Dante’s eyes lost some of their murderous intent and he relaxed enough to put away the dagger. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you show yourself right away?”
“I … don’t know. I just … I don’t know. By the time I realized you were there, you were already half naked and—and …” She swallowed hard and raised her hand in an unconsciously sensual gesture, pushing aside the edges of her shirt to press cooling fingers against the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat.
“If—if you would step aside now, Captain, and let me pass, I would be more than happy to give you back your privacy.” t
But instead of stepping aside, he moved forward, keeping her trapped against the gallery windows, cloaking her in the immense shadow of his own frame. “Not just yet, mam’selle.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean”—his hands came up and he brushed his fingers over the rich abundance of her hair—“not just yet.”
She tensed as he caressed the back of her neck. She was more aware than ever of the heavily muscled shoulders, the dark swarm of hair that covered his chest, the molded bands of hard flesh that flexed along his arms every time he asked the slightest motion of them.
Her eyes rose, not enough to have met his, but enough to focus on the halfsmile that played on his lips.
“I hope you are not thinking of kissing me,” she whispered, her throat almost too constricted to squeeze out the words.
He grinned and studied her through narrowed eyes. “I think it only a fair exchange for watching me strip naked.”
“You’re … not naked,” she pointed out.
“Let us not split hairs, ma petite. You have already seen all there is of me to see, whereas I … I remain somewhat in ignorance, relying only on my imagination. Granted, I have a good one, but I confess I am intrigued to know what you keep so carefully guarded behind your belts and buckles. Here, for instance—” His fingers nudged aside the collar of her shirt and touched on the smooth white slope of her shoulder. “And here,” he murmured, sending that same impudent finger over the folds of her shirt, tracing the swell of her breast.
Beau blushed to the point of numbness. The heat that had all but paralyzed her earlier was spreading downward, fanning through her body with unsettling precision, as if he knew just what to touch and how to touch it to render her immobile. She was also aware of the negligent power in those hands—hands that could easily take what they wanted without her cooperation or assent.
At the moment they were taking the knife out of her belt, another out of the concealed sheath she wore on her hip; they were traveling lower and skimming down her leg to the cuff of her boot.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“Following your father’s advice.”
Startled, she looked up into his face.
“He warned me to search you ten ways to Sunday, and even then, not to turn my back on you.”
Beau opened her mouth to protest, but his lips were on her temple, on her cheek, they were seeking out the soft pink shell of her ear. His hands had not stopped moving, stroking and smoothing over her arms, her waist, her hips. Her heart was pounding, she was certain he could hear it. Surely he could feel it, for his body was crowded warmly against her, pressing her back against the gallery ledge. And his mouth—God save her, his mouth was exploring the crook of her neck, roving at leisure, his tongue swirling hot, moist patterns on her skin.
“Christ Jesus,” she gasped, “if you’re going to kiss me, can you not just do it and be done?”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth when his lips covered hers, claiming them with a rough imperiousness that chastized her for her impatience. Yet his own was no less compelling and he chased her gasp inside her mouth, filling it with his tongue, shocking her with an intrusion that reverberated to the soles of her feet.
His hands raked into her hair and would not let her move or twist away to avoid the plundering boldness. His lips were hungry and demanding, moving hot and sure over hers, ravaging them with a fierce insistence that left her weak and reeling with confusion. She wasn’t enjoying it. She wasn’t! Yet she was trembling, quaking everywhere. Her hands, pinned against his chest, began to feel more restrained than trapped and longed to be set free to roam the wide expanse of swarthy muscle.
Dante lowered a hand to the small of her back and urged her forward against the growing hardness of his body, introducing her to yet another shattering sensation. When she offered no objection, when she met this new boldness with a soft, ragged moan, he angled her head back and sent his mouth down to plunder the curve of her throat again, finding and laying seige to the tenderest of nerve endings.
“Isabeau, Isabeau,” he murmured, shifting his hands, his body, his intentions. “I knew there must be a softer side to you. Softer. Sweeter. Tantalizing.”
Beau’s eyes shivered open. His hands were creeping up beneath her shirt and the impossibly long, solid shaft of his phallus was pressing into her thighs, into flesh that was suddenly alive with raw, liquefying sensations.
“Stop,” she gasped weakly. “Please …”
“Why?” His voice was thick and husky, muffled against her throat. “Why are you so afraid of admitting you are a woman with a woman’s desires, a woman’s needs?”
“A woman’s needs,” she cried, shuddering as his thumbs caressed the round underside of her breasts. “You mean your needs, don’t you?”
“I was hoping, for tonight anyway, they might be one and the same thing.”
“I don’t need you,” she insisted on a broken whisper.
His hands descended. They shaped themselves to her buttocks and drew her against him, savagely enough that they both gave a little groan. “But you want me. Almost … and God damn my soul for admitting it—almost as much as I want you.”
“No,” she gasped. “No.”
Resisting the urge to call her a liar, he slanted his mouth more forcefully over hers. He ran his tongue across the velvety smoothness until a soft cry parted her lips again and he thrust deeply, possessively, inside. The tension snapped back into her neck but he was ready for it. He held her firmly, closely, snugly, against his body, letting her know the games were over, letting her know exactly what effect the rumbullion, the moonlight, the scent of her skin, was having on him.
Yet none of those things was as potentially devastating as the silky warmth of her mouth. He had not expected anything half as arousing nor a fraction so seductive as the sound of the tiny, stifled moans that came on each swirling incursion of his tongue. He had not expected himself to come half out of his skin, imagining other areas of her body that would be as smooth and silky, as hot and wet, as lush and sensitive to his every move. Raw, sexual heat flamed his senses and made him probe even deeper, made him turn his mouth this way and that so there was no part of her left unexplored, untouched.
“Please,” she gasped. “Wait! Stop….”
He surely hadn’t expected to feel himself respond to her half-whispered pleas, or to stand away, or to put an arm’s length of distance between them.
What he saw caused his jaw to clamp and his body to ache with unbelievable pressure. Her hair was a tumble of luminous waves trapping the moonlight—softer, fuller, more luxurient than his silk-starved hands could expect to resist. Her shirt was pulled taut over her breasts, emphasising their proud, upthrust shape and the small, rounded beads of her arousal. The thought of stripping away that shirt, of taking those small, firm beads into his mouth and suckling them until she groaned from the pleasure nearly brought a flush of sweat across his brow. And her eyes, damn them. Her eyes. There was a wildness in them that defied him to try his hand at taming her, yet there was also a soft shimmer of uncertainty, a vulnerability that almost caused the last of his senses to desert him.
She was shaking. But so was he.
“If this isn’t what you want,” he said hoarsely, “you’d best get the hell out of here … and you don’t have much time to do so.”
&n
bsp; Beau’s lashes were almost too heavy to lift, but lift them she did, and was not surprised to find the smoldering argentine eyes waiting for her. Waiting to tell her how foolish she would be to underestimate his dark desires. There were no promises there, no hint even of an obligation that would go beyond the next clear thought. There was only the moment they were in right now, only an offer of heat and sin and pleasure beyond her wildest dreams.
She reached out her hand—it was more of an instinctive gesture than anything else, intending to do … what? Apologize? Attempt to explain again an error foolishly made?
Instead, it turned into a kind of wondrous journey, a shy exploration of forbidden territory, as her fingertips encountered the oil-slicked surface of his forearm. When her hand did not instantly erupt in flame and cinder, it was with some fascination she laid it flat and skimmed it over the silky furring of dark hairs, sliding upward to the crease of his elbow, then higher onto the solid bulge of hard muscle. The residue of oil had left his skin as smooth as satin and her hand seemed to glide of its own accord to his shoulder and across the sculpted plateau of his upper chest.
A small frown bade her explore further, and she combed her fingers lightly through the wealth of sworling hairs, spreading them wide and laying them flat again to feel all of him, all the splendor of the hard-surfaced flesh that had been tormenting her thoughts since she had first seen him on the deck of the Virago.
A second, tentative hand joined the first and she found the dark discs of his nipples, surprised to feel them roused and pebbled hard on their surrounding island of soft velvet. She had wanted to touch all this male heat earlier, to run her fingers through the dark fur, to explore the vast, uncharted planes of her imagination, but she had thought it all out of her reach.
It was not out of reach now, and with an exquisitely shivered breath she lifted her eyes to his and wondered what other transgressions might be permitted.
“Whatever you decide,” he warned her softly, “know that I will not be able to stop again.”
Fine wisps of her hair, ruffled by a passing breeze, floated across her cheek and throat, brushing over her lips, clinging to the faint moisture left by her breath.
“I will … likely … not want you to,” she whispered.
Dante felt every word ripple across the nape of his neck. Her voice was low, quivering with the effort to sound calm and detached, but laced with enough tension to send tendrils of shock coursing down his spine. Desire pooled hot and heavy in his loins, and he reclaimed some of the distance he had put between them. He sank his fingers into the tousled pelt of her hair and drew her forward. He tilted her face up to his and for a long moment just held her that way, their mouths a breathless gasp apart, waiting until he could count the heartbeats in her eyes before he kissed her.
It was a savage, relentless kiss, one that invaded her mouth, filled it, and molded it to his own with a fierce passion. His lips were merciless, his tongue ravaging, but instead of frightening her or shocking her, it brought her crushing into his arms. It sent her hands curling up and around his broad shoulders, it brought her body straining eagerly against his, riding the hardness of his thighs with an urgency that sent one of his hands down to cradle her bottom and pull her roughly against him.
He lifted her away from the awkward canting of the gallery windows and propped her on the oak rail, wedging himself boldly between her thighs, nearly gasping himself as their two heated centers came together. Beau’s hands pushed into the thick, shaggy mane of his hair and kept his mouth fastened to hers even as he began to search out the bindings of her shirt. Impatience made his efforts clumsy and he tore the garment down the front seam; tore it and tugged it free of her belt with a throaty growl as he dispensed with yet another hidden knife. Belt, shirt, and knife were cast into the inky blackness of the sea twenty feet below, the splash lost among the other night sounds.
His eyes, glowing like pewter in the moonlight, registered their surprise and their pleasure. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped to fill the cup of his hand, lush enough to draw a groan of appreciation from his throat as he bowed his head and drew the puckered flesh into his mouth. The stunning intimacy was too much to bear in silence and a strained plea came from her throat, begging him not to stop but to pull her deeper into the heat and wetness. Partially supported by the rail, partially supported by the enormous bulge of his erection, she flung her head back and let the moonlight bathe her bare shoulders, let it silver the rippling power of his broad back and show her where his mouth worked so skillfully, so determinedly to turn her into a shivering, shuddering mass of pleasure.
His hands, clamped rigidly around her waist, began to tremble with the force of his own aroused passions, and with another smothered oath Dante lifted her into his arms again, snarling a soft threat into her mouth that kept her limbs wrapped tightly around his waist. He carried her inside the cabin and directly to the bed, each step increasing the friction and the urgency between them.
A moment, no more, was all he wasted tearing aside the last flimsy barriers of their clothing before she was lying naked beneath him. He was poised between her thighs, hard and thick and pulsing with eagerness, and then he was inside her, breeching the last of her doubts with the swift, invasive heat of his body. Her lips parted around a gasp—a gasp that was startled into a soundless cry of disbelief and awe as he filled her, filled her, filled her so full and taut and deep, she had no time to brace herself as the first wave of pleasure swept through her, shattering all perceptions of pleasure that had gone before.
He thrust again and again, and the heat was so fierce, the sensations so shockingly explicit, she clutched at the rigid muscles of his arms. But they were still slick with oil and her hands skidded down to his hips, holding him fast, arching feverishly into one rich torrent of pleasure after another.
Dante’s body echoed her every spasm. She was supple and hot, unbelievably sleek and greedy, pulling him deeper and deeper into the tightening fist of her sex. He was not surprised to find he had awakened a fiery passion within her; he was surprised by the intensity of the heat pouring into his own loins, by the helpless urgency fueling his every thrust. The taunts, the challenges, the game of cat and mouse he had played, had been deliberate. He had played it because he was a man and he had gone without a woman too long, and he had played it only for the pleasure of stalking something wild and untamable and bringing it to ground beneath him. He had not expected to want more than a swift, perfunctory release. He had not expected to feel more. And yet he did. He was trembling like a loose sheet of canvas; his bound and reinforced edges were unraveling, fraying more and more with each startled cry that broke from her lips.
An ache he had not felt in too many years to recall began to govern each stroke, each gust of ragged air torn from his throat. He wanted to feel her wrapping herself around him, he wanted to see her flushed with passion, racked with pleasure. He wanted to take her to the highest peaks of ecstasy and beyond, and he wanted to share that ecstasy with her, soak himself in it, drown himself in it.
His heart thundered in his chest, his blood pounded in his veins, and he could hear her name whispered over and over on his lips. He could feel his body gathering in upon itself, channeling all the heat, the power, the feverish hunger, into nothing more noble than the savage rise and fall of his hips.
As Beau arched up beneath him, he threw his head back and braced himself on outstretched arms, stiffening, shuddering in the throes of an orgasm so bright and brilliant, it was all he could do to keep from roaring his pleasure out loud. As it was, he was helpless to hold the smallest part of himself back as he spent himself in a white-hot and seemingly endless climax within her.
Beau was melting. Trembling. Quivering like a silk pennant on a shiver of wind. Dante’s solid presence was still inside her, thudding against dewy folds of flesh that had gone slack and buttery with shock. Her hands were still grasped to his hips and her legs were locked tightly around his. His breath was warm against her th
roat, his body was heavy and damp and, where it was wedged between her thighs, as reluctant as she was to relinquish the gentle rocking motions that were bringing them slowly back to reality.
A final satiated groan brought him to a languid halt. He was all chest and arms and rock-hard thighs and he must have felt her trying to shift slightly beneath him, for he lifted his head out of the crook of her shoulder and thoughtfully transferred some of his weight onto his elbows.
Sometime between being outside and coming inside, the candle had died and there was only moonlight bathing their features. His face was a mixture of pale light and shadow, mostly the latter because of his hair, which had become as wild and tangled as her own.
“Well,” he murmured, and then just “Well,” again.
Beau searched for something equally profound to say, but her tongue seemed to have become too clumsy to do more than keep company with her teeth. Her hair was spread across the bedding, and her legs—one was wedged against the cabin wall and the other had nowhere to go but off the side of the bed—felt chafed and tenderly abused along the inner thighs. A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and she turned her head slightly—with Dante following the motion—to see a pair of hose snagged on the corner of the chart table where he had tossed them.
Reading the consternation in her eyes, Dante bent his head down and nibbled gently at the corners of her mouth. “You will have to forgive me, mam’selle, if I was a tad overeager. It has been a long time and my … manners … may have been somewhat lacking.”
“You tore my shirt,” she said, frowning. “And threw it overboard.”
“It was worth the price of a replacement,” he murmured, running his lips along her chin and down the supple length of her throat.
“A belt and a knife as well.”
“I’ll buy you a dozen more. For that matter, you are a wealthy young woman now, you can afford to buy your own and to throw them overboard after each time you wear them.”
Beau let her senses track the progress of his mouth as he nuzzled her temple, her cheek, the tight, damp curls that lay below her ear. A smile curved her lips and for one mad, irrational moment, she wanted to thank him, for he had done his best and she had survived, emerged with all of her faculties intact. She could breathe, think, react, reason. She could regain control again.
Across a Moonlit Sea Page 19
