MB Saucy Side: Illicit Liaison (Regency AU, Talia/Male MC) (Patreon)

You had been raised under strict parental oversight and the constant reminder that you were not an individual, but rather a Wiseman, and thus must act accordingly. A family was only as good as their reputation, and your family’s reputation was worth more than your actual future inheritance.

A young lord of noble breeding didn’t frequent gambling halls. He chose his friends wisely from families of comparable pedigree, and if he needed to gamble at a house party to get in the graces of a social superior, he did so in moderation. A young lord did not question his parents, did not embark on a career in politics, and he certainly did not climb out his bedroom window to cavort with other gentlemen, let alone an untitled American poetess.

But there you were, dressed in your riding britches, attempting to clamber down the oak tree that you’d stared at longingly for years from the other side of your glass window yet never before dared use to escape. Taliaferro Parker did something to your head; she made you forget everything that a young lord should do, and instead filled you with the convictions about what you must do. Which was to be with her, in any way possible.

Even if it involved climbing down a tree, societal approval and parental permission be damned.

“That’s quite the view,” a soft voice calls from the garden below.

You glance down to see Talia, her amused smirk visible in the moonlight.

“Quit that,” you inform her tartly. “It’s ill-mannered to stare.”

“Didn’t your parents inform you?” she drawled in that smooth-as-honey accent that made you shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold night’s air. “I’m no lady. As a writer, however, may I just say that I find your posterior to be positively inspiring.”

You gasp aloud, in equal parts from shock and pleasure. None of the debutants you’ve courted have ever spoken to you so boldly before, and yet . . . well, you quite like the way her audacity makes you feel. Talia’s stare is a heated, heady pleasure that makes you feel as if, instead of being simply a second son, you’ve blossomed into an Adonis worthy of admiration and verse. It was the poems she wrote for you which convinced you to meet Talia tonight, an impulse you’re beginning to regret despite your delight in her presence.

Climbing a tree seemed so simple, in theory.

Your head tilts to the side as you examine the pathway down to the ground. You’re not entirely sure that the lowest branch would be able to bear your weight, and you’re still high enough that an accidental tumble would likely leave you bruised or, worse, be loud enough to wake your parents. You eye Talia speculatively. It’s not as if you make a habit out of descending from trees, and she seems strong enough to help you despite her scholar’s build.

“I’m coming down,” you announce.

She chuckles softly. “So I see, darling. With great appreciation.”

“You misunderstand,” you say. “I’m coming down now.”

You let go of the window’s ledge. The decision to fall without asking Talia to help steady you is, in retrospect as gravity takes over and panic floods your mind, a poor one. In your defense, you’d been intoxicated by the thrill of this rendezvous. It wasn’t a choice you’d ever make sober.

Luckily, Talia moves quickly enough to slow your descent, albeit with less grace than you envisioned. Her arms wrap tightly around you, protective and warm, but the force of your impact sends both of you sprawling onto the damp grass.

Neither of you speak, ears intent for any sign that your fall has woken those within the house. The only noise is that of your mingling breaths—at first heavy from the adrenaline of your tumble, and then from shared awareness over the intimacy of your proximity.

“I have a hack waiting just beyond the garden gate,” Talia whispers. Her eyes are locked on your lips, which you part in quiet invitation.

She doesn’t take it. Instead, her head falls to rest upon your shoulder. You try to stifle disappointment over the lack of kiss, but fail to school your expression appropriately. The moonlight reveals your expression, and Talia smiles. You’ve catalogued a thousand of her smiles, some teasing, some polite, and some enamored, but this smile is new: smirking and cocky to the point of arrogance. In anyone else, the look would repulse you, but it suits Talia.

“Not here, firefly,” she says. “Soon, but not here.”

She stands and offers you her hand. You hesitate a moment out of habit; your parents would claim it unseemly for you to receive help from a commoner, let alone a woman. Then, upon realizing that you’re poised to commit a much greater faux paus, you accept her assistance in standing up. Her hand is warm and dry, tightening when you attempt to pull away.

“I adore your hands,” Talia says. Her thumb caresses the backs of your knuckles in smooth, repetitive strokes. “With anyone else, I’d make an innuendo about what they could do to me, but with you . . .” She lifts your hand and brushes a chaste kiss against its back; were your roles reversed, the action wouldn’t be out of place in a ballroom.

“I adore your hands,” she repeats sincerely. “I adore you.”

Your breath catches. Until now, no declarations of love have passed between you two. You’d assumed that Talia was only looking for a dalliance; she’s a poetess, after all. Even if your parents didn’t expect you to wed a gently bred debutante, everyone in your social circle told you that poets never settled down. Yet Talia has never expressed interest for anyone but you. Does she truly want more? Within your chest, smothered hope reignites.

The confidence on Talia’s face falters at your prolonged silence, and her demeanor turns cool. She releases your hand, and it drops to your side before you can register that something has gone wrong.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Talia says softly. “I overstepped.”

With that puzzling declaration, she turns her back on you and begins heading for the garden’s gate.

“Wait!” Your shout rushes out in complete disregard of your desire to not get caught. Discretion be damned, you will not let her walk away.

Talia stiffens as you wrap your arms around her middle, clinging lest she again attempt to escape.

“I adore you, too,” you inform her, your voice muffled by the back of her jacket. “To the moon, to the stars. I want—”

Your final sentence is captured by her lips. Talia Parker kisses you, and nothing else matters: not status, not society, and certainly not something as shallow as propriety. There’s only the two of you, fists gripping clothing and lips dragging over exposed skin. Talia is passion and joy and freedom, everything which your sheltered life was missing before. She’s what has been missing, and you’ll never let her go.

Talia clearly feels the same way. Her fingers thread through your hair, and her mouth greedily consumes yours. Gone is the carefree, laughing artist with the lopsided smile; in her place is a conqueror staking her claim over both your body and soul. You mark Talia as yours in return, grabbing her by the waist and yanking her nearer to better taste her lips.

She tastes like salt and oranges.

A candle illuminates a nearby window, and reality shines down; it’s only a matter of time before someone comes out to the garden searching for intruders. Talia’s lips break away from yours, but she doesn’t release you. There’s a silent question in her eyes, which you answer with a resolute nod.

Talia’s smile is so joyously wide that you can’t help but let out a small laugh. How wonderful, to be able to bring her this much delight.

“Let’s go,” she says, and takes your hand once more.