corridor, obviously meaning for Jonas to follow. He certainly did not relish being alone with a molly whore, especially one so scandalously dressed. The consequences would be dire if they were caught together. However, he did not wish to encounter anyone he might know inside the walls of this club. His only business here was with Derek, and he intended to revoke his membership as soon as it had concluded.
Jonas followed Giles’ path into the darkened passage, unable to block out the carnal sounds coming from behind the rows of doors. His blood heated at the grunts and groans, the echo of skin slapping against skin, the wet, humid essence of sex floating through the air. He was hard-pressed to forget what had taken place last night, how close he had nearly come to losing control. He would have to be on his guard tonight, composed and in control.
He entered Giles’s room, doing his best to keep his gaze from straying to the erotic art that had so thoroughly scandalized him before. Stretches of naked skin and sinewy muscles lingered on the edges of his periphery, a stray cock of marble or stone leaping out at him from the haze.
“Do come in,” Giles said from behind the Chinese privacy screen in one corner of the room. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Jonas folded in on himself as he said at the table where he and Derek had played vingt-et-un the night before. He clasped his hands between his knees and tried not to touch anything unless he had to.
“Derek told me to expect you,” Giles said over the sound of splashing water and a cloth abrading skin. “I imagine he will arrive any moment. Help yourself to the claret if you like. It’s the best the house has to offer.”
Jonas glanced at the decanter and wondered how often the two of them had shared a drink together. Had they done so before or after making love?
“No, thank you.”
Giles mumbled something in response, but Jonas could not make sense of it through the screen. The sounds of his ablutions seemed to go on forever, but eventually Giles appeared from behind the screen … stark naked and drying his hair with a cloth. Jonas’ face flushed as he tried to avert his eyes to the surface of the table. But every movement of that pale, lithe body drew his eye, until he found himself studying Giles from beneath lowered eyelashes.
The man was young and well made, with long, wiry limbs and pleasant proportions. He might not carry a lot of bulk, but he was clearly no weakling. Cords of muscle stretched and bunched as he dried himself of the tiny water droplets clinging to wispy white-blond hairs. His hands were deft and graceful, his skin unblemished. His cock hung flaccid but heavy between sinewy thighs, ruddy at the tip and impressive in its resting state.
Jonas closed his eyes and drew in a deep, slow breath, fighting back the pesky physical reaction that ensued at such a sight. He might not want to touch the enigmatic Giles, but his eyes certainly enjoyed what they saw. His traitorous body reminded him in that moment that there was nothing he could do about his urges aside from fighting them. If he could not do that, he was no better than the whore standing before him.
“See something you like?” Giles teased, retrieving a billowy white garment and winding it about his body.
“If it is flattery you seek, I suggest you find it elsewhere,” Jonas grunted.
Giles chuckled. “I’m drowning in flattery in this place. It means nothing to me anymore. A man will say anything to entice me to take his coin.”
It wasn’t difficult to see why Giles might be one of the more popular mollies in this place. Jonas could imagine the wealthy patrons of Perdition emptying their pockets for a single night with him. Not thathewould ever do such a thing. But then, Derek had done so on more than one occasion, hadn’t he?
“I have not serviced Derek for some time now, if that’s what you are wondering,” Giles said, as if having read Jonas’ thoughts. “I do count him among my friends, few as they are.”
Jonas gripped the edge of the table in both hands and gritted his teeth. The urge to send the furniture flying across the room tore through him, but he was paralyzed by thoughts of Derek in this room, with this man; naked, panting, thrusting, groaning. It was far too easy for Jonas to imagine Derek in the large bed, his dark skin complemented by the blue tones of the counterpane, his cock hard and pulsing in Giles’ mouth. The images were as lurid and enticing as they were sickening.
“Whatever has passed between you and Derek is none of my concern,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice level. The claws of jealousy tore at his insides, both hurting him and stoking his anger.
“Hmm,” Giles murmured, perching on a footstool and reaching for a pair of Grecian-style sandals. “I suppose that is good to know. There was a time when he was one of my best customers.”
“I do not care to hear the details,” Jonas ground out from between clenched teeth.
“No,” Giles replied, giving Jonas a thoughtful look. “I don’t suppose you do. Forgive me. I did not mean to antagonize your jealousy.”
“Mywhat?”
Giles seemed amused by Jonas’ protestation. His pretty pink lips curved into a knowing smirk as he walked to a vanity table near the window. He retrieved a gilded laurel wreath and set it atop his bright curls. Turning to face Jonas, he appeared as a Grecian sculpture, the white fabric fashioned into a toga. Of course, it was scandalously short, revealing Giles’s long, sinewy legs. He was a feast for the eyes, a perfect temptation.
