It felt so strange, to have someone other than herself give her pleasure, conferring such personal demands to another. Yet it made sense, for if anyone could touch her so intimately, it must be Leo.

He touched her like this; pleasure built again, pushing away lingering traces of apprehension.

“Kiss me,” he said, a hoarse demand.

She arched up, her open mouth to his. At the same time, he thrust into her.

Pain and pleasure collided. She had no sense of which was which. They were the same. And, oh, he was thick within her, filling her. He was everywhere inside her. A moment’s panic. It was too much. She would be lost. He was too hard, too male, too everything.

Yet after that initial thrust, he was still, and Anne willed her eyes open to see him above her. His face contorted, torn between pleasure and anguish. He held himself back savagely as her body learned the feel of his. The only sounds in the chamber were the muted pops of the fire, and his harsh breathing.

She relaxed into the sensation, allowing herself to experience this newness, for it was exotic, his body within hers. Yet true and right. Fear ebbed. Pleasure took its place.

Tentative, Anne brought her legs up, and wrapped them around his. His eyes flew open, silver and bright. He groaned her name. In response, she curled her fingers into his shoulders, feeling the bunch and strain of muscle beneath the cambric.

“I want ...”

“Tell me,” he urged gravelly.

An experiment: She tilted her hips. He moved within her. Pleasure followed, streaking through her hotly. “More.”

“You can bear it.”

“Anything.”

He took her mouth, kissing her deeply. And his body began to move. Sliding forward, gliding back. She had imagined this moment many times—what it would be like to have a man inside her—and the truth far outpaced what she had envisioned. For the shadowy man of her imagination had no true will of his own, no real need. But Leo did. He had strength and hunger, entirely his own, and these she felt with every movement of his narrow hips.

She was not still, could not be passive. Her body had its own will. She met his thrusts, and pulled him tighter. Pain limned the edges of sensation; it swirled through her in a spiral of dark and light.

The world spun further, and she realized that Leo had actually turned over onto his back with her clasped against him, his body still deep inside hers. He sat up and edged backward, until he leaned against the carved headboard and Anne straddled him. The posture was altogether wicked, for it allowed her to see everything—him, his face harsh with need, the shirt clinging to his slick torso and arms. She saw herself, too, nude save for her garters and stockings.

He gripped her hips. “Look down.”

She did. What she saw made her gasp.

“That’s my cock.” His voice was no more than a snarl. “Mine. Inside you. Can you see that?”

“I ... can.”

“Watch.” He pulled back a little, and she saw inches of his ... cock ... sliding out of her. Then he surged forward, and she moaned to see him sink into her, disappearing all the way to the root. Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, she would never have believed she could contain his length, yet she saw and felt and knew.

She was truly his wife, in every way. Just as he was her husband, in all meanings.

“Now.” He released his bruising hold on her hips, and grasped the headboard, his arms outstretched. His eyes glittered. “You take us there, Anne. Show me. Show us both.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” His jaw tightened. “The whole time. It’s been there. In you.”

For a moment, she hesitated, uncertain. It came to her: an image of herself this very night, crossing the floor of the assembly, her chin tipped up. She had been seen by everyone, and drew strength from it. It gathered in her now, her capability. Leo had shown her the path, and she walked it using the strength of her own legs.

Had he wanted to, he could have lain her down and taken her, controlling every movement and sensation. But he wanted more than that, more from her. A challenge. She would meet that challenge.

Settling her hands on his shoulders, Anne pulled her hips up, just a little. Again, that wondrous sliding within her. Then she sank down. As she did, her pearl rubbed against him.

“Oh.” She dragged in a breath. “That’s ...”

“Yes.” The cords of his neck stood out.

Anne moved again, and once again. She discovered angles, speeds. Her hands clutched him tightly, so tightly she feared she might tear his shirt and mark his skin. Part of her wanted to mark him, but she did not want to cause him pain. She grabbed the headboard, as well, and saw his knuckles whiten.

Rational thought slipped away. Anne rode him. He stretched beneath her, arching up. Her gasps joined with his groans, and the room resonated with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh.

This time, when her climax arrived, she could not be silent. At her scream, his hands released the headboard. He seized her hips, his head fell back, and his whole body went rigid.

He had never looked more beautiful, carved as a statue.

Finally, release faded, loosening its grip on both of them. They could only pant and stare at each other, sated and amazed.

Concepts, thoughts, words—all vanished. She knew only the resonance of her body and the feel of him against, and within, her. Gradual as a feather drifting in circles to earth, she regained use of her mind.

She wondered: What was one supposed to say in a situation like this? Thank you? It seemed a paltry phrase to enclose a world far bigger than any atlas.

So she let actions and silence serve her better. Her fingers cramped as she released the headboard, but they relaxed as she cupped his face. His stubble prickled against her palms.

He stared at her, grave, marveling, yet when she lowered her mouth to his, his eyes drifted shut, and he took her kiss readily.

We are outcasts no longer.


He didn’t want to, but Leo needed to get up from the bed. Reluctantly, he disentangled his limbs from Anne’s, and left her murmuring and drowsy as he padded into the closet. By the light of a single taper, he stripped off his shirt. He took a cloth and dipped it in the water-filled basin. With movements made hasty from eagerness to return to her, he cleaned himself off.

Blood streaked over his cock. Not much, but enough to prove that, for all her responsiveness and innate sensuality, he was Anne’s first lover.

First and only. For himself, he was glad of his experience, if only to have made it good for her. Thinking of her sighs and moans, the way she moved, the pleasure she took from him, his cock stirred. He wanted more.

A folded nightshirt awaited him on a small table. God, he hated having to wear it.

He walked to the glass on the table, adjusted it to get the right angle. Turning, he looked over his shoulder to see the reflection of his back.

Images of flames covered his skin there. They appeared to be drawn directly on his flesh with black ink, yet he knew that nothing could wash them away. The flames began just below his nape, spread across his shoulders, and twisted down along the length of his spine.

He did not regret his gifts from Mr. Holliday, but something about the image of flames writhing across his skin made him feel sick dread.

His resolve strengthened never to let Anne see the markings, nor understand their meaning.

Which meant he would be forced either to make love to her in utter darkness, or to wear a damned shirt when he did. And though he had always slept nude, he had to endure wearing this sodding nightshirt like some doddering old man.

He turned away from the mirror. Sleeping in a nightshirt was a small sacrifice if it meant having Anne beside him. He quickly tugged the thing on, then took a fresh cloth and dampened it. After blowing out the candle, he returned to the bedchamber.

Anne stretched out atop the bedclothes, sleek and soft and delicious as she lay on her stomach. She had taken the last of the pins from her hair, and the mass of it spread around her in silken profusion. At his approach, she smiled. Something seized within him, something tight in his chest.

Wife. He felt he understood the meaning of the word now, its significance. By giving her his name, he had pledged to her his care, his protection. And he vowed it to himself now, more binding than any words spoken by a reverend.

Seeing the cloth in his hand, she reached for it, but he held it away.

“Let me,” he said.

As she turned over and leaned back on her elbows, the embers of desire roused. She was beautiful to look upon—her lush breasts tipped with coral, the curve of her belly, her pretty little quim, the suppleness of her arms and legs. Her body held more strength than one would have guessed, for she had gripped him hard. He was glad of it. Rather than pliancy, he wanted strength to match his own.

“I like how you look at me now,” she murmured.

His gaze flew up to hers. The stain of passion still tinted her cheeks, and she wore a timeless little smile. It pleased him, knowing he put that smile upon her lips, that she could be so free with him.

“I like looking at you.” He curled one leg under him as he sat beside her. Carefully, in slow, tender circles, he ran the cloth over her. He frowned at the smears of blood at the tops of her thighs. “It hurt.”

“Some. Less than I thought it might.”

“But it felt good, too.” The need to please her burned hotly through him—as strong as his need to build his fortune on the Exchange. Stronger.