Now, now, now . . . She spun toward the window and her fingers couldn’t gather her skirts fast enough. Desperation caused her to fumble but she kept going, moving fabric out of the way, tugging, shifting, until she could hold all the layers of cloth in one arm. Air rushed over her stockinged legs, and she dove to find the part in her drawers. When her fingers brushed through her folds, her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. She was soaked and swollen, delirious with need, and she didn’t waste any time, focusing directly on her clitoris.

“I can hear you,” he said, then grunted. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?”

Words eluded her. She panted, air bellowing harsh and fast, as the pads of her fingers circled the taut nub. Her lids fell and she envisioned she’d snuck inside the brothel, an innocent young woman eager to discover the carnal delights two people could find together. Shocks of pleasure streaked up her legs, pressure building in her muscles.

He was right. Imagining does make it easier.

Noises came from Clay’s side of the tiny room. Distracting noises that heightened her arousal. Skin moving over skin, cloth rubbing. His rough exhalations. She bit her lip, picturing what he looked like, with his fist gripping his hard penis, stroking, pulling, his eyes dark with pleasure . . . Was he thinking about her?

“Christ, Florence. I wish I could see you right now. I bet you’re slick and flushed, so goddamn beautiful. I—” He bit off whatever he’d been about to say and cursed instead. His breath stopped for a few seconds before he let out a long moan.

Oh, mother of mercy. Clay was spending. In the same room with her. Right behind her.

It was too much, too fast. Her limbs tensed, everything tightening as if to fly apart. Before she could prevent it, the orgasm was there, overtaking her in a burst of electricity and heat, obliterating all thought. She trembled and shook, the strength of it causing her to lean her forehead against the wall. On and on it went, so satisfying and necessary. Like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

When it finally ended and her brain righted itself, disbelief and shame started to creep in, burning her skin. What kind of woman pleasured herself in front of another man, a dark and dangerous man who wished to ruin her father? She’d never been exactly shy, but this was more than she’d ever imagined. Good God. What had she done?

She cleared her throat and rearranged her skirts. When she peeked over her shoulder, she saw that Clay was fully dressed, no trace of what just occurred anywhere except the handkerchief he was tucking into his jacket pocket. Was that—?

A knock sounded at the door. “Clay?”

Annabelle. Panic filled Florence, and she couldn’t meet Clay’s gaze. The brothel owner would surely know what had transpired in this tiny room.