A Dangerous Beauty, page 15
It almost broke him to feel how small she was, barely able to take two of his fingers after many, many long minutes.
And finally he heard the words he had been waiting to hear, “Luc, I can’t bear it any more. Please…”
He quickly unbuttoned the flap of his trousers and wished he could undress further. He paused. “Rosamunde, close your eyes again,” he ordered. He stripped off everything, knowing the feel of his skin on hers would heighten her pleasure and his.
Her eyes flew open when he covered her moments later. Her expression was filled with apprehension. His feet were braced flat against the cabin wall for leverage.
He looked down and saw his hair splashed into hers, the black locks melding together, hers soft and fine, his course and thick.
“Are you sure?” He knew his voice was hoarse, and if he hadn’t distrusted God so much, he would have prayed at that moment.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He never knew one word could be quite so wonderful.
He gently placed the large, blunt end of himself against her slickness, gently sliding along her folds several long strokes before coming to rest at her juncture. He pushed hard enough to finally wedge just the tip inside her. She was impossibly tense and unyielding.
Her eyes spoke volumes as she looked down to see what he was doing. It was obvious she was trying to mask her fear—and doing a poor job of it. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to speak words that promised a cold bath in short order.
“Are you all right?” he ground out.
Her breath, pent up in anxiety, shuddered from her in one long sigh. “I feel…well, I feel very full. But this is so different from before.”
He felt himself throb with each of her words, and swallowed back a reflexive urge to flex his hips. He pursed his lips. “Shall I go on?”
He would have to swim all the way back to Penzance if she said no, to cool his aching groin.
“Yes, Luc, please. I want this. Even…” her voice broke off. “Even if it hurts. I don’t care. At least I will know that I asked. This one time.”
The depth of her emotion shook him. He stared hard at her.
“The tightness, perhaps, is just your fear.” He touched her beautiful breasts and glided his dark skin over the creamy valley of her warm flesh. He gently pinched the rosy nipple and felt her body give to allow the swelled tip of him to enter a little more.
She was so warm, and so plush, so impossibly taut, but he dared not force any more of himself within her. It was too much. He dared not hurt her, not when she had been so courageous and had opened herself to him.
The effort to hold back made his arms shake. He ran his hands down the slender sides of her body and slipped them beneath her bottom, gliding his last finger along the sensitive folds where he could almost feel himself in her.
“Rosamunde, look at me,” he commanded. “You must do as I say now.”
“Anything.”
“Relax and open yourself further to me.”
Her legs opened fully wide like a butterfly’s wings on a spring morning, and he tilted her hips to receive him more deeply. The movement caused her to accept a few more inches of his length, and her eyes widened.
He began long, shallow strokes, encouraging her to take a little more of him.
“If you like,” he said between gritted teeth, “put your arms around me.”
She said quietly, “I didn’t know if I should.” And he felt her delicate arms tentatively surround him as he kept working her passage.
Dear God, this was sweet agony. He lowered one forearm beside her head; the other hand he used to tease the tip of her breast to new levels of desire.
Her breath was coming in short gasps, and when he looked at her face, tipped back into the pillow, he saw before him a woman in the throes of full-blown passion. Her cheeks had bloomed with pink color, and her dark lashes were splayed against her cheeks.
His hand drifted to the jointure of her body and he found the small swollen bud. She moaned in response, slightly arching toward his hand.
Desire took on a fine, sharp edge. He longed to thrust himself all the way inside of her, but did not. Instead he constrained himself to small, slow movements.
Rosamunde’s eyes opened. “I can’t. Oh, I can’t stand this.”
He abruptly stopped. “Am I hurting you?” He was surprised to find his voice sounded calm to his own ears when his own need had built to an agonizing crescendo.
“No. It’s just that I feel…It’s all so wonderful, and agonizing at the same time.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual.” He attempted to smile.
“It’s just that…”
“Yes?” he encouraged her.
“Oh, this is extremely embarrassing.”
He was ready to explode. His body was revolting against this exquisite agony of a pause with every muscle.
“I’d hoped you would’ve forgotten to be embarrassed.” He leisurely leaned down and took her tiny rosy nipple between his lips and suckled her, and then bit gently.
She bucked against him. “Well, I’m not embarrassed about what we’re doing. It’s just that…”
“Yes?” he growled.
“I want you closer.”
He nearly lost all control. “Rosamunde, you don’t know what you ask.” He dared not scare her when she had come so far.
“Well, I guess I can wait.”
God was punishing him. Surely, he would be allowed at least one rung higher from the fires of hell for his self-restraint. He laughed at the irony.
He rested his forehead against hers and suddenly felt himself sink a little further inside of her.
“I think I understand how it works now,” she whispered in his ear.
He began a slow push and pull with her, never daring to strain deeper than the clenched walls within her, always pleasuring her mouth, her breasts, her cheeks and neck with his lips and fingers. He felt so snug, cradled between her limbs.
But she kept twisting up to meet him, until finally he could take it no more. With a curse he snatched a pillow. “Clasp me with your legs.”
She obeyed instantly and he placed the large cushion beneath her. His desire, which had been on the pinnacle for so long, rose another notch, and for long minutes he thrust into her, using his arms to draw her body tightly against his own, his teeth to nip her.
“Oh please.” A moan rippled through her. “Don’t stop.”
Her eyes were dark cobalt, so infused with passion were they. Passion he knew she had never given any other man.
“Luc, you’re driving me to madness.”
“I was striving for pleasure,” he said hoarsely. He slowed his movements, trying to grasp a measure of control.
“Well, it’s a lovely sort of madness.”
He lowered his mouth to her breast again, this time suckling her more deeply than before.
“Make that a horribly lovely sort of insanity,” she gasped.
He released her breast. “Shhhh, less talking and more insanity.”
He was losing his grip, forgetting to hold back, forgetting to be gentle. Forgetting everything—his past, his present, his future. There was only this woman in front of him.
Loving him.
Dear God, she loved him.
It was the only reason she would ever allow any man to do this to her again. She was the bravest female he had ever known. And while the thought of her love should scare his body down into the deepest circle of Satan’s lair, it did not.
He looked at her as his thickness stroked long and deep within her, a mere whisper from being fully sheathed, and he knew as starkly clear as a crisp autumn morning that she had weaved herself closer to his soul than anything or anyone else in all of Christendom and beyond.
The tightness within her began to clench and throb along the length of him, and it nearly sent him over the edge. Her mouth was open in full rapture and in his desire to please her he thrust until her entire body moved higher up the bed.
And suddenly as he drove in past the wild tremors, the last channel unlocked deep within her and he found himself fully surrounded by her need and her surrender.
She moaned his name, “Luc, oh Luc, Luc…” over and over until the clenching eased. He strained and stopped, completely embedded in her to the hilt. His mind reeled with the sensation.
Her unforgettable eyes locked on his, beckoning him to find a fulfillment unlike he had ever known.
“Luc, I never knew. Never knew…”
She strained to kiss him tenderly. A kiss so giving and so trusting it broke him.
He closed his eyes and thrust himself fully into her again, reveling in the pure pleasure of it. She responded by urging him closer, pulling him nearer still until every inch of his skin touched hers in this erotic dance.
He felt the tremors begin deep inside of her again and he raised himself above her once more, notched himself just the barest way inside her, and slid slowly, inexorably down this valley of pure rapture. He exploded, his long pulses matching the rhythm of her heartbeat.
Pushing aside the last barriers, they tumbled headlong into passion’s grip, allowing themselves to meld into one heart, one soul, one instant in time.
Exhausted from holding back for so long, he eased his considerable weight on top of her before rising on his forearms.
He brushed a few locks of black hair from her flushed cheeks and kissed her forehead gently as they both struggled to regain their breath.
She brought a palm to his rough cheek, soft wonder filling her eyes. “Was that…was that how it usually goes?”
Amusement filled him. “Not exactly,” he drawled.
“Oh Luc, it was so very wonderful for me. You must show me how to make it wonderful for you too.” She paused. “I didn’t know exactly what I should do to please you. I wish you had shown me where to touch you.”
He growled and felt himself pulse and harden slightly inside her again.
Her eyes flew to his, uncomprehending.
He wedged himself deeper within her. “Rosamunde, does this tell you anything? I shall have to tie your hands behind your back if you dare touch me. I’ll have no control whatsoever.”
“Well, I guess it’s only fair to warn you”—she smoothed her hands down the deep muscles of his shoulders, down his spine, to pull him closer—“I memorized how to tie and untie every knot in my brother’s sailing manual when I was ten.”
He stifled a laugh. Before him was a woman who could face down her worst fears and then laugh about it. Well, one thing was certain, he wasn’t going to allow her to regret it. “Rosamunde, I’m going to withdraw from you. You might feel bold now, but you shall be sorry for it if we continue. You’ll be very sore.”
He lifted an inch from her and she pulled him back down with her clasped legs and clenched his length. “It’s a lovely sort of soreness. Rather like an itch on my back I can’t quite reach.”
He rumbled and she gripped him again. “God woman, you’ll be the death of me.”
“But it will be a lovely sort of death, don’t you think?”
With that he swept her into a slow rapture as glorious and fulfilling as the last. He had lost his mind by the end of it. He could barely say his own name if his life had depended on it. But she had imprinted herself on his very soul, black as it was.
As afternoon light overtook the day and his eyes grew heavy watching the sky through the porthole, he untangled her legs from his and pulled her back snuggly against his chest, his heart constricting.
What was he going to do with her?
Perhaps, just perhaps—
Chapter 10
Motive, n. A mental wolf in moral wool.
—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce
He could figure out a way to entice her to stay…at least for a little longer.
She would never accept the marriage proposal he was honor-bound to offer. She would refuse to marry any man, especially a man who had likened marriage to the bonds of hell. All the riches and titles in the world would not tempt her. Hadn’t she told him that at least a dozen times?
Even if he had awakened her to the selfish beast of desire, during more rational moments she was sure to resist capture. She had said she wouldn’t allow another man to own her if her life depended on it.
And she was right. He knew what a mistake marriage was. Knew it more than she. He knew not of a single happy couple married above a year or two.
Even though he could say with a fair degree of confidence that he would never, ever hurt her, there was always that tiny fear hidden deep within the recesses of his being. In the heat of the moment, would his actions supersede his convictions? His father had been cool and restrained for the most part, except on those rare yet memorable occasions when rage had overtaken him and threatened everyone in his path. Luc’s spine twitched in remembrance.
Who was he to say he wasn’t exactly like his sire? They had both had the advantage of being surrounded by kindhearted, loving women. All saints gracing God’s green earth. What had made his father unleash his temper in the face of such goodness? And hadn’t Luc felt that same fury overtake him on occasion? Why he’d killed more French sailors and pirates than any of the men who served him. In the heat of battle, he could coldly conjure up enough rage to destroy a fleet.
No. He would keep Rosamunde safe from the innate, baser ugliness lurking somewhere deep within him and all men. He would arrange an annuity, and settle on her the last of Ata’s purportedly inherited cottages he had secretly purchased.
A cottage would bring Rosamunde the peace and happiness she deserved. And they could, on occasion, indulge in their mutual passion for as long as she desired. It was the least he could do for this courageous woman who had been sent to hell and back courtesy of the St. Aubyn family.
He heard a shout and rose from the bunk, putting on his breeches and shirt in one fluid motion.
“Rosamunde…” He shook her twice, but she refused to budge. He had to go. Had to find out what was wrong on deck. He cursed through a smile. She slept like a child after too much Christmas candy.
Rosamunde crashed awake, and found herself sprawled on the floorboards of Luc’s cabin. The entire vessel seemed to have tipped sideways.
She struggled into her chemise and gown, not bothering with the stays. For all she knew they were about to sink to the bottom of the sea, and heaven knew she didn’t need a cinched waist to meet her Maker. She fumbled with her hairpins and crawled through the door.
She swayed while trying to make her way up the ladder and prayed for more strength. Two strong hands hooked under her arms to haul her to the deck.
Luc’s eyes locked with hers. “Stay with Brown, and for God’s sake lash yourself to the mast if necessary.” With that he was gone to join the three deckhands aft.
From the shouting it became clear the men had set the sails before pulling up anchor, and now the anchor had snagged onto something and could not be pried loose. The wind in the sails was making the boat list to one side.
Luc yelled at the men to tie back the sails while he tugged off his shirt. In the fading sunlight, he looked like a wild Greek god, his skin kissed by the sun, his hair whipping about his face. His strength was palpable, the lines slung round his torso as he lowered a sail. He was far from the polished, jaded aristocrat she had first met, appearing more like a hardened privateer with gold on his mind.
And she had lain with him.
There was no doubt about that, and she had the uncomfortable impression that everyone on the yacht knew it too.
She was sore where he had been inside her. Just the thought of the wicked things he had done brought heat to her cheeks. Nothing that pleasurable could be anything but sinful. She had lain with a gentleman without benefit of marriage. And she should be repentant.
But she was not.
She would do it all over again given the chance. Only she would be less fearful and more determined to take part in his pleasure. She would keep her eyes open and explore every inch of him. And ask him how he had gotten the long scar she could see carved from his shoulder to his waist.
She was afraid she would never be pure in thought again after today.
A sail billowed at Luc’s feet and he cursed. Rosamunde released her pent-up breath when the ship righted itself and went dead in the water. She watched the play of his muscles as they bunched and hardened while he worked to furl the sail. An ache filled her.
How was she to leave him now when she had tasted such forbidden pleasures? But leave him she must. She couldn’t stay anywhere near him, for the temptation to be with him again would be too great. And where would that lead them?
She couldn’t face Ata or anyone else for that matter if there was even the remote possibility of a longer-term affair. She already felt guilty about what had transpired. She would destroy a little bit of herself and the hard-won inner peace she had built if she ever gave in to these new base desires.
She was not cut out for casual affairs. But she also knew she had never been good at resisting temptation.
And so she must leave. As soon as possible.
To London she would go, with Ata and Sylvia and the other widows. And she would find employment far, far away from him. It would be her chance at a new life with a slate wiped clean.
And she would be happy. Yes, she would force herself to be happy. And she would be grateful.
The deckhands monkeyed down the rigging. Her reflections scattered in the wind when Luc took a long look toward her before diving over the side.
“What is he doing?” She rushed to the rail.
Mr. Brown appeared at her side. “Loosening the anchor if he can. Otherwise we’ll be stuck here.”
Luc swam to the chain and jackknifed beneath the waves.
“Cap’n ne’er fails us,” a deckhand said with patent false cheer.
“Except that one time,” said another, peering over the edge.
Mr. Brown coshed him on the side of his head. “Remember your manners. There’s a lady onboard, scallywag.”
They looked at her respectfully. She felt a blast of self-consciousness again.
