Finn walked her down the pier, half holding her up around the waist. As they approached the carriage, he passed Dé Riquet a few coins. “We’ll need a bottle of whiskey—something made in Scotland. And several bottles of ale, along with supper. In that order.”
He climbed into the carriage and sat opposite Cate. He stared into her face for a long time as he contemplated various forms of punishment. The lash, the strap, the back of his hand . . . Finn exhaled a harsh sigh. No, Cate Willoughby was decidedly too old for a spanking—at least the naughty child sort of spanking.
Even though his anger clung to the fantasy of a red bottom, corporal punishment was out.
But there were many different kinds of torture, some vastly more enjoyable than others. Finn thought about the painful case of blue balls she had left him with. His gaze narrowed even as a lopsided grin emerged.
Her squirming made the upholstery squeak more than once. “You’ve every right to be angry with me.” Her eyes darted out the window then back to him.
“You lead a charmed life, Cate.”
She sniffed. “I don’t feel very fortunate.”
“And what if I hadn’t come along when I did?” His temper teetered on the edge of explosive anger. If it weren’t for the undeniable terror he’d felt at the sight of her in physical danger, he’d have her shackled at the leg and hauled into a French jail right about now. Perhaps there were ways to get his mind off the fear he’d felt, while capitalizing on the adrenaline still pumping through his system.
He leaned across the coach and placed both hands on her knees. “When we get back to the flat, let me tell you what I’m going to do to you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cate wasn’t completely nude. He’d left her stockings on. She tugged at her bindings and glared. “Mr. Phineas Gunn, aka Hugh Curzon, aka demonio-bestia bruta, bárbaro del diablo, animal salvaje del perro, cerdo despreciable.” She gasped for air and began again. “Let me translate, you brutish fiend-beast, devil barbarian, savage dog, despicable swine—”
“Not too loud, darling.” He tilted his chair back. “You wouldn’t want me to have to apply a gag, would you?” His collar was open and shirt unbuttoned. Below the waist, the man was covered in leather. Deerskin hugged muscular thighs and he wore tall riding boots. Aware of her gaze, he crossed a boot over his knee. Her nudity, the bindings, and this dishabille of his charged the atmosphere with something lusty and sensual. And worst of all, it was working. Aroused could barely describe what she felt.
He hadn’t touched her yet. But those piercing dark eyes promised he would. And she wanted him to. In fact, it was all she could think about. There was an edge of fear to these bindings—there was also something delicious and disturbing. Her womb already ached and she was aware of a stunning wetness—in those forbidden places, lower down. His gaze dropped beneath her navel and her belly trembled.
He squeezed a fresh wedge of lemon over a plate of oysters. “You’re not an anarchist, Cate, nor are you a very skilled operative. You get yourself into too many—situations. This continual and, I must say, fearless confrontation technique of yours.” He shook his head. “A professional would never work this way. Only an amateur could enjoy such dumb luck.” He tilted a half shell to his mouth and slurped one down.
Her stomach growled.
Finn tut-tutted. “You don’t eat enough. In fact, I suspect you forget to eat. Is this litheness”—an ogle traveled down her legs—“something you must maintain for dance?” Finn picked up his ale and sauntered over to the bed. “To my mind, you need a bit of feeding up.”
She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue and eyed the bottle.
“No doubt near rape causes a thirst . . .” His dark smoldering gaze swept over her body and lingered just below her navel. He stood above her and flipped open the stopper. “Whenever I experience a close brush with death, a pint or two seems to take the edge off.” He tilted back his head and took a long guzzle.
Cate closed her eyes and imagined amber liquid flowing down her throat. The mattress dipped to one side. He sat close, and pressed the cool glass against her bottom lip. Drops flavored with malt and hops filled her mouth. She swallowed as much as she could before the stream of ale ran down her chin and neck.
She opened her eyes and met his. “M-more.” He tilted the bottle, and she gulped.
His gaze followed the trail of droplets to the pool of liquid in the cleft between her breasts.
Beige, translucent flesh hardened under his study. “I imagine these two would like to be kissed.” Cate inhaled sharply as her chest rose and her back arched. Her traitorous, wanton body pleaded with this man in its strange, silent language of need.
Finn smiled. The first one she’d seen from him in hours.
One golden drop traveled down her chest. He moistened his finger with a pool of ale then circled an areola—first one peak, then the other. Cate writhed under his touch. “I believe I’m thirsty again.”
Finn tipped the bottle and poured a spot of ale on each tip. He licked first and then suckled. Cate moaned this time. She strained against her bindings as he took to suckling one nipple and rolling the other between his fingers. A strong surge of arousal caused her entire body to buck and writhe. “Ah yes, Finn.”
He raised his head. She returned his gaze, even as her chest heaved and her stomach quivered. “Ah yes, Finn, what?” He reclined beside her. “Do you desire something more?”
His grin caused her bottom lip to protrude. And oh how her womanly parts desired—more. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Finn?”
“The truth.” His hand slipped across her navel and inched through her curls. Her eyelids fluttered, as did her stomach muscles. A single finger moved between her labia, and was greeted by a flood of arousal. She sucked in a harsh, uneven breath. “Please—”
His hand cupped her venus mound as his finger circled the swollen nub that brought her more pleasure than she had ever known in her life. Occasionally when she danced, there were moments of ecstasy, even feelings of arousal, but this—this was as if Finn knew what her body wanted, needed. And he toyed with her pleasure. Holding back when she begged for more. Waiting patiently for her arousal to subside, so he might start again. This time he pressed farther, deeper, quickening his fingers until she was moaning again. “Make me—let me—take me there, please.”
She felt fully and completely tortured by him. “I will keep you here all night if I have to,” he said.
She suddenly understood. He was going to withhold her pleasure, and the more she thought about that fact, the more she could not think of anything else but her satisfaction. She was wound up as taut as a string on a Spanish guitar. Her entire body thrummed with desire. “Mother of God, pleasure me. ¡Déjame culminar!”
“The entire story, Cate.” He swiveled around and placed his feet on the floor. He tugged off his boots and hose. “No half-truths. No obfuscating.” He rose from the bed and lifted off his shirt. “No excuses. No deferrals.” He unbuttoned his breeches and untied his drawers, stepping out of both. “And I want . . . fellatio.”
Phineas Gunn was large and hard—every part of him. He stood there, in all his lionesque beauty, cock angled toward the ceiling. “Deal?”
She strained against her bindings. “Untie me.”
He rested his hands on his hips, just above the magnificent groin muscle that cut down each side of his body. He moved closer. “I want your arousal to be as great as mine, therefore—you will remain bound. Afterward, I will soundly pleasure you, and then you will cuddle up against me and tell me everything.” He crawled over her, but remained on his knees. The head of his cock was smooth and round—the shape of a Roman helmet. “Then we will make love again.”
Everything about this man spoke of honor, courage—adventure. And yet he was gently coercing her, the devil. “Lick it, Cate.”
She looked up into his eyes. “Closer.”
Her tongue circled the smooth head of his cock. He rasped out a gr
oan, already breathing hard from the feel of her mouth on his lower anatomy. He gazed down, watching her moisten her lips and move them over tightly drawn, engorged flesh. A surge of pleasure washed through her as he coaxed her to take more. “Ah, Cate, do not stop. Suck me—yes . . .” He threw his head back and groaned, pumping in and out of her. Never too deep, but still, he pressed her, gently.
Tied to the bed and at his mercy, there was the most erotic sense of—trusting this man. Just as he promised, her arousal climbed with his. Cate sucked the tip and swirled her tongue around the shaft. She wanted to pleasure him; she enjoyed pleasuring him. Finn withdrew. “Catch your breath, my love.” His hand went around the shaft and stroked until she licked her lips.
“More.” She waggled the tip of her tongue into the cleft at the head and tasted a pearl-sized drop of seed. Salty. And the scent was pure Finn.
His gentle, insistent domination sent yet another wave of erotic arousal through her. Never had she felt anything like this. He reached into her hair and tugged as he pushed to the back of her throat. “You’re making me come,” he growled. His hips thrust faster and deeper until he withdrew with a shudder. He pumped his seed onto her chest and nipples. Upright on his knees, with his head angled back and his eyes closed, he looked like a demigod kneeling at the gates of paradise. Finn inhaled and exhaled a number of deep breaths before he spoke. “That was most . . . gratifying.”
“Untie me. You’ve had your fun—and your satisfaction.”
“Ah, but you have not received yours, Cate.” He reached down between soft folds and stroked her pleasure spot—still swollen. “Cranky and frustrated?” he asked in that husky bedding voice of his. Her belly quivered when he increased the speed of his fondling. “Not unlike the state you aroused in me and then walked out—into the arms of those Red Shirt rapists, who would have each taken a turn.” He leaned over her body and licked a nipple. Her entire body trembled from the caress. Finn suckled the rosy tip deep, then let the nipple pop from his mouth. He backed away, but his tongue trailed past her navel and into her curls. Using both hands he parted folds. “Dusky rose petals—how many men have been here, since me?”
She met his gaze, her blue eyes glistening with desire. More than anything, she wanted what she knew would come next. From his lips and tongue. She released his gaze and her head rolled back on her shoulders. She spoke in a whisper, between harsh breaths. “There has only been you, Finn.”
“If memory serves, you very much liked this.” His lips met delicate swollen flesh and kissed. Gently he sucked more of her into his mouth and lapped his tongue over the spot.
Wave after wave of pleasure engulfed her. Between gasps and moans she whispered “Yes” and “More.” She strained against her bindings and wriggled restlessly, arching up to answer his tongue.
“Did I get that wrong? Should I stop?” A slow grin glistened with her arousal.
“Do not stop!” His fingers flicked and circled and teased, while his tongue delved deep inside. Her orgasm began with a whimper and ended with her hips bucking and her belly shuddering. And he did not stop until she begged him to stop.
He crawled over her body and paused to admire the look of rapture on her face. Her breathing was rapid but she smiled faintly when he kissed her nose. He straddled her and untied one hand, then the other. He massaged the red marks on both wrists, before he lay down beside her.
* * *
FINN WAS HARD again. His face was still wet, glistening with female essence. The scent of their lovemaking permeated the room, so sweetly exotic. He would keep her legs bound, for the time being. He was taking no chances. The last time he had her under him in bed she smashed the butt of a pistol into his temple.
He nuzzled her neck. “Now, my darling, shall we begin at the beginning—back on Eaton Square, when you so rudely cast me aside and left town?”
There was stillness from her, but he did not feel her body stiffen or pull away. Finally she tsked. “I did not cast you aside.”
“You did so.”
She lifted her head. “I had no choice, Finn.”
Her expression was open, honest, and her skin was luminous. She wore the look of a woman well pleasured. And he had done that to her. He exhaled a soft groan, and kissed her ear. “Please explain yourself, Cate.”
“That last night in London, when I arrived home, there was a message waiting for me—from my London contact. The note stated quite plainly that Eduardo was not dead. That my brother had feigned his own demise.”
“After the explosion in Béziers, Los Tigres must have split up—some remained in France, while others fled to London to resupply and regroup,” Finn mused aloud.
She swept a glance his way. “The wire offered no details—just enough to convince me that Eduardo had been taken hostage. He was being held for ransom.”
The tantalizing beauty had just made him come harder than he had in an eternity. No doubt the astonishingly erotic sex clouded his judgment, because he could think of no reason to doubt her story. He settled onto his back and stretched sore muscles. “How much?”
“Thirty thousand British pounds.”
He knew she had received twenty from Fabian. A member of Los Tigres was found floating in the Thames last week. They found the stickpin on his person—well worth the thirty thousand, if the diamond turned out to be a Tavernier.
Her breasts swayed slightly as she propped herself up on her elbows. He pried his eyes off the translucent rosy tips. “I should have realized earlier, it’s the money they’re after. They care nothing about Eduardo.” She sighed.
Even if the ransom numbers didn’t exactly add up, at least her motives were beginning to fall in place. Her disappearance, the subterfuge, the desperation in her two attempts to bargain with the mutinous thugs. If it had been Hardy, he’d have done the same. “I’m sorry, Cate.”
“Don’t be sorry. I managed to get something out of Alonso before you . . .” Her gaze darted about the grotty flat, in search of the right word.
“Made sure he never raped again?”
She met his gaze and nodded. “What was that device you used on him?”
“A garrote. Spanish in origin, I believe.”
She shivered. “On a more hopeful note, it appears Eduardo is in prison.”
Taken aback, Finn studied her. “Where? What prison?”
“Not sure.” Her brows furrowed. “Alonso spoke about a place called Devil’s Island. Have you heard of it?”
A cold chill moved down his spine. He carried papers in his bag, official-looking papers that offered a trade. He and Zeno Kennedy had cooked up the proposal. Two unnamed terrorists wanted for arms smuggling in England were trussed up in the Citadel. A few months past, Scotland Yard had captured a couple of French Red Shirts on the lam. They were being held in Her Majesty’s Prison Wormwood Scrubs. Simply put, a two-for-two exchange.
This sort of thing always seemed to kick up a bit of anxiety. Finn could feel his pulse rate increase. Anything to do with prison cells, confinement, dark dungeons—hellish holes in the ground. He inhaled a breath and exhaled out his nose—slowly. Might Cate’s brother be one of those men?
The irony was, the documents he carried could free her brother—at least temporarily. It was all part of an elaborate cover story, but the ruse might work. And if he helped her brother escape, they would all be wanted by both the French and the British, unless . . .
He turned to Cate. “I have no wish to become an expatriate, but I might be able to help you locate Eduardo.”
She sat up and flung herself upon him, flattening him into the mattress. “You know where he is?” Her breasts pressed to his chest and she squirmed.
He wrapped an arm around her, while his free hand stroked the small of her back and her round derriere. “There is a possibility he is locked up in an old French military fortress.”
Her eyes grew wide, insistent. “Where is this place?”
Chapter Nineteen
Honestly? She loved to look at him na
ked. Finn rose off the bed, placed his hands to the small of his back, and lengthened his spine. She thought him a most handsomely built man. He added a groan to the stretch. Moving to the end of the bed, he picked up her foot. One at a time, he unstrapped her ankles. He tilted his head and examined black-and-blue toenails and gnarled toes.
“Please, Finn . . .” Slightly mortified, she tried to yank her foot away, but he held on. “Dancers have ugly feet,” she said, adding a sigh.
Raising her leg in the air, he kissed her big toe. “You may have tortured feet, but you are lovely in all other parts.” He folded her leg back at the knee, and opened her legs. Cate held her breath. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her when he opened her legs. Or was it his words? “And so . . . flexible.” He leaned well over the bed and kissed the place that made her moan.
“Mm-mm.” She smiled.
With a parting lick he straightened to his full six feet, two inches. He stood before her, all broad chest, sinewy stomach, and groin. And that erection. She raised her leg and pointed her toe. “Élevé, extend, dégagé.” She placed her foot on his dancing cock and stroked. “Fondu, relevé, fondu.” Her chin dipped in time with the words. “Down, up, down.”
He caught her by the leg and yanked her to the end of the bed. “And I mean to have ye again, lass.” Then he did something wonderful and rare. He smiled. Gently, she tugged her foot away. “I’ve been dishonest with you, except for the jewelry.” She sat up and rubbed her ankles.
“Confession is good for the soul. Clears the air.” He retrieved a sheaf of papers from his travel bag. “By the way, where have you hidden the rest of the jewels, Cate?” He returned to bed and she curled up beside him.
“In a safe enough place.”
He frowned as he shuffled papers. “I prefer very safe, but I suppose safe enough will have to do.” His free arm went around her waist and stroked softly. “Ironically, my cover for this trip has to do with a timely suspicion by Special Branch that two Spanish anarchists—likely disenfranchised members of Los Tigres Solitarios—are being held by the French government.”
A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 17
