Elisabeta worked the fall of his trousers open. The best way to tell him what she wanted was to show him. Her hand found the naked length of him, and he gave a low, guttural groan. ‘You will kill me yet, Elisabeta.’ Her name was a groan on his lips, his body straining.
‘Take me,’ she whispered fiercely at his ear. She too had become primal in these moments. She had never been so lost in the madness of lovemaking before, had never been this far and yet something more loomed on the horizon of this pleasure. All reserve, all rational thought had been stripped away by his hands, his mouth.
‘Yes,’ Archer rasped and the response was immediate; the slide of his body into hers. She was tight but ready, the slickness of her tunnel easing his way until he was fully within her. There was the glorious sensation of stretching, accommodating. Then he began to move, and she with him, her hips matching the thrusting rhythm of his body, slowly at first, the pace growing with their intensity.
Moans and gasps became the sum of her vocabulary, his body the sum of her world. She muffled those gasps against the fabric of his shirt and still he brought them closer and closer to the undefinable something that lay just over the edge of madness. All she had to do was...
‘Let go, Elisabeta,’ came the hoarse command. ‘Let yourself go, we are nearly there.’ The words came in pants and broken fragments, but that he had any power of speech at all was miraculous to her—she had none. He gave a final thrust, and she let the madness take her entirely. She was over the cliff, claiming pleasure in its fullness, her heart pounding, her pulse racing, and Archer was there too, his own heart pounding hard against hers, proof of his efforts spilling against her thighs, a hot reminder of glorious life.
She rested her head against the brick of the wall, Archer’s head on her shoulder, his own shoulders heaving from his exertions. Her hands were in his hair, absently stroking, soothing. Her mind was still in an incoherent fog where thought came in incomplete scraps. What did she know of such things? She’d known nothing of this pleasure before tonight, only that it hypothetically existed. How was she to have known it would be so bone-shattering? Her experience was limited to the adolescent skills of a fumbling but well-intentioned virgin. Later, her marriage bed had known the comfort that comes with familiarity, but never this overwhelming pleasure that left her drugged; sapped and satisfied all at once.
Curiosity began to ignite as reality slowly settled on her. It made one wonder. If this man’s lovemaking could be incredible up against a wall in a dark alcove of a city street, what would it be like in a feather bed? What would it be like with a woman he knew or perhaps even truly loved?
No, she couldn’t let her mind travel that direction, not even under the excuse of this pleasurable fog. To know the answer to such a fantasy meant knowing him, learning his last name, his history, his people. She was not looking for that. She could not have that, it was far too much temptation. Her uncle had promised her to another. What a cruel temptation it would be to know he was out there in the world somewhere and to have the tools to find him, while being married to the priore’s gouty relative. There was only hurt down that path, and shame.
The thought of shame sparked too the reality of what she’d done. For all of the nuances he’d provided with his laughter, his touch, his sexy knowing mouth, his intimate possession of her body, for all that he’d never made her feel that this was a cheap encounter or she was nothing more than a troia, there was no disguising what this was: sex in an alley with a stranger. Extraordinarily good sex, apparently, and with a very handsome stranger, but adjectives didn’t change the blunt truth. She’d set out to act scandalously and she had.
Archer’s head moved against her shoulder and he set her down slowly, as if warning her legs they would need to stand on their own. He moved away from her long enough to restore his trousers. In the dimness, he was even more attractive after sex than he was before, if that was possible. His hair fell rakishly in his face as he concentrated on his clothes, his hands sure and competent in their tasks. She’d never found a man’s hands sexy before, but even in the dark, his hands carried a certain quality to them, she’d thought as much when they’d danced and eaten. Those moments in the piazza seemed a lifetime ago.
‘Elisabeta.’ His voice was soft in the darkness, his face close to hers, his eyes half-shut. One arm bracketed her as he leaned against the wall. His lips touched hers in a light brushing, not a full kiss. He was formulating ideas, deciding what happened next. She couldn’t allow that. She gathered her reserves.
‘Archer,’ she answered in equally soft tones, her hand gently cupping the firm line of his jaw. She wanted to touch him until the last, to give her body every chance to remember him. ‘I have to go.’ With that, she ducked under his arm and ran into the night.
* * *
Just like bloody Cinderella in the children’s tale. Archer took a few steps forward into the street after her, but he stopped himself. Women who fled without provocation didn’t want to be followed. He would not make a fool of himself by running after her. Or worse, put her in danger of discovery. Elisabeta, if that was even her name, was gone with not even a glass slipper to trace her. If Nolan was here, he’d tell him he’d got a fair bit luckier than the prince. That poor fellow had only got a dance after flirting with her all night. To which, Archer would acerbically remind him it was a children’s tale after all. As such, it was also a tale of true love.
Sex in an alley wasn’t true love, not even close. It wasn’t meant to be. Yet nothing in the encounter had been casual. Archer leaned against the wall, his active mind imagining the brick still warm from her body. He’d had casual sex before. It was physical and fast, a game for the moment, a way to pass the time at a ball or masquerade. The arousing quality of those liaisons usually came from the heightened risk of discovery. Certainly, those qualities had been somewhat in evidence tonight. A street was public no matter how dark. But there had been more. Even now, arousal gave an insistent stir at the memory of her head thrown back at the last as she claimed her pleasure, her hair spilling, her breasts thrust forward against her bodice, her cries of release, the squeeze of her legs, holding him. Never had he seen an abandon so complete, so beautiful in its naturalness.
She had been stunned, surprised when it had come. He’d had the sense in those moments that while she was no virgin, this was new to her. New seemed an apt but inadequate description of what he’d seen in her face, felt in her body. His ego preened at the thought. He’d given her that exquisite release for the first time. It was silly, he hardly knew her, but he prided himself on putting a woman’s needs at the centre of his lovemaking. It was what had made him one of London’s rather more successful lovers.
And yet, his body hadn’t been without its own pleasures there against the wall. His body hummed for more of the same even now with having achieved repletion. Once was apparently not enough. Then again, perhaps it was understandable. He’d been on the road and alone for quite a while.
He was going to be alone quite a while longer too if he didn’t put this fanciful nonsense out of his head and find his uncle’s house. He’d left Amicus at the livery near the campo, the town centre, with plans to return for him once he’d located his uncle’s home. He’d had no desire to tramp through narrow cobblestone streets with a horse in tow, in the dark, looking for a home he wasn’t familiar with. His best bet would be to return to the party and ask for directions to Giacomo Ricci’s home in the Torre neighbourhood.
Archer shoved off the wall and began walking back to the festivities. His other best bet would be to put his Cinderella out of his mind. He wasn’t here to fall in love; he was here to make a new start, to help his uncle with horses for the Palio and to fulfil a promise to his mother. Taken together that seemed quite enough to keep a man busy without a woman to complicate things. The mysterious Elisabeta would have to remain just that—a mystery and a memory.