by Kate Bateman
Her eyes gradually became accustomed to the semidarkness. Thin bands of light filtered in between the unsealed horizontal planks and through the one tiny porthole at the front of the funnel. She could just make out Wylde’s profile, tiger-striped and shockingly close, as he brought his index finger up to his lips in an unnecessary signal for quiet.
She lay on her back. He’d propped himself up on one elbow by her side, with one of his long legs draped partly over her to allow his larger body to fit into the restrictive space. Georgie closed her eyes as the scandalous nature of the position flooded her senses.
“Where do you fink ’e wants ’em?” a rough voice rasped.
“Just leave them over there,” came the reply.
The sound of something heavy being dropped echoed around the room. The footsteps receded, only to return a few moments later with the same series of clatters, grunts, and thuds, presumably some sort of lumber delivery. Georgie prayed that whoever it was would finish their task quickly and leave. It was warm inside the submarine, as if they’d been swallowed by a dragon. They were inside its belly, trapped within its curving ribs.
Wylde’s long body pressed against hers, his warm breath mingling with hers. Her heart beat in her temples, and she took rapid, shallow breaths as the darkness began to crowd in on her. Had Wylde shut the hatch completely? Wouldn’t they run out of air?
He seemed to become aware of her growing distress; his hand settled gently on her breastbone. “Breathe with me,” he whispered, his lips just brushing her ear, a mere thread of sound. “Slowly. It’s all right. Just breathe.”
His hand was warm through her clothing, a reassuring weight. She felt her rib cage rise and fall and matched her breaths to his. In and out. Slower. Calmer. The panic receded, only to be replaced by a greater sense of awareness—of him. As if to compensate for her lack of vision, all her other senses became more acute. She could feel the texture of his clothing, the buttons of his coat pressing into her side, every single place his strong body touched hers. A lingering trace of coffee and smoke still clung to him, but beneath that was his own familiar scent, which made her heart thunder against her ribs.
She glared at him in silent reproach, as if their ridiculous predicament were somehow his fault. He shot her a droll glance in return, as if to say, I warned you.
The delivery was still going on outside. Muffled sounds of scraping wood continued mere feet away, on just the other side of the planks, but Georgie could barely concentrate. All she could think about was Wylde’s proximity.
He shifted restlessly, his body pressing against hers, and then he closed his eyes, as if the feel of her against him caused him physical pain. She watched the apple in his throat bob down as he swallowed.
His hand was still resting lightly on her chest. Georgie shifted her shoulders, trying to get more comfortable, and the unexpected movement cause his hand to slip sideways. His palm cupped her breast, and Georgie sucked in a shocked gasp. Their eyes met—and a jolt of pure erotic tension flashed between them. Her stomach flipped.
“Georgie—” Wylde groaned hoarsely. His fingers tightened on her breast for a split second, before he seemed to realize what he was doing, and tugged his hand away as if she burned.
Georgie almost moaned at the loss. She wanted him to keep touching her. His breathing was deeper than normal, as if he’d been running, and as he shifted again, she became aware of the rigid length of him pressing against her leg. Her eyes widened in sudden realization. He wanted her!
He dropped his head against her shoulder with an odd, muffled sound, then gave a slow despairing exhale near her ear. “That’s what you do to me,” he whispered. “Every minute of the day. You make me crazy with wanting.”
He lifted his head and met her eyes. Only a few inches separated them. His lips were so close that their breath mingled, and Georgie quivered as longing liquefied her insides. Unable to help herself, she gave into impulse and lifted her hand to trace the outline of his lips with her fingers as if she could learn their contours by touch alone.
He stilled, then sucked in a shuddering breath and shot her a what-do-you-think-you’re-doing look. “We can’t,” he whispered. He tilted his head to indicate the muffled sounds still coming from outside the hull.
But Georgie didn’t care where they were, or who might hear. She slid her hand around the side of his neck, lifted her head from the wooden boards, and sought his mouth.
“Georgie—” he groaned again, almost in despair, and she waited for him to turn his head away, but instead, his lips found hers and her heart kicked against her ribs. His tongue flicked out to taste and tease, and then he was kissing her, openmouthed and full, and she nearly swooned with pleasure.
He tasted of coffee and sin. Georgie threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him down to her, greedy, wanting more. Languor kindled into a hunger, a craving, in a heartbeat. His hand returned to the swell of her breast, deliberately this time, molding and kneading, and she arched up, inciting him, as her own hands stroked his neck, his shoulders, wherever she could touch.
She wriggled against him, and he gave an almost inaudible hiss, then caught her hand and drew it down his body, over his chest and abdomen, down to the bulge in his breeches. She almost pulled away when she realized where he was leading her, but curiosity got the better of her, and she let him mold her fingers around the rigid shape of him. Oh, dear Lord.
“Yes,” he breathed against her mouth. “God, yes, Touch me.”
Intrigued, she tightened her fingers and felt him flex against her palm. He closed his eyes in silent pleasure and lifted his hips, arching into her hand for a brief moment before he caught her wrist and lifted her hand away.
“Enough.”
His nose nuzzled her jaw. He pressed kisses to the sensitive spot behind her ear, and Georgie closed her eyes against the impossible, forbidden pleasure of it. She was panting, her every nerve ending pulsing with a slow, drugging heat. Oh, this was a wicked game, but the danger of discovery only added to the thrill. She wanted his clever hands on her, that sinful mouth on hers. To hell with the noise, she wanted to go wherever he would take her.
In one swift move, he rolled up and over her, supporting himself on his forearms, settling into the groove between her legs. Georgie stilled, certain the rustle of his movement would be detected, but the noise from outside did not cease.
Their chests were barely touching, but from the belly down, they were a perfect fit. The potent weight of him pressed between her thighs, his heat burned her even through the layers of clothing that separated them.
Her pulse seemed to have relocated to between her legs, a sweet, brutal ache. Some soul-deep instinct told her that here, here was the answer to her craving. His body held the key. If only she knew what to do. She squirmed against him, unable to keep still.
He kissed her slowly, lingering and sweet. “Do you want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” His voice was so low, it was more vibration than sound, a deep rumble against her chest, a wicked secret in the dark.
Her pulse leapt in response, and she nodded her head emphatically. Yes! She wanted. She wanted with a feverish desperation. Wanted more of those kisses, those wonderful hands on her, making her burn.
For a long moment, he simply stared down at her in the shadows, and then, as if coming to a decision, he rocked his hips against her. The hard length of him nudged between her legs and a jolt of pleasure speared through her. She took a sharp, shocked intake of breath, and his lips curved into that wicked, conspiratorial smile she knew so well.
“Shhh!” he chided softly. “We don’t want them to hear.”
Dimly, Georgie realized that the muffled sounds of the workmen still resonated outside. She bit her lip to stifle a moan. Wylde rocked against her again, forward then back, a slow insidious rhythm that somehow managed to hit that maddening spot between her legs perfectly every time. It was exquisite torture. A sheen of sweat formed at her hairline as her body twisted and begged. Something was building in
side her, and she ground against him, reaching for it, but the sensation was like an object bobbing on the water—always just out of reach.
She was so focused on where they touched that she barely registered the slam of the warehouse door, but Wylde stilled and she groaned in frustration.
“They’re gone,” he panted. “We should—”
“No! I don’t care! Benedict!” She bucked again, urging him to finish what he’d started. “Show me!”
With a half laugh, half groan, he claimed her mouth and drove his tongue deep, deliciously demanding, drinking her in, and her limbs dissolved to water. And then his hand was under her skirts, over her stockings, sliding up the smooth skin of her thigh, and she parted her legs eagerly, desperate for his touch there, where it ached. His fingers found the slit in her drawers, and she groaned into his mouth as he found the center of her body and circled the little button of flesh, sending jolts of sensation spearing through her.
Good God. She’d had no idea she could feel like this.
Both of them were panting now, their breath mingling together. Georgie arched up as his finger mimicked the action of his tongue and slid inside her. She let out a shocked gasp, torn between amazement and bliss, even as her body clenched around him. He played, in and out, winding her tighter, higher, closer, and she began to tremble as the pressure built and built until it was almost unbearable.
He seemed to know exactly how to touch her. She threw her head back, held her breath—and everything inside her shattered. She was falling, pulsing, burning up. Her vision dimmed as pleasure washed over her in endless pounding waves.
A glorious lethargy suffused her limbs. When she could finally breathe again, she became aware of Wylde, propped up on his elbow, watching her in the darkness with a faint satisfied smile.
“Now you know,” he said softly. He reached out and stroked her flushed cheek with the back of his fingers. “That really was a pleasure, Mrs. Wylde.”
Chapter 28.
Benedict couldn’t believe his voice came out as steadily as it did, considering that his hands were trembling and his heart was near to bursting out of his chest. That had been the most intense, most erotic encounter of his entire life—and he hadn’t even climaxed himself. He was still rock-hard in his breeches, and yet he wanted to laugh in sheer primitive triumph. With joy.
He gazed down at the woman below him. Her pupils were huge in the half light, her hair delightfully mussed. He swallowed. The scent of her, of what he’d done to her, filled the small space and made the ache in his cock even worse. Desire still pounded in his blood. He wanted to be inside her, right now. No preliminaries, no more playing. Just hard and fast against the wooden boards, deep and full, until she cried out his name, and they both lost themselves in pleasure and oblivion.
He took a deep breath and strove for control, then rolled off her and tried to rearrange himself into a more comfortable position—as if that were possible. He was fiercely glad that he’d been the one to give her this first taste of passion. He wished he’d been able to see every nuance of her expression as she’d reached the peak, but even in the dim light, she’d been beautiful. So sweetly responsive. He’d loved her frown of concentration, the uninhibited trust of her climax.
He tilted his head, listening. No sound came from the warehouse beyond. He sat up awkwardly in the cramped space, taking care not to hit any of the pipes and gauges that protruded from the bulkheads, then hauled himself out of the hatch. He peered down at Georgie and offered his hand with an inner smile at his belated chivalry.
That had been no courtly wooing, no pretty poetic romance. It had been hot and sweaty and glorious. A frenzied blur of passion and limbs in the darkness. He swallowed and tried to slow his racing pulse. This was only the beginning. God, the things he had to teach her.
He wondered if she was embarrassed by what they’d just done, or merely incredulous. He was rather stunned himself.
She accepted his help back up, took a deep lungful of air, and made a big show of trying to right her rumpled clothing. “Well, that was, ah…” She seemed lost for words, which pleased him immensely.
“Exciting?” he provided wryly. “Amazing, Benedict? Positively the best experience I’ve ever had?”
“Something I’ll never forget,” she said finally.
He chuckled at her return to formality, even as he tried to ignore her becomingly flushed cheeks and the fact that her lips were still puffy from his kisses. “It was an honor and a privilege,” he said solemnly.
“Not a duty?” She looked up at him then, and he sent her an easy smile, determined to banish any awkwardness. He wanted her to glory in what they’d done, not be ashamed.
“Never. You have wood shavings in your hair.”
She put her hands up to remedy that, but he batted them away and plucked several stray curls of wood from her rumpled coiffure. He descended the ladder and then braced his arms on either side to steady it for her. When she reached the ground, he didn’t step back, but instead trapped her between his body and hugged her into his chest.
“That was just the beginning, Georgie girl. Lesson one of many. I can’t wait to show you the rest.” He released her and forced himself to step back and return to business. “So. What do you think we should do with this?” He gestured at the submarine. “Disable it? Destroy it?”
“Not it,” she muttered. “Her. All ships are feminine.”
“What shall we do with her, then,” Benedict amended dryly.
She shook her head. “Surely the Admiralty want her back? To destroy her would be a dreadful shame. She’s an amazing feat of engineering.” She patted the unfinished planks. “She isn’t seaworthy yet—she still needs to be tarred to make her waterproof—so you have some time to set a watch and catch this Johnstone fellow in the act.”
Benedict made a quick inspection of the rest of the warehouse and let out a low whistle as he pulled back an oiled sheet and found a neat stack of wooden barrels in one corner.
“What are those?”
He sniffed one to confirm his suspicions. “Gunpowder.” The peppery scent was unmistakable, an old friend. He’d spent years with this smell during the war, could still recall the bitter taste on his tongue from when he’d ripped open the tiny paper twists of powder with his teeth to pour them down the muzzle of his Baker.
“It must be for the floating bombs that Fulton detailed in his plans,” Georgie said.
Benedict searched around until he found a pail full of grey river water, then uncorked the bung on the top of each barrel and trickled a thin stream of liquid into them, soaking the contents. “That scuppers that plan,” he said with satisfaction. “Nothing worse than wet powder.” He replaced the oilskin and nodded toward the window. “Come on, I’ll give you a boost.”
* * *
Georgie spent the trip back to Grosvenor Square alternating between amazement, mortification, and shameless anticipation of what was still to come. What Benedict had done to her body inside that submarine had been a revelation. She’d never imagined a man’s touch could affect her in such a way.
She was sensitive in places she’d never even taken note of before, and she felt strangely free and unencumbered. She glanced over at Benedict in the carriage.
He sent her one of those questioning, enigmatic looks, as if she held the answer to something he sought, some riddle he couldn’t solve. Her insides tightened. He’d said there was more, but what more could there possibly be?
She’d never discussed intimate matters with her mother, but having lived in the countryside, she had a fair idea of the basic mechanics of procreation. The idea that the man’s member must surely fit inside the woman, however—as a stallion fitted into a mare when he covered her—was so preposterous that she couldn’t truly imagine it. Clearly, the place where Benedict had put his fingers was the same place he would fit into her body. But judging from the size of the appendage she’d felt through his breeches, such a thing was impossible. Georgie’s cheeks flamed. Th
e very thought made her hot and achy … and slightly apprehensive.
Did a man need to mount behind the woman, like a horse? It seemed unlikely, but she supposed she would find out this evening. Benedict had promised that she would enjoy it, and she trusted him.
When they pulled up at the Tricorn Club, he stepped down and rested his arm on the carriage door. His expression promised all manner of wickedness. He lifted her arm to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Until later, Mrs. Wylde.”
Chapter 29.
Georgie attended the Evans’ rout that evening with the sole aim of taking her leave as quickly as possible. She’d already mentioned to her mother that she thought she had a headache coming on. And then she caught sight of Benedict, heart stoppingly handsome in dark evening clothes, conversing with his friends on the opposite side of the room. Heat raced over her skin. What was he doing here?
He glanced up as her name was announced and caught her eye. His too-innocent smile made her stomach flutter. What game was he playing now?
She pretended to ignore him and seethed impatiently for a full twenty minutes before he made his leisurely way across the room and bowed low before her mother. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Mrs. Caversteed.”
Her mother smiled warmly. “Good evening, Mr. Wylde. How good to see you. I’m afraid Juliet is dancing with Lord Birkenhead at present, but—”
“I was hoping the elder Miss Caversteed might honor me with a dance.”
Mother sent Georgie a look that was part congratulatory, part surprise. “Oh, of course. I’m sure she’d be delighted. Off you go, dear.”
Wylde chuckled as he steered her toward the dance floor.
“What are you doing here?” Georgie whispered. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until later.”
“I’m upholding my side of our bargain. You’re paying me to court you publicly. So here we are. Courting. In public.” He sent her an admiring look that nobody watching could fail to interpret, and Georgie cursed the day she’d ever suggested the foolish idea. Yes, they needed to prepare the ton for an announcement, but she hadn’t envisaged how difficult it would be to pretend to be strangers under society’s ever-watchful gaze.
