Page 63 of Her Beast

As he looked at her now—no, as hefeastedon her blushing, beautiful face—Malcolm couldn’t recall meeting a more adorable, appealing young woman.

Were you ever that young, Sukey?

But his wife had been scarce these past few days.

Besides, he already knew the answer; Sukey wouldn’t have been as naïve as Miss Harlow even when she’d been thirteen—which is how old she’d been when she’d lost her virginity. Orgot rid of the wretched thing, as Sukey had once described the event.

Like Malcolm, she’d come from a part of the city where people had no childhood—or precious little—and she’d worked from the age of ten.

Malcolm hadn’t associated with twenty-year-olds even when he’d been twenty. He’d had his first lover when he’d been fourteen—a bar wench who’d probably been in her middle twenties—and he’d always sought out experienced lovers, not virgins or girls his own age.

It struck him—along with a slight pang of guilt—that he didn’t know how old Maisie was because he’d never asked. Indeed, he’d not asked the woman a single personal question—a fact for which she was probably grateful. But it stood to reason she was probably Julia’s age since expensive whores didn’t usually last much beyond five-and-twenty.

Malcolm studied the object of his obsession, who was blissfully unaware of his scrutiny as she savored a strawberry tart with a rapturous expression.

I used to wear that same look while sucking your cock, Mal.

Malcolm jolted at the far too erotic image his dead wife’s voice summoned.

Ah, you’re back now, are you?

Nah, darlin’ I’m long gone. You’re talkin’ to yerself again, when you should be talkin’ to the lovely young woman across from you.

I shouldn’t even be sitting in the same room with the lovely young woman, not if I want to behave myself.

Why behave? Sukey whispered slyly.

Malcolm ignored the taunt, shook away his prurient thoughts, and poured himself more coffee.

“Kemp says you will soon have eight stores,” Julia said.

“That is true.”

“Do you ever visit them?”

“I try to go once a year.”

In fact, if not for the delectable Miss Harlow’s presence he’d be in Paris right then—and stay there until the New Year to avoid spending Christmas in London because he found the holidays an extremely depressing reminder of what he no longer had.

He kept that last part to himself.

Her pink tongue peeked out as she licked a bit of something—jam, perhaps—from her thumb, her actions as dainty and particular as a cat.

And also as arousing as hell.

Malcolm felt as though he’d tied his necktie too tight.

He cleared his throat and tried to think of something other than the erection in his trousers and how good her lips would look and feel wrapped around it.

“What about you, Julia.” He savored her name every bit as much as she was savoring her pastry.

“What about me?”

“Will you travel when you are married?”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “To Scotland or Wales, probably.”

“Oh?”

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