The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  She lifted her head. “Thank you, Inspector Moore.”

  Phaeton nodded. “First-rate police work.”

  “Hardly, Phaeton. They almost gave us the slip. You brought down Yanky Willem with a single shot.”

  America frowned. “I heard two shots.”

  “You dogged the bastard, tracked him down. He’s your collar.” Phaeton rubbed her back with a stiff arm. Was that a shiver or a tremble? Something was wrong. She stepped away to examine his shoulder. A smoke-tinged hole through the arm of his jacket. “Phaeton, you’ve been wounded.”

  Odd, the way he stared at her. Something hidden, behind those soft, deep brown eyes. “A mere scratch, my love.”

  The man was clearly out of his mind. He called her his dove, yes, even darling, but never my love. She caught her breath and ignored his slip of tongue. She nosed about and located a fresh bloodstain on his shirtsleeve. “There’s a medical kit onboard the Topaz. I could patch you up right enough. We’re close by.”

  Moore patted his coat pocket. “Slipped my mind entirely. There is hearing set for the morning. A formality, really.” He handed a folded document to her. “Both ships are yours again, Miss Jones.”

  She hardly knew what to say, so she gasped. “I wasn’t expecting—”

  “My brother is a barrister. Works for the Chief Crown Prosecutor. Asked him to push it through the circumlocution office.” Dexter Moore grinned. “Why not take Mr. Black aboard and minister to his wounds? I wager you’ll both be safe enough, with Mr. McCafferty on watch.”

  She was quite sure her mouth dropped open. “Ned McCafferty?”

  “Yes, that’s the name. A rather crusty bloke approached me, asking after you.”

  “Are sailors, by nature, either crusty or salty?” Phaeton mused.

  Inspector Moore ignored the jibe. “Says he’s a Boatswain. Worked for your father for many years.”

  America pressed both lips together, her pulse raced. “Where might he be found?”

  Phaeton groaned.

  She stabbed him with a look. “I need a crew, Mr. Black, and he is just the man to put the word out. Muster the right sort of sailor, if you take my meaning.” The strain and fatigue from her day and night in captivity vanished into the misty air. With exhaustion all but forgotten, her thoughts whirled with the possibilities of taking on a crew and cargo.

  “I allowed McCafferty a berth aboard ship, in exchange, he keeps watch,” Dexter explained. “Leave it up to you whether you want to keep him on or not.”

  America threw her arms around the inspector. “I don’t know how I shall ever repay you for all your hard work and kindness, Mr. Moore.” An arm slipped around her waist. “I can think of a few welcome favors, only Phaeton would gladly plug a bullet into my skull if I tried.”

  A bubble of giddy laughter rippled to the surface. She glanced at Phaeton, and confirmed a flinty gaze.

  “No more bullets, Dex,” Phaeton reached out with his good arm and pulled her close. “Dismemberment.”

  She grinned at them both. “Chacun à son goût. Everyone to his taste, oui?”

  “S’il vous plaît, monsieur.” Her entire body shuddered in want, in need of him.

  “You will call me Bonaparte.” He pulled back and smacked the switch against his boot. Her entire body jumped. The French pirate lifted a corner of his mouth and narrowed his eyes.

  Phaeton stood in front of her, legs spread wide, chest bare. His trousers outlined muscled legs and hard cock. Even the bandage around his shoulder and arm played a role in this titillating theatrical.

  With the crop in one hand, a tumbler full of whiskey in the other, he tipped the glass. “Pirates keep such good grog.” He winked at her and guzzled a dram more.

  Just as soon as they boarded the Topaz, the pirate games had begun. After she washed him off and bandaged his wound, Bonaparte had found a riding crop in the aft cabin and put it to good use on his captive lady.

  “Touchez-moi. Harder.” Her pleading little more than a breathy whisper.

  “And what will you promise in return—for Bonaparte?” He gestured low, toward the bulge in his pants.

  Her gaze lingered on the impressive ridge beneath his trousers, then swept up his body. She ran her tongue over upper, then lower lip. “Which part of me do you most desire?”

  Ebony eyes gleamed. He lowered his chin. Slowly, he circled her naked form. When he reached her backside, his fingers entered the crevice between buttocks and circled. He did not touch her in any other way. “Here, perhaps, my little courtesan?” The most delicate pressure tantalized her opening.

  Lustful, wanton passion shuddered through her body. All her clothing was off with the exception of a brief chemise. He had paddled her bottom until the heat from his slaps radiated through her body.

  He yanked off her camisole.

  “I am going to give you exquisite pleasure, Miss Jones. So you will obey my every word.” Phaeton tightened the soft cords around her wrists and looped the ropes through a ring in the low-slung ceiling. He pulled her arms up, and tied the cord in a pretty bow.

  Vulnerable, raw, and unbelievably aroused, she waited for his next move. “If you are not compliant, nay, zealous, my wicked little cocotte, I will have to use this.” He held up a riding crop. “Again.” With her arms pulled overhead, her entire body shivered in anticipation of his next stroke.

  “Fouettez-moi. Sting me.” Her eyes flashed with need; she would beg, gladly.

  The swat from the whip radiated warmth from her pink, naked bottom to the arousal pooling between her legs. Her naked buttocks shivered with each stroke.

  “G-r-r-r-r.” He so loved to growl.

  “Or is it, a-r-r-r-r-gh?” He stalked around her again. Eyes on her nude body, taking in every inch of exposed flesh. Memorizing her.

  The cool air of the cabin traveled over exposed flesh. Thrilling, titillating her, peaking her sensitivity to his every touch, She gulped in air and swallowed. The excitation, mixed with expectancy, was intense, delicious.

  Her eyes swept the cabin. More than any other place on earth, these quarters were home to her. The only home she had ever really known. So many memories. It would not be long before this love play would take its place among those recollections. Something to keep her warm on cold nights at sea.

  Phaeton adjusted the Admiral Nelson hat, setting it sideways, on his head.

  She tilted her chin. “Yes, much more French—my Napoleon pirate.”

  “Ah, oui, ma petite—how do you say, dove?

  “Colombe.”

  He approached her slowly, tapping the whip on the side of his leg. “Ma belle colombe.” Pointing the whip end at a breast tip, he circled her areola, which obediently gathered into a hard peak. “Beautiful dark nipples.” She moaned as the whip traced the outline of her ribs and belly. Dipping further down, he slid the crop along the sensitive inside flesh of her thigh. He tapped the braided leather tail against her triangle of curls. Juices flowed down the inside of her legs.

  He leaned in and laved rosy-beige peaks. “More?” He waited, his mouth inches away. Impatiently she arched her breast into his mouth, urging him to suckle. To caress, to nibble, to lick until he held her in suspension. She did not wholly understand how he knew. But he always moved on, just before she tumbled over the edge of desire.

  No man would ever know her body as he did, or be able to hold her, indefinitely, at the brink.

  He turned his back, flung the naval hat onto a coat hook, and set down his empty glass. Content, even lackadaisical about her confinement, he made her want him beyond reason. He studied her from across the room. “Spread your legs.”

  She returned his gaze.

  “Pleasure or pain, Miss?”

  She widened her stance.

  The cabin floor whined as he sauntered toward her. He used the crop to swat back and forth between her thighs. “Farther.” The bindings strained and her arms ached.

  He dragged over a chair, sat between her limbs and pulled her up to his face
. He kissed her belly. “Bend your leg at the knee.” He lifted a trembling limb and placed her bare foot on his shoulder. Cupping her buttocks, he drew her close.

  His mouth pressed against the inside of her thigh. What sort of wicked pleasure was this? Dear God, she knew where he was headed, but he took his time. Feathering his kisses along soft, quivering flesh.

  He parted curls, his tongue sweeping long laps between delicate folds. He delved deep inside her passage, inserting one, then another finger. While he thrust in and out, his tongue circled her swollen place, the slippery nub that always demanded more and more excitation. Her pulse throbbed, pounding blood under her skin. She reveled for a moment, at the tipping place, deliciously on the edge of climax, and then toppled into oblivion. Only when she thrust her hips into the air and screamed her satisfaction, did he release the ropes.

  A rag doll fell into his arms. He swept back wild curls and nuzzled her neck. “Bonaparte is pleased to give you pleasure, mademoiselle.” His voice soft, thick with desire.

  He lifted her onto the captain’s bed and climbed in beside her. She stretched out like a cat, and smiled up at him. His hands roamed over her body, soothing overstimulated skin, kissing her softly, cooing his words.

  He rolled her over and massaged her bottom. “Sore?”

  “In a lovely, spent, sort of way.”

  He bit her bottom.

  She smothered a laugh in the pillow, rolled over and took his face in her hands. His beard stubble was still moist from her pleasure. She guided him lower for a kiss.

  Heat burned her cheeks. “My scent is everywhere.”

  Dawn filtered through the slat-shuttered porthole, shafts of light fell across his face. His eyes squinted a golden brown. “I would rather wear your scent than any cologne.”

  She listened absently to the faint lapping of basin water against the hull. The familiar stirring of dock workers on the pier. “There is a story a schoolmate loved to tell, very French—”

  He placed her fingertip in his mouth and sucked, gently.“Oui, cheri?” He swirled his tongue then moved to the next.

  “Henri the fourth reputedly wrote to his young mistress, Gabrielle d’Estree, ‘Do not bathe my love, I’ll be home in eight days.’ ” She angled her head to watch him nibble a ring finger.

  “You are supremely responsive, sexually.”

  “Is that shocking?”

  He laid back and raised a brow.

  “No, I suppose nothing shocks you, Mr. Black.”

  “Mr. Black, is it?” He toyed with a long tangled strand of her curls. “You were rather disappointed with your first sexual encounter. Made a point of telling me, as I recall. But then, what maiden isn’t?”

  She closed her eyes and conjured a handsome young man with nut-brown skin and high cheekbones. Dark eyes like Phaeton’s. “Suraj.”

  “Suraj?”

  “Punjabi.” She remembered with a smile. “A Sikh, who wore a crimson turban and kept a curved, gold-handled knife in his belt.”

  “Wonderful costume. Not much of a lover, I take it?”

  She drew her mouth into a bow and wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps, I wasn’t receptive. We were both very young.” Phaeton leaned close to suckle a nipple. A pang of arousal shot through her body. “He was a passenger aboard ship, making his way home from school in England.” She lifted herself up on elbows. He nibbled and released, teasing one rigid tip, before moving on to the other.

  “No doubt the son of a maharaja.” He bit down.

  She moaned. “Jealous?”

  Phaeton let the nipple slip from his mouth. “The next time I bind your wrists, I shall wrap a sheet round my head and you will beg Prince Alwar to whip your bum.”

  Her snort of laughter only encouraged him. Unbuttoning his pants, he straddled her torso and cupped her breasts, He pressed her swollen mounds around his burgeoning shaft and took slow deliberate strokes. He tweaked both nipples and she bucked and trembled under him. When he grew fully erect, he leaned closer.

  “Take me in your mouth.” His husky demand urgent with desire.

  She raised her head, her eyes ravenous, admiring of his bobbing prick. A pink tongue moistened tawny plump lips. “No.” She sank back into the pillow.

  He blinked. “No?”

  Her gaze narrowed into that beautiful almond shape. “Take off every stitch of clothing.”

  “Ah, a new game.” Phaeton grinned. “Very well.”

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and shed his clothes. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder blades as her arms came around his torso. Fingers splayed through his chest hair, rubbing, swirling, then moving down ribs and belly. The muscles in his abdomen quivered. Had she driven him mad with all that provocative talk? Or was this pure lust?

  Her fingers closed around his cock and stroked. He forced himself to stand and turn around. America was on all fours; that lovely round ass wiggled as though it might have a tail. “Wicked little minx.” Taking her by the hair, he presented his turgid cock to her mouth. “Take it—all of it.”

  His penis felt the hum of her laughter as her lips covered the tip.

  Very soon thereafter, speech abandoned him, replaced by the guttural, inarticulate sounds of a growling, wild beast.

  On the brink of climax, he released her head and pressed her back onto the bed. She opened for him and he drove deep into the slick warmth of her sheath. Long legs wrapped around his body. Her breath was rapid again, coming in short gasps. She made sweet mewling sounds and ran kisses over his chest. Her licks and small bites to his nipples caused a gasp. “Again.”

  With firm, deliberate strokes, he concentrated on her pleasure while building his own fervor a little at a time. He dropped legs down between hers and without missing a single stroke, reached under the small of her back and lifted her upright onto the tops of his thighs. He set back on his haunches. “I hold you impaled upon the ducal sword.”

  Lips, swollen from bruising kisses, smiled. And those feline eyes, wide and colored with passion, nearly sent him over the edge. Drawing her tight against his chest he showed her how to rock her hips. He took a mouthful of breast and kept his thrusts slow. With each withdrawal, he pulled out enough to rub her with the tip of the royal weapon. As her love cries increased, he pressed his fingers into the flesh of her buttocks and brought himself deeper inside.

  The blissful gasp of her release surged through his body. There it was again, her pleasure increasing, enhancing his own. His thrusts grew rapid and violent, until his climax exploded into her. “Dear God, you have bewitched me.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  PHAETON OPENED THE SLATED SHUTTER OF THE PORTHOLE and blinked away shafts of light. Well past dawn. Last evening was perhaps the most astonishing erotic experience of his life. And it had happened with America. He had given her a taste of unusual love play and what a game enchantress she turned out to be, responding with a kind of creativity and enthusiasm that was nothing short of dazzling. He already longed for more of her tempting flesh.

  The enticing, seductive female lay stretched out beside him. A long, shapely limb straddled tossed off linen and blankets. Gently, he rubbed a rounded hip and buttock cheek, receiving a slumberous murmur in response. His cock twitched. Ah, the added stimulation of a little early morning arousal. Asleep or awake, he had the urge to take her from behind.

  She had encouraged him to explore every part of her. His mouth, fingers, it mattered not. He, in turn, showed her how and where to explore. He took a deep breath and recalled curious questions and how intimate her examination was.

  A rapid onset of heartbeats urged to him to run.

  He had gone round the bend this time. Allowed a pretty, exotic, clever young woman to get close. Much too close. A bit of pressure squeezed his chest. She was after his heart—his very soul—for God’s sake.

  Phaeton bolted out of the warmth and comfort of the captain’s berth and dressed. He paused to kiss an exposed derriere and pull up the covers. Topside, he ran directly
into Ned McCafferty.

  “Mr. McCafferty. She’s sleeping rather soundly at the moment.”

  The gruff man eyed him in a wary sort of way. “A good thing, I expect, sire.”

  “Very good. Miss Jones has been through quite an ordeal these last twenty-four hours. See that she sleeps as long as possible.”

  McCafferty nodded. “I take your meaning, Mr. Black. No interruptions.”

  “Good man.” Phaeton tipped his hat and was off down the gangway. Weaving a path through the bustling basin traffic, he hoofed it down Ferry Road to the West India Docks. Somewhere among this mob of drayage carts and carriages, he would find a cab.

  “Phaeton.” A voice in the crowd. He whirled around to find Dexter Moore climbing out of a hansom. “Just the man I was sent off to find.”

  “No doubt the director wants a full report.”

  Dexter shook his head. “Just a meeting. Nothing in writing,”

  A side benefit of Secret Branch operations was the dearth of deadly dull paperwork. So he would debrief his superiors, have a pint or two with a few of the lads at the Rising Sun and then make his way home. Interesting enough day, he hoped, to keep his mind off America Jones.

  “Volunteered to come after you. They need you back in Whitehall as soon as possible.” Dexter opened the door of his cab. “And the lovely Miss Jones?”

  “Asleep.” Phaeton hesitated before stepping inside the hansom. “She is not to be disturbed.”

  “But—the hearing. She was to be at the Old Bailey in”—Dexter checked his pocket watch—“just short of an hour from now.”

  Phaeton pulled Dex in and leaned out of the hansom. “Turn us around—Millwall docks.”

  When they hit a snarl of traffic, Phaeton leaped out of the carriage and ran for the Topaz. He crossed the gangplank and nearly knocked over McCafferty in the wheelhouse. “So sorry.” Worst of all, he did not think before flinging the cabin door open. A nubile, light brown Venus stepped from her bath. Phaeton’s jaw dropped.