by Jaci Burton
At his rasping chuckle, a blush scorched its way out of the bodice of her gown and over her throat. Sister, she felt incandescent, as if she’d self-combust at any moment. Her face must be scarlet. And she could barely stand still, besieged by the temptation to shove the heel of her hand against her clit for relief. It throbbed at her, the ache increasing exponentially with every beat of her heart. When she pressed her thighs together, they were slick, her sex as soft and slippery as butter in the sun.
“John?”
His fingers twitched against his thigh. “Yes?”
“Did you think of me when you . . .” She fought for control. Wasn’t she Steady Meggie? “Used your hand, the way you said?”
“Every single time.” His smile was slow, but very male.
“Show me.”
His flush intensified, but eventually, he reached down, running a hand over his muscled belly and down into the nest of springy black curls. His dark gaze never leaving Meg’s, he cupped his balls, as if testing their weight. Then he cradled his cock, giving it an affectionate squeeze that lengthened it by another impossible half inch.
He wet his lips. “Meggie, I dreamed of your beautiful tits every night for six years. I want to see. Please.”
“I had a dream too.” Her hands shaking, Meg unlaced the front of her gown and opened it as far as she could, exposing her breasts almost to the areolas. “The night you left,” she said, “I dreamed of you. Tied to that big post in the barn. At my mercy.”
John threw his head back, the tendons in his neck standing proud. “Meggie!” He spread his legs, his grip tightening.
“John Lammas,” she said severely. “Now you’re flaunting yourself.”
Another chuckle, rusty with disuse. “I believe so. But there’s better things we could be doing.” He took a step forward. “Meggie? Love?”
Meg’s nipples were so stiff, so distended, the soft scrape of the fabric was an exquisite torment.
They’d look better in the corset.
“Upstairs,” she whispered. “Come upstairs with me.”
Eight
“No.” In two strides John was on her. “I’ll explode.” He buried his nose in her cleavage and inhaled so deeply she grew a little anxious waiting for him to breathe out. When he drew back, his eyes were sheened, as though with tears. “Dear gods, I don’t believe it.” He blinked hard. “You smell the same.”
Together they fumbled with laces and tapes, until Meg stood, clad only in her open shift, gartered stockings, and shoes.
Chest heaving, John reached out and, with his palms, smoothed the shift back over her shoulders, exposing her body, one creamy freckled inch at a time. His gaze locked on her breasts, and immediately, her skin felt too small, her nipples too big, so proud with blood, they stood up a ruddy rose-brown.
“Gods,” he breathed. “You’re a banquet.” As he slid a hand back down over her breast and cupped it gently, the shift slithered to the floor.
Involuntarily, she thrust up into his touch and they both gasped. Gritting her teeth, Meg said, “More.”
“Meggie—” He stopped and started again. “Even after . . . I still don’t have much control. I might . . .”
Meg lost her patience, gloriously and completely. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and bared her teeth. “Godsdammit, I don’t bloody care,” she snarled. “I’ve been waiting for years. Do it, damn you!”
For the first time, she heard him laugh. No more than a harsh bark, but a laugh nonetheless.
A single step forward, and he had her pinned against the wall, his big hands gripping the generous curves of her ass. Automatically she drew one leg up, over his hip, and he grasped it, hitching her higher, until something blunt and smooth and hot was furrowing through her cleft, setting off a wave of tingles behind her clit that made the breath catch in her throat.
“Oh fuck, yes!” It was as much a shout of triumph as a groan of joy. John surged forward, seating half his length in one plunge and Meg cried out.
“All . . . right?” panted John. But even as he spoke, he grabbed her other thigh and rammed her so hard against the wall, a picture wobbled and fell off its hook with a tinkling crash.
Meg tilted her hips, wrapping her legs around his waist. Which meant opening herself completely, trusting herself to his strength. No one but John had ever filled her this way, a delicious discomfort that required movement. No, nothing as paltry as movement—pounding, hammering, thrusting.
Fucking.
As if he’d read her mind, he pulled out in a long glide and thrust back, all the way to the hilt, the luscious friction making her sheath convulse, clamping down hard against his shaft. The breath hissed between his clenched teeth. “Gods,” he muttered. “Gods, that’s good. Oh, Meggie—”
Abruptly, he increased the pace, until he was leaning right into her body, pounding into her with his full, fat length. There was no finesse to it, only a desperate, brutal desire, but he was hitting her clit full on with every stroke. The orgasm gathered in her loins, coiling tighter and tighter, quivering, ratcheted up so far she feared she might literally fly to pieces when it released.
The skin under her fingers was very hot, even through the thin fabric of the shirt. Meg strained upward, suddenly missing him desperately, even though he was right there, filling her so deep with his heat and hardness and need. Little animal noises fell out of her mouth, feral and ravenous.
Without missing a beat, John lurched forward a step, sealing them belly to belly. His dark eyes glared down into Meg’s, utterly intent, owning her soul. “C’mon,” he growled. “I can’t . . .” He squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them again.
“Dammit—woman—come.” Each word was punctuated by a thrust, the new angle hitting her perfectly.
She’d been right to fear the shocking impact of that climax. When it broke, Meg did, too, wailing her pleasure, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she shuddered and jerked with the all-encompassing force of it. Spots danced before her eyes.
John groaned as if the heart were being torn from his body. He jammed himself hard and high inside her, and froze, shuddering. Against hers, his belly rippled with the force of his climax. It seemed to last forever, six years’ worth of love and lust and frustration. But eventually, he dropped his head to the curve between her shoulder and her neck. She felt the gentle press of his open mouth, his breath puffing hot and moist against her skin.
All she could do was clutch his shoulders and sag against him. “John,” she breathed. “Oh, John. Love.”
He staggered a little, the bad leg giving out. “Shit. Forgot.” A pained grunt as he helped her lower her feet to the floor.
Sweet Sister. It wasn’t as though she was a light weight and with a wound like that . . . She tugged his arm. “Over here.” They collapsed onto the couch together.
Meg turned her head on the cushions to find John watching her, breathing hard, his eyes as black as ink. An instant’s charged silence while he searched her face and his expression relaxed, his lips curving. “Gods,” he said, “that was almost worth the wait. All those years . . .” He drew her into his arms and she settled with her head on his shoulder, a perfect fit. His hand rose to stroke her hair, but even though the touch was light, the feathery strands snagged, the calluses on his palms reminding her that things would never be the same. Not quite.
John’s voice rumbled softly out of the shadows. Dusk had drawn down and the single lamp provided only a small oasis of light. “Do you know, I’ve had more peace in this last little while than I have since the day I rode out of Holdercroft?”
Meg said nothing, only laid her hand over his heart.
“Meggie, I’m so tired.” A long pause while he laid his cheek on the top of her head. “Even my bones are tired.”
“Sleep then,” she whispered against his throat. “I’ve got you.”
His grip tightened. “Have you? Have you truly?”
Meg shifted so she could stare directly into his eyes. “Whatever
we once had . . .” She paused, thinking it through, feeling the rightness of his presence settle deep into her soul, filling all the empty places that had ached for him. “It’s still there.” She pulled away, studying his expression, picking her words with care. “That night in the barn, I told you I was yours. Forever. I didn’t say those words lightly.” Her smile came out crooked. “Which is just as well, because it looks like they’re still true. In spite of everything.”
John touched his fingertips to her cheek. They trembled. “My Steady Meggie. My peace, my heart. I never stopped loving you. Never.”
Meg laid her hand over his. “Well, I tried not to love you. You’d left me after all. Sshh, don’t speak. I know. But it hurt, John. Gods, how it hurt. I thought you didn’t love me enough, or perhaps you’d never loved me at all.” She ducked her head, unable to bear the anguish in his eyes.
“And now you know the truth?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “You don’t change a habit of thought the way you change your clothes. I’ve been angry with you a long time, John Lammas.”
His jaw set, and suddenly she had no doubt about who’d led the mutiny on board that galley. “Do you love me, Meggie?” he demanded. “Enough to try?”
“Oh, yes.” She suspected she was crying again. “More than that.”
John closed his eyes. “Praise the Brother. Come back here.” He wrapped his arms around her.
After five soft-breathing minutes, Meg murmured, “Come upstairs to bed. There’s too much of you for this poor little sofa.”
No answer. She glanced up at his profile, silhouetted against the lamp light, the thick, sooty-black eyelashes, the strong jaw, the dark stain of the tattoo. Relaxed in sleep, his lips soft, he looked more like the boy she remembered. But the tear tracks shining on his cheek gave memory the lie. She’d never seen John cry.
He’d always been stoic, even as a lad, the only recourse of a reserved sensitive nature amid the turmoil that was the Lammas clan. Meg snuggled harder, staring unseeing into the gathering shadows, waiting for sleep. She’d been his sanctuary then. But now? She wasn’t sure she could do it, or even that she wanted to. So much pain, buried so deep he could only release the tears in his dreams.
She woke before dawn, completely disoriented. A deep voice muttered in her ear, “No, fuck you.” A pause. “Stop, stop! Ah, shit!”
John! She shot upright.
Immediately, her wrist was seized in an iron grip. “Don’t move!” A big hand grabbed her shoulder, crushing bone and muscle with merciless strength.
Meg yelped.
In the cool light, John’s eyes met hers. There was no sleep in his face, only fierce concentration. Sister, was this how he’d been accustomed to waking? Battle-ready?
He blinked. “Shit, Meg.” Immediately, he released her. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she lied, forcing a smile. “It was a shock, that’s all.”
Surreptitiously, she rubbed her wrist.
He blew out a long breath. “You sure?’
When she nodded, he rolled his shoulders, releasing the tension. “I heard mention of a bed?”
She’d done well, his Meggie. John’s eyes widened as he took in the two rooms, a small sitting room cum office and a larger bedchamber. The furnishings were solid and well made, and there was a good deal of blue and cream. A Meggie sort of room.
His guts were still tangled in a spiky ball, and if he wasn’t careful, the feeling spread to his extremities so his hands shook like an old man’s. He was aware he was watching Meg like a hungry corpse-bird, but he couldn’t help it. Did it, ran the primitive litany in his head. Fuck, I did it. Meggie, Meggie, it’s Meggie! She’d seen his scars, every one of them, and she hadn’t run screaming. It had been one of his greatest fears. Second only to finding her married, another man’s babe in her arms. He wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t wake and discover she was a figment of a particularly cruel dream. Brother’s balls, it had happened to him often enough before.
She’d cried at the sight of his back, the sweetheart. Even through the ridges of thickened tissue, he’d felt the hot splash of her tears. After that, he’d managed to keep the shirt on. Once was enough. She didn’t need to see it again.
Gods, how he wanted her! Right now, right here, on the wide bed he could glimpse through the door. He wanted to take those creamy thighs in his big hands and pull them wide so he could gorge himself on her salty-sweetness, hear her whimper with the pleasure he gave her. The spray of freckles on her breast drove him insane with the urge to nuzzle and lick. But most of all—he drew a fortifying breath—he needed to fuck, to feel her slick, honeyed flesh grip his length like a hot muscular fist until he spilled his seed deep inside her in a long ecstatic rush from balls to cock. Gods, he craved it.
Every time he inhaled, he smelled her, his Meggie. Fresh and warm and feminine all at once. So familiar, so dear, he was tempted to sit on the edge of her bed, put his head in his hands, and cry like a little boy.
She was unloading the tray in her usual unhurried fashion, and despite himself, John’s mouth watered. It had taken him a few weeks to become accustomed to real food in decent quantities again. He’d done it by eating little and often.
“Here you are.” A smile lighting her blue-gray eyes, she brought him a full plate.
He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he grunted his thanks. Meg patted his shoulder and gestured to one of two comfortable chairs, drawn close enough for an intimate conversation. Gingerly, John sat, trying to recall his long-forgotten manners and keep the robe closed over his unruly cock.
Deep breaths, one after the other. He could do this. Hell, he had his Steady Meggie back, he could do anything! Automatically, John chewed and swallowed while he absorbed her presence through every pore of his skin.
As the light grew and the sun poured in the window, his heart gradually stopped pounding and that horrible spiky feeling smoothed out. The staff of The Garden woke to face their day. Doors opened and closed, feet pattered down the stairs, a cheerful voice was raised in a snatch of song.
“Do you have to go?” he asked reluctantly. Slow and sweet, that’s how he wanted it. Until she was moaning his name with every deep thrust, overwhelmed with pleasure. Then he wanted to lie and hold her, just hold her.
Meg smiled over the rim of her cup. Her eyes were the prettiest shade of blue, not bold like a summer’s midday, but soft and luminous, like the hour before dusk. “As the Housekeeper, I’m in charge. But I think they can do without me for a day, under the circumstances.”
“What does a Housekeeper do?”
So she told him of her duties, all the everyday, ordinary things she did to keep such a complex establishment running. John heard the words, his brain made sense of the sentences, but it was the timbre of her low voice that enthralled him, a balm for his soul.
When she rose, lifting the tray, he very nearly grabbed her skirt and hauled her back. Her sweet lips curved as if she’d divined the thought. “I have something special for us,” she said with a twinkle. “I checked the appointment diary and the Bruised Orchid’s free. Give me an hour to rearrange my day. Any of the staff will show you where it is.”
“The Bruised Orchid? What’s that?”
Meg’s cheeks went pink. “One of the Pavilions. Top-of-the-range luxury, with its own bathhouse and other, um, equipment.”
John quirked a brow. “Equipment?”
The flush deepened. “We don’t have to use it. But the Orchid’s the very best. It’s beautiful and we deserve it.”
At that, he had to kiss her. She would have been flat on her back on the bed ten seconds later if it wasn’t for the tray.
Godsdammit, she felt wonderful, as if she could take on the world. Meg strode down the winding path toward the Bruised Orchid, her heart beating hard beneath tight black velvet. She smiled at her favorite touchme bush, as tall as her head. But when she brushed her fingertips across the fringed silver blossoms, instead of the usual happy chi
me of greeting, the flowers hissed and drew away.
Stupid thing.
Shrugging, she threw open the door of the Bruised Orchid and stopped dead on the threshold.
Merciful Sister! Tansy had outdone her instructions.
On the wide bed, John lounged against a heap of jewel-toned pillows, the sort of hard-edged fantasy only wicked women were strong enough to have. He was wearing a fanciful version of a battle kilt, the linen skirt and studded leather strips stopping at mid-thigh, so she could see the lower edge of the scar. He’d always had wonderful legs, lean and powerful, roped with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Under the kilt, his cock stirred, lengthening as she watched. A vest of bleached linen hung open over his chest, framing it. It left his arms bare, the smooth swelling line of his biceps making her yearn to sink her teeth in and worry at firm flesh.
A growl rose in her throat.
“I feel like a fool, but Tansy said you’d like it.” John spread his arms, and her gaze zeroed in on the ugly scars circling his thick wrists.
Meg didn’t waste words. With a jerk, she tore open her gown and let it fall.
John was on his feet and in front of her before she saw him move. “Meggie!” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You look—” He shook his head, apparently speechless.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Honesty compelled her to add, “It’s not mine, though. I have to give it back.”
No you don’t, something murmured in her head. No one will ever know.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said.
A stitch popped in the corset and John arched a brow. “What?”
“Nothing.”
She couldn’t take her eyes from his mouth, the firm masculine curves of it, the blood beating beneath the smooth skin. Meg rose to her tiptoes and tugged his head down, gripping the back of his neck. He bent to her gladly, rumbling something deep in his chest, his kiss intent and forceful, dominating.
