by Lavinia Kent
“Discreet.” He did not state it as a question, but she could hear the underlying thought.
And then it was the moment. She could not have said if there was a change in the air or in herself. She could speak now or live with her regrets. She let her eyes close for less time than it took to blink and opened them, letting Madame Rouge through, letting that slow, easy, practiced smile spread across her face. “I am always discreet, but that only means that I keep my affairs private, not that I don’t have them. And what could be more discreet than this? I can assure you, my bold Templar, that I would not be threatening to throw myself from the battlements if you made an advance.”
Her words and smile took him aback for a moment; she could see it in his eyes. “I thought you had decided—once you knew about Anne—”
She cut him off, pushed her lingering guilt to the back of her mind. “I am entitled to change my mind. I still feel the same once your vows have been spoken, but I find I cannot quite say goodbye to you as of yet.”
He took a step toward her.
She shivered, feeling desire grow again. Whatever it was that lay between them would not be denied. She might have guilt and wonder at how easily she could lay aside some of her convictions, but deep in her heart she could only feel that this was right, this was what she needed.
And he had not spoken promises of any kind to Anne. If anything, from what he’d said, it was Anne who had delayed matters, had not been ready to commit. But now, she was making excuses, excuses she did not need.
Here, now, in this moment, they were both free—and being free, they could choose what it was they wished to do, how it was they wished to behave.
Now, if only she understood her own desires.
Chapter 17
It was her turn, her moment; she might only have the one. Letting her eyes drift over him, she allowed her desire to show. With a slow, deliberate gaze she started at his toes and worked her way up. His body was largely hidden by the long white cassock, but her imagination filled in that which she could not see. Where the belt and sword marked narrow hips, she filled in the dragon, imagined it moving and restless, ready to twitch its tail. The scarlet cross covered those well-developed muscles. They could easily have belonged to a man who swung a sword for a living. Next came the shoulders. The knitted mail outlining muscle and sinew. She loved those shoulders, the silken skin over the heavy weight and heat of muscle.
Her mouth grew dry and she licked her lower lip, imagining nibbling at the meeting of arm and torso, of nipping hard and then sucking the salt from his skin.
She pressed her knees tight and fought the need that already grew strong within her.
Up further her eyes moved: strong chin; firm lips; long, sharp nose—and then the eyes, the eyes that saw into her, that knew what she wanted, what she dreamed.
Keeping hold of those eyes, she raised her hands to the buttoned vest that covered her chest and, button by button, began to bare her flesh. His pupils darkened, watching and wanting. It grew hard to breathe. He had not let his eyes slip down, they still met hers and yet she knew he saw everything.
There was no chemise under her costume, and as she slowly drew her hands apart she heard his sudden intake of breath. “And now, my brave Templar, what do I need to do to save myself from horrible torture?” It was hard to keep her face straight as she said the words.
“I am sure you can think of something. I am not an unreasonable man.” He moved closer.
She pulled the vest open, letting it slide from her shoulders.
Now his eyes did drop, focusing on her breasts and each breath that she took.
Her nipples pebbled beneath his gaze, her breasts heavy and swollen. Placing her hands underneath her breasts, she lifted them to him, an offering. He reached out and traced a finger down from her collarbone, over the pale curve and up to the tight peak.
It was her turn to pull in a single deep breath. The sensation of his touch sent a bolt of desire straight between her legs. She fought back the moan that rose to her lips.
She stepped back, pulling from his touch, her hands going to the side fastening of her layered skirt. A few quick twists and it fell about her ankles, leaving her attired only in waist chain, ankle bells, and her silk turban. She reached up to pull the turban from her head, but Derek stopped her with a hand gesture, then directed her to turn.
“Would you dance for me, fair maid?” he asked.
“I would do whatever it is you most desire, my lord,” she answered.
His brow creased with thought, his eyes moving over her, their touch as physical as that of his hand. Moisture grew between her thighs. What would he have her do? She truly would do anything here for him, now, in this moment.
“Walk to the window. Yes, that one. Place a hand on the wall on either side and brace yourself. And do not think of jumping to your freedom. You are mine and I will do with you as I wish. Slide your feet apart. Further.”
With each piece of direction, her body grew heavier, more needy. Staring out at the starry sky, the faint outline of London visible above the few large trees that lined the garden below, she let her mind go, did not think of right and wrong or what tomorrow would bring. All that mattered was the feeling of his fingers upon her, tracing lines across the skin of her bare back, skipping lightly and then pressing firm.
He stopped to play with the chain around her waist for a bit, twisting it and pulling it tight, pulling her hips even further back, arching her back. Her shoulders and arms stretched long and tight as he pulled. A low moan leaked from her lips and they had not yet even truly begun.
“You are so beautiful,” Derek whispered against her ear, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through her.
His hands came up to her shoulders, covering them and then kneading, the perfect hard pressure. Then they drifted lower again, across her shoulders, down the long planes of her back. He caught the chain again and gave it a good tug.
Another moan. There was something about the pressure of the wall beneath her hands and the command of the man behind that had her body singing. And that tug, the reminder of who was in control, of how she was his to do with as he liked.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever been so wet. The moisture pooled between her legs, spreading to her upper thighs, and he hadn’t even touched her yet.
Stretching up on tiptoe, she pressed her hips toward him, offering more, offering everything.
His hands slipped lower, cupping the globes of her buttocks, strong fingers massaging and separating. She turned her face to the side, pressed it against the cool glass trying to cool herself.
His fingers slipped into the crack, dipping low to catch her honey, spreading it, spreading her. She could feel his eyes focused there, between her legs, feel how they skimmed over her and then settled.
One hand continued its kneading while the other slipped lower, and then two thick fingers pressed up and into her, pushing hard, causing her to rise even higher on her toes. He was not gentle. His every touch demanded.
Deep, he pushed, and then pulled out. All she could do was squirm and bite down hard upon her lower lip, teeth sharp on tender skin.
One hand moved in around her legs, coming to the front, finding her clit with practiced touch and squeezing it tight, even as his other hand continued to plunder her, to push in, pull out, sending her higher and higher.
“God, you’re wet, woman,” he groaned into her ear. “My fingers are drenched with your juices. Do you know what it does to a man to feel that, to know that desire?” He pressed his face into the back of her neck, his teeth biting at the spot between neck and shoulder.
Harder, deeper, his fingers pushed.
The hard stroke and squeeze against her clit, driving her crazy. She could feel herself begin to thrash, knew the moment when reason left her, and then she came, hard, fast. Her body milked his fingers, squeezing and spasming about him, again and again, until she thought it would never stop.
Her body felt boneless. She leane
d heavy against the glass, the tips of her breasts still swollen with need, pinched against the glass.
He was still behind her, his breath coming in heavy pants. Both his hands roamed her behind again, pushing, pulling—separating.
His fingers slipped lower again, rubbing through her juices, sliding upward—her whole body stiffened as his fingers found that other entrance, pressed upon it. She’d never done this before. She’d talked about it with her girls, heard the explanations of how and why. What was good about it—and what was not.
He pushed harder, the tip of one finger slipping in. She sucked in her breath at the strange feeling.
Did she want this? It was clear that he did. She could feel his growing excitement and need.
His finger pressed deeper. Her toes curled and she found herself again biting down on her lower lip.
Her body, which moments before had been ready to collapse, grew tense and questioning.
Could she do this? She knew he would stop if she asked, if she showed true discomfort.
She slowed her thoughts, considered—and felt. His fingers pushed and pressed, slipping more and more moisture into the narrow passageway. It did not hurt exactly, but it was most definitely not comfortable. It felt strange, alien.
A second finger joined the first, pressing into her, pushing against the tender walls.
She pressed her face tight against the glass, her mind still undecided, but her body already preparing itself. Her feet slid further apart. Her inner muscles clenched and released. She forced herself to relax, to tilt her hips even further.
There really was no question. This was what Derek wanted and she desired only to bring him pleasure.
It did burn, not quite hurt, not quite pain, but a burn, a steady and growing burn.
She shifted from foot to foot, seeking comfort and finding none.
But there was also need, her own need. It grew again deep in her belly and just behind her clit. She wanted to be full, needed to be full. She found herself pressing back, pushing against his fingers, seeking more even as the burn grew, the heat grew.
He groaned now, and then she felt him behind her, felt the heavy head press against her entrance, felt his fingers spreading and opening.
“This may hurt,” he whispered into her hair. “It probably will hurt.”
His excitement seemed to grow with his words, his fingers pushing harder, and then he was there.
She fought to remember what the girls had said, to push back against him. Somehow that opened her to him, although she knew not how.
It did hurt. The ache growing and growing until she wanted to push back, to pull away, to scream.
She drew slow, careful breaths into her lungs, waiting, waiting, as he pushed forward, pushed into her.
A sudden, hard strain, and then an easing as she felt the head slide through the tight ring of muscle. The pain eased some but the burn remained.
He pushed farther. She felt she would split, would break. Her back straightened; she could feel the weight of his strong chest behind her as he surged forward, thrusting until she could feel the slap of his balls on her ass.
He stopped then, holding still, his arms coming forward to wrap around her. One hand rose to her breasts, finding a swollen nipple and squeezing tight. Another burst of pain, but an even bigger one of pleasure.
There was nothing but feeling, feeling and fullness.
His other hand skimmed over her belly, over her curls, again lodging itself between her legs.
He pressed against her, rubbing as before, granting no mercy as he pushed her over-pleasured body up to the heights again.
He pulled out, his cock sliding almost free, and then slammed hard home again.
His hands pinching nipple and clit in matching rhythm.
Pain. Pleasure. The two merged and grew, a swirling morass of feeling.
She didn’t know what to think. Hell, she couldn’t think, only feel.
Harder. Faster. The burn turned to fire, raging and engulfing.
He rammed into her fast, with no gentleness.
His teeth bit down on her neck again.
Everything about him was hard, legs, chest, arms, cock.
She was engulfed—engulfed and filled.
God, she was coming again. It grew and grew within her, not just between her legs, but taking her whole body, one great spasm of sensation.
Her head bent back. Her body arched and clenched.
The high-pitched endless scream left her as her body tightened and released and tightened again.
His hips hammered into her one last time—and she could feel him strain, feel his cry, feel the warmth within her.
The climax ran through them both, all-encompassing—draining.
A moment of breath, of regaining the world, and then she felt him pull out, felt herself lifted and deposited on the narrow cot, felt his weight land beside her, his arms holding her tight, even as she listened to his heart pound within his chest.
Quiet for a moment, save for the sound of slowing breath and the slide of cooling flesh.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he said when the quiet grew too much.
“I find it hard to believe that it happened accidentally.” She fought to find a certain coolness of character, to not reveal just how shaky she felt inside.
“Perhaps I should say, I had not intended to take you in such a way. But then the thought was upon me and…” His voice trailed off.
She remembered how he’d pulled away when she’d stroked her fingers over his own nether hole. “You have done it before.”
Silence and then, “Yes.”
“Is it a preference?”
He did not answer. How could such a simple question have so many implications?
“There are times when a man likes to take no risks, wants to be sure he leaves no child behind. It is safe.”
“Yes, I would think there are many such times.” But she also knew from experience that he certainly did take that chance sometimes, perhaps often.
“Sometimes I trust a woman, trust an establishment. I know nothing is certain, but I trust my gut.”
That was certainly not a reliable way to prevent pregnancy or disease. She’d dealt with many a girl who had trusted her instincts up until her rounded stomach could no longer hide the truth. “But do you also like it?”
“I think any man who said he did not would be lying. There is a tightness, a snugness, such as no other. And the sense of the forbidden, the knowledge of domination.”
There was honesty in those words. “And at sea—have you ever—with other sailors?” She did not know where she had found the courage to ask the question. Neither did she know why she had felt the need.
His hand found her chin and he tilted her face up until they were eye to eye. “Even though the penalties are so harsh, many do. Some by force, some finding those who also want the easy pleasure, some with true affection, I think.”
“And you?”
He swallowed, the Adam’s apple within his neck bobbing. “Not for years. When I was not yet full-grown, newly at sea, I did not have a choice.” He swallowed hard again. “It was not horrible, not after the first times, but I still wake at night sometimes dreading the feel of hands upon me.”
“I am sorry.” And she was.
“It is not something you need be sorry about. I’ve seen far worse things—and I grew to my size quickly.”
She could feel the pain that he denied, but did not press. Some things were not made better by pulling them out into the light. “And when you were older?”
“A few times. It was never my, as you say, preference, but there was a man once, a physician, a friend, who I did not turn away from, and perhaps in my younger years a time or two when I desired only pleasure and release and did not care for the how.”
She closed her eyes and felt for that younger man, that wild man who’d run to sea and found she knew not what. “Do you intend to continue to sail, to stay a captain? Surely with your f
amily’s money you have other choices?”
He bent his head, resting his forehead against hers. “I do not know. I always thought I would. I do not think I would do well as a settled man, my feet do like to roam, my eyes to see new things—but there are ways to do that besides the sea.”
“That must be wonderful, to see new things. If I say my life has been sheltered many would laugh, but I have left London only twice. Once to one of my father’s estates in the country when no one else was about, and once I had a week in Brighton. Oh, how I loved the sea, to walk upon the beach and to feel the wind on my face as it blew in off the ocean, a wind that no one for miles and miles had felt before me. I’ve always wanted to travel and see the world, but I have accepted that for all the freedom I do have, that is not possible.”
He pulled her closer and she burrowed her face into his chest.
“Why?” he asked.
Why? She’d never really asked herself that question, had always just taken it as obvious fact. “Women don’t travel alone.”
“Not strictly alone, but there have certainly been women with chaperones or paid escorts who have traveled. I am assuming you have the funds, not that I mean to ask.”
“No, the money is not the problem. Although, perhaps the business is. I do not see how I could leave Madame Rouge’s for the time that it would take to truly travel.” Although if her grandfather had his way…
“You said that the woman before you, Madame Noir, retired…” He let his words hang.
And she found herself saying the things she had never thought to say aloud, the things her grandfather’s demands had brought to the surface. What was next for her? She still had not decided if she could give in to her grandfather’s demands. “And then what? I cannot travel forever. At least, I do not think I can. If I leave the house then what do I have? What do I do?” She did not add the Who am I? but she thought he sensed it from the brief tight hug he gave her.
