Unlaced

by Jaci Burton

  Meg caught her breath.

  That beautiful olive skin was slashed and pitted in half a dozen places with the white of old scars. But the light mat of black hair that arrowed down over his flat belly and the tight brown nipples were as she remembered.

  John said nothing, simply waited for her to wipe away the tears. He’d gone very pale, she noted, his lips almost gray. “I’m not finished,” he said eventually. His throat moved as he swallowed. “That’s not the worst. This is.”

  Slowly, he pivoted, presenting her with his broad back, and Meg cried out, coming to her feet.

  His back was a ruin, a mass of scar tissue, of stripes and slashes and bumps.

  She didn’t realize she was standing right behind him until her hand brushed his biceps. John flinched, but he didn’t turn. “It’s all right,” he said to the window. “I’ll go.”

  “No.” Meg dropped her forehead to his shoulder blade, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Then she jerked away. “Gods, am I hurting you?”

  “No.” He turned and lifted her chin. “Don’t cry for me, Meggie. Put me out of my misery. Tell me straight.”

  Meg gulped. What she’d give to take him to the bathhouse. They’d sink into a deep warm bath together so she could pamper and soothe and stroke. And her tears would be lost in the perfumed water. “I have a question.”

  He tensed. “Yes?”

  Sister give her strength! Meg gathered her courage. If it meant John might drop his shields, let her in, she’d be bold, shameless even. “Are there scars on your ass?”

  His brow creased. “My—? No. Why?”

  Meg blinked hard and smiled, striving for her usual calm. “That’s good,” she said. “I was always particularly fond of your ass. I still am.”

  It took him a few seconds to catch up.

  When he did, he gave an inarticulate cry and wrapped her in an embrace so crushing that she squeaked a protest. Sister, he was strong!

  John loosened his grip a trifle, burying his face in her hair, his breath coming in painful rasps. “Give me a minute,” he panted. “Hold me.”

  Meg gripped his upper arms and hung on, her breasts mashed against his chest. She’d never fainted in her life, but she thought she might not be far off it. Her brain felt mazy and thick, seething with an overload of incoherent thoughts and impressions.

  His biceps were hard, the muscles as dense as cedderwood, the skin there hardly blemished, hot and damp under her fingers. She pressed her face against a slab of unyielding muscle and inhaled. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, yes! This was John. Not a dream of grief and pain in the night, not a fantasy or a vain hope. Real. The massive erection pressed against the softness of her belly told her that in no uncertain terms. If she closed her eyes and buried her hands in his hair, it was as if she were back that night in the barn. Instinctively, she rocked her hips against him and he groaned, deep in his chest.

  “Meggie, don’t.”

  “No one calls me that,” she whispered, going up on tiptoe to bury her nose in the soft pit at the base of his throat. “Only you. Gods, it’s been so long.”

  “Fuck, yes.” John pulled back so he could look into her face. “Sweetheart, I’m right on the edge. I swore when I came here I wouldn’t leap on you like an animal.” He set her a little farther away from him and his mouth quirked. “Even if it kills me. But I have to kiss you, Meggie. I have to.”

  When he bent his head, she met him gladly, stretching up. The first brush of lips was tentative, almost as if he’d forgotten the fit. A little bemused, tingling, Meg held still while he changed the angle a couple of times, his lips hot and smooth against hers. He was shaking again, shuddering under her hands. When she ventured to touch her tongue to the tip of his, he made a noise deep in his throat, as if his soul had torn loose, and the kiss changed completely.

  John yanked her forward, plastering every inch of her against his hard, aroused body, one hand spearing into her hair to hold her still. He devoured her, there was no other word for it, sweeping his tongue into her mouth, overwhelming, unstoppable, carnal.

  Only John had ever been able to do this, Meg thought muzzily. Shatter her steady control, so she forgot everything except the heat, the need to crawl inside his skin, his soul, and nestle there forever. Gods, she couldn’t tell whether the licks of fire writhing in her belly and flashing up and down her spine were terror or exaltation or both. She ran a hand down his side and over his hip, feeling the unyielding solidity of his large body, relishing it. The muscles of his ass hollowed and flexed beneath her fingers.

  John grunted, spreading his long fingers over her buttock, sealing her against a long thick ridge that he rocked against her, pressing fair and square against her quivering clit. Meg whimpered into his mouth. He might as well have thrust inside. Her sheath convulsed, clenching on a weeping emptiness.

  Abruptly, John’s hand clamped over hers. Ripping his mouth free, he panted, “Meggie, please—” He broke off, his cheeks ruddy with arousal and embarrassment.

  “Is this what you want?” she whispered, sliding their joined clasp across the front of his trews.

  His groan was answer enough.

  Seven

  John’s cock was burning hot, even through the coarse fabric, the pulse of it thudding against her palm. Greedily, Meg wrapped her fingers around the girth as best she could, watching the erotic agony on his face. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was right on the edge. When she squeezed, he choked and his already dark eyes went completely black with lust.

  “Fuck. Oh gods. Sorry. I can’t . . . can’t . . .” His hand closed over hers, jerking it up and down, faster and more roughly than she would have dared on her own.

  Gods, he felt huge. Wonderful. Meg’s focus narrowed. The Spring Green Parlor, the slave galley, the lost years, her hurt, they all faded away in the face of the desperation before her, the man thrusting into the circle of her fingers, sweat beading his brow.

  There was only John and Meggie. Meggie and John.

  “Come on,” she said, gripping harder, rubbing her thumb over the broad head on every up-stroke.

  She leaned forward and sucked one tight brown nipple into her mouth. Then she nipped it.

  “Meggie! Aaargh!”

  If the sound hadn’t been so guttural, she would have called it a scream. As it was, she was grateful she’d shut the door firmly behind her.

  John’s cock kicked hard under her palm and his hips bucked. It seemed to last for a long time, the spasms dying away slowly, each one separate and distinct, his hand helping hers to milk the last of his pleasure until he was bent half over her, gasping.

  “Shit. Oh shit,” he muttered into her hair. “Gods, sorry.”

  Slowly, he straightened. When he glanced down at the spreading stain on the front of his trews, at their sticky hands, bright washes of color bloomed across his cheeks, making the tattoo look very dark. “Meg, I—Here.” Grabbing his discarded shirt, he began fumbling with her fingers.

  His head down, he said stiffly, “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—” He shook his head, still busy scrubbing with the shirt.

  “John,” said Meg gently. Her body was still thrumming. “John, look at me.”

  “I’m shamed.” He refused to meet her eyes. “I only meant to kiss you and I ruined it. No better than a randy boy.”

  “John,” she insisted.

  His gaze lifted, his face like stone, and her heart turned over. He hadn’t changed so much after all, because this was how he’d always dealt with unhappiness or uncertainty—by locking it away in some hidden place the world couldn’t see.

  Carefully, she smiled, making sure he noticed. “I pushed you,” she said. “Remember? We did it together.” She let the smile broaden to a wicked grin. “Was it good?”

  His shoulders relaxed a trifle. “I damn near passed out,” he admitted. Then he tensed up again. “That would have been funny, wouldn’t it?”

  “No,” she said as tranquilly as she could manage. “It wouldn’t.
Because I didn’t get mine. And you’re going to make it up to me.” She let the silence run on for a space, her heart knocking against her ribs. “Aren’t you?”

  John dragged in a huge breath. “Meggie, are you sure?”

  And she knew he was talking about more than physical pleasure.

  “No,” she said again. “But I’m sure I want to try.”

  John swallowed audibly. Then he sank awkwardly to his knees, favoring the bad leg, and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his cheek against her breastbone. “Thank you.” The words came out rather muffled.

  Meg leaned over and dropped a kiss on his hair.

  She lost track of how long they stayed like that, but eventually, John stirred. “My leg. I need to sit.”

  “Me, too.” He got to his feet, Meg inserted herself under his arm, and together, they lurched back to the sofa.

  Rolling his head against the cushions, John shot her a glance. “I’ll do better next time,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”

  A sudden, incredible suspicion entered her mind. She traced the strong complex shape of his collarbone with her fingertip. “How long has it been?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Six years, two months, and four days.”

  “What?” Meg reared back.

  He smiled, though it hurt her to watch it. “I’ve only ever had one lover, Meg. Apart from my own hand.”

  “But—but what about—?” She flapped a hand, completely at a loss. “No one?”

  “I didn’t want a whore. I wanted you,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I tried a couple of times, but in the end . . . I couldn’t afford much, let alone a place like this.” His gaze traveled over the elegant wallpaper, the fine furniture. “They were dirty. And they weren’t you.”

  “But—six years?”

  “Don’t forget the two months and four days.”

  Meg opened her mouth and closed it again. Finally, she said lamely, “Are you hungry?”

  At that, John grinned, and for a second, she saw the boy she’d once known so well. “I’m always hungry,” he said. “You know that.”

  There was certainly no fat on him, only hard muscle, his body a mere fraction away from gaunt. She’d be willing to bet he’d only started gaining condition the moment he’d walked off that godsbedamned galley.

  She tugged at the bell pull and Tansy answered so quickly, it was clear she’d been hovering. Slipping out the door, Meg pulled it closed behind her and smiled into the girl’s anxious face. “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Bring a meal, would you? As quick as you can. Cold cuts will do. And a jug of wine.”

  Tansy nodded and trotted off down the passage.

  “Oh, and a bath robe, please. A large one.”

  The girl looked over her shoulder, the curiosity that crossed her features tangible. Meg was still smiling as she turned back into the parlor.

  “What’s so funny?”

  And it hit her all over again.

  There he was, sprawled across the couch, his huge masculine presence filling the elegant room. John. John. She’d never seen anything more thrilling in her life. Nor more terrifying.

  The tears welled up afresh, spilling over before she could wipe them away. “It’s so good to see you,” she whispered. What stupid, inadequate words!

  But he seemed to understand. Leaning forward, he held out a hand. “Come here.”

  Stumbling, Meg fell into his arms, but he didn’t even grunt. Instead, he tilted up her chin, bent his head, and kissed her.

  He did it slowly, and with enormous pleasure, making it an oral seduction, cradling her face in both big palms. Their breath mingled and warmed, while he nibbled at her lips, feathering his thumbs across her cheeks. His tongue danced and cajoled, coaxed and caressed. He showed no sign of impatience, as if they had all the time in the world—the rest of their lives. It wasn’t so much an exploration as a homecoming.

  Gradually, Meg relaxed, her body softening, melting into John’s. One hand crept up over his arm, his shoulder, to clasp the back of his neck, his hair feathering cool across her knuckles.

  When he began to pull back, she murmured a protest and clung harder. Gently, John freed his mouth. “At the door, love. There’s someone at the door.”

  Feeling drugged, Meg untangled herself, John holding her steady until she could stand without trembling. “That’s supper,” she husked.

  It wasn’t until Tansy was in the room, carefully placing the loaded tray on a low table, that Meg remembered. Sister, the wet patch on his trews! But when she spun around, John was standing casually behind the couch, slipping into his shirt. Catching her expression, his lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, but her heart ached. The old John would have shot her a wink, his face alight with mischief.

  Tansy straightened, her head bent deferentially as was proper, but Meg knew the little apprentice too well to be deceived. She glanced at the array of dishes on the table and sighed. A feast, everything suitable for a special occasion, even two slices of curdle pie, piped with delicate roses of brandied cream.

  If Cook knew, then everyone in The Garden would be aware Mistress Meg had an Important Visitor. And that she looked flushed and rumpled and thoroughly kissed.

  She bent a cold eye on Tansy and the girl grinned, unabashed. Gracefully, the apprentice sank into a curtsey suitable for a client of highest rank. Then she raised delicate brows, her face the picture of innocent inquiry.

  Meg bit the inside of her cheek. Oh well.

  “John,” she said. “This is Tansy, a second-year courtesan-apprentice.” He gave a stiff nod and she realized he was surprised. He’d thought the girl was just a maid.

  “Tansy, this is John Lammas, an old . . . friend of mine.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed John go very still. Inhaling deeply, she clasped her hands before her and said calmly, “We will be seeing a good deal of him, here at The Garden.”

  “Yes, Mistress Meg,” murmured Tansy, a dimple flashing. “I’ll remember.”

  I bet you will, little imp, thought Meg, but the door was already closing softly. Tansy had gone.

  Aloud, she said, “The robe’s for you.” She tossed it over the back of the couch. “So is the supper.”

  Looking a little bemused, John sat down to tug at his boots and she added, “I’ll wash those trews. Where are your things?”

  “I don’t have much.” He set one boot aside and went to work on the other. “I left my pack with the barkeep at The Sailor’s Lay.”

  “Then how—?” Meg broke off, puzzled. “Chits for The Garden aren’t cheap.”

  “You’re telling me,” he said ruefully, straightening. “I bought it from Rhiomard. He’s how I found you.”

  “But where—?” She clamped her lips shut. All too clearly, she recalled the Lammas pride. Stiff-rumped, the lot of them, especially about money.

  John put his hands to the laces of his trews and paused. He set his jaw. “I’m not asking for your charity, Meg, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I know that,” she said fiercely. “But it wouldn’t matter even if you were.”

  “Ah, but it does.” His lips took on that bitter twist she was starting to dread and she cursed her own stupidity. “A Trinitarian galley’s worth a lot of money, even split among every slave on board. With that and my back pay, I’ve got enough.”

  This time, the silence was awkward.

  Finally, John exhaled, a long breath. “Am I staying?”

  She’d always been able to read his face, every expression as clear to her as if she were privy to the workings of his soul. Now, though . . .

  Her gaze dropped to the fist gripping the robe. The knuckles shone white.

  When the Sister sent a second chance, you seized it—no questions asked.

  “I’d like you to,” she said simply. “We can eat here, but I have a small suite upstairs.”

  John cleared his throat. “Does it have a bed in it?”

  The giggle was undoubte
dly part hysteria, but she couldn’t stop it bubbling out of her throat. “Yes.”

  And a corset.

  Where had that come from? Though, now she came to think of it . . . he’d adore the sight of her creamy curves showcased in tight black velvet.

  He’d worship—on his knees.

  John stepped back behind the couch, shoved the trews down in one smooth motion, and kicked them away. He reached for the robe.

  “John? You said . . .” She had to pause to clear her throat. “You . . . don’t have scars all over.”

  He froze. “No.”

  “Let me see,” she whispered.

  Meg held his eye, her heart thundering, watching while he made his decision.

  His cheeks flushed a dull red, he walked slowly forward. Wearing only the open shirt, he spread his legs and set his hands on his hips. “Not all over,” he said in a husky rumble. “You see?”

  Inevitably, Meg’s gaze dropped to his genitals. She skittered away to glance at the lumpy scar on one thigh, then back again, as if drawn by a lodestone. Merciful—!

  She had to breathe through her open mouth, panting like a runner. This part of him had fascinated her from the very beginning, the only part of a man’s body not completely under his control. Gods, how she’d loved to drive him out of his mind! Vividly, she could recall his thickness, pressed throbbing against her hard palate, while she lashed the underside with her tongue and made him groan. The soft, tense furriness of his testicles as she stroked over the seam with her fingertips. And the smell of him, musky and rich and almost overpowering. Aroused male.

  When she licked her lips, he murmured something, but she barely heard the words. Because he was rising to meet her gaze, filling and lengthening. The head emerged, rosy and ripe, already gleaming. She knew it would be dense and smooth to touch, salty-hot against her tongue.

  Some dark, female power washed through Meg. This primeval display was for her, because of her. It didn’t matter if John was shamed by his blatant response; she didn’t care.

  “Gods,” she croaked, running her gaze over him from head to heels, six and a half feet of honed muscle and sinew and bone—only to become entangled once more with the meaty arch of his cock. “I don’t believe it, but you’ve grown.”