The Admiral's Heart

by Danelle Harmon

  “I confess, I do not.”

  “There were many nights, out under the stars on the open Atlantic, when your face would come into my mind, and I would wonder what you were doing at that very moment. If you ever thought of me. If you had found happiness, joy, love.” She shivered as he dropped a warm kiss on her nape, the brush of his faintly bearded chin sending a lightning bolt of feeling straight into the pit of her belly. “I moved on, of course. Lost myself in my work and my ambitions, in the every day and mundane workings of my life. But I never forgot you, Pippa. And you, I hope, will not forget this night.”

  She took a deep and shuddering breath, feeling her hair beginning to tumble down around her shoulders now, each silken, weighty tress still heavy with powder.

  “And to what purpose, Elliott?”

  He gathered up the heavy fall of her hair in one hand, shook it, and powder whispered from it and onto the bare floor. She felt him running his fingers through it now, loosening what was left of the powder, pulling at her scalp in a way that felt immensely pleasurable at the same time it only built the sensations of sexual awareness. He made her want to purr like a cat.

  “To what purpose, Pippa? Do you really have to ask?”

  She leaned back against his chest, sighing with pleasure as he reached around to fully enclose her body within the mighty circle of his arms; looking down, she saw him undoing the tiny hooks of her bodice, moving slowly down between her breasts, going lower and lower until the front of the silk garment, lined with the softest cotton and embroidered with tiny flowers, gapped open in his hands. Her skin quivered in longing. Her nipples tightened in immediate response. How she ached for the feel of those fingers against her flesh, shielded, still, from their touch by her stays, her chemise.

  Slowly, he turned her around to face him, and his eyes smiled down into hers. She could see the heat in them now, and her own blood fired with answering desire.

  “I have wanted to undress you from the moment I saw you this evening,” he said softly, pulling one fitted sleeve down over her wrist, her hand, her fingers, and freeing her arm. His fingers whispered over the elaborate fall of lace that draped from her elbow, gently pulling at it, and then he went to work on the other sleeve, freeing that one, too, until he had removed the garment and was holding it in his hands.

  He smiled, brought it to his nose, and closed his eyes.

  “Lilac,” he said. “You wore that a long time ago, too.”

  She reached out and with a trembling hand, touched his waistcoat, buttoned down over his chest beneath his uniform coat.

  “You remembered?” she asked, smiling.

  “I don’t think I will ever forget.”

  His fingers were working on the laces of her stays, now, pulling at the long ties until the bow came free and the restrictive garment sagged from her shoulders. He turned her around once more, pulling her spine back up against his chest, her bottom against his arousal, and the sensation filled her with such desire that the chill of the room was suddenly forgotten.

  Elliott’s lips, beneath her heavy fall of hair, nuzzling against the warm curve of her neck. Elliott’s hands, reaching up beneath the gaping stays to cup her breasts, his thumbs gently stroking each nipple even as his tongue came out and began to touch, to taste, to lick the sensitive skin behind her ear.

  Pippa sighed deep in her throat, deep in her soul, and leaned her head back against the cup of his shoulder, her bones going soft, her knees going weak, as he repeatedly stroked each budding, hardening nipple beneath her chemise, gently rolling them between thumb and forefinger, making her want to squirm with longing as he kept up this delicious torture.

  She closed her eyes, the breath coming a little faster through her lungs.

  Outside, the rain began to ping harder against the glass panes of the window as it turned to sleet, but Pippa only registered the sound as though from a long distance away, because Elliott had the heels of his hands against her rib cage, pressing her backward against him, his skilled, warm, delicious fingers coaxing her body into a hot mess of jumbled nerve endings.

  And then he was gently turning her in his arms to face him, lifting her chin to his own bent head, and he was kissing her once more.

  She kicked off her slippers, first one, then the other. The bare floor was cold beneath her feet, but she didn’t care. Somehow, the stays came off and were cast aside. Somehow, her fumbling fingers managed to slide beneath his uniform coat and remove it, to unbutton his snug-fitting waistcoat, and both landed in a heap beside her discarded stays and bodice. Somehow, his hands were roving behind her back, pressing her up hard against his arousal, his fingers already untying the tapes that held her heavy silk petticoats up, the panniers beneath, and with a rustle, both fell to the floor to pool around her ankles until she stood before him in just her chemise, her stockings, and her desire.

  “Elliott,” she said simply, her eyes mirroring the longing of her heart, and with one hand, she reached out to touch his waistband.

  His eyes darkened, and a smile touched his mouth. “I’m glad you decided to come to the ball tonight, Pippa.”

  “And I’m glad that you found me before I could run away once more.” And then, with a bold but shaking hand, she found the buttons of his flap front, pushed them through their holes, and as his breeches gapped open, he sprang out hot and hard in her hand.

  She smiled. Widely.

  His eyelids lowered.

  And then he reached out and, ever so gently, removed her spectacles, folding them and placing them on the bedside table as her fingers began a tantalizing exploration of his shaft . . . the warm, velvety head . . . the rigid, iron-hard length . . . his testicles, warm in their wiry hair.

  He bent his head to kiss her once more, and suddenly the cold floor beneath Pippa’s feet fell away as she was swept up into the admiral’s strong arms. Her own arms looped around his neck, and she felt the brush of his queue against her knuckles. It was a dizzying, heady, arousing thing, to be carried so easily in a man’s arms, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of being gently laid down on the bed, spread out like some treasured gem on a jeweler’s table, to have this man, so powerful and perfect in form, so hungry for her, and her alone, step out of his breeches, pull the shirt over his head, and climb up into the bed beside her.

  He lay down alongside her, and she felt the hot, hard length of his body against her own, dwarfing it. His mouth found hers once more, his arm pulled her close, and she hungrily met his kiss, breathing hard now, her blood beating through her veins as his hand skimmed down over her ribcage, into the concave dip of her hip, up over her pelvic bone, down, down, her upper thigh. His thumb hooked in a garter, peeled away the stocking, his finger trailing sensuously over her leg. Off came the other a moment later. How warm and strong that hand, against her silken flesh. How agonizing, the wait, as that hand slowly moved back up her leg, warm against her calf, warm against the back of her knee, now catching the bunched up hem of her chemise and pulling it up, up, up, toward that part of her that was doing a slow burn for him and made her squirm with wanting. And now, oh, oh yes . . . his hand, the palm warm and calloused, dragging up her inner thigh until his fingers were gently playing in the warm, damp curls at the junction of her legs.

  He did not need to ask her to open for him.

  He began to stroke her. It was a slow, measured thing, just his thumb moving over her slit, once, twice, until his finger parted her gently and began to slide through her dampness, back and forth, torturously slow, until Pippa’s body, of its own accord, began to squirm and the breath came through her lungs at a pace that left her unable to catch it.

  He drew back then, and gazed down into her dazed eyes.

  “Ten years is a long time to wait for the love of your life,” he murmured.

  “Ten years and five months . . . “

  “And fourteen days.”

  “Fifteen, now.”

  “My heart has never stopped beating for you, Pippa.” His gaze was direct
, and very intense. “All these years and it still belongs to you. And you, alone.”

  She just swallowed and stared up at him, watching the soft orange flames of the candle flickering against his skin, making his eyes look very dark in the semi-gloom.

  “Will you marry me, Pippa?”

  “Make love to me, Elliott, and then we will talk . . . it is unfair to ask such a question when you have me at my most vulnerable.”

  He merely smiled, a gentle, patient gesture, and bent his head to nuzzle and kiss the hot curve of her neck. She shut her eyes, threaded one hand up behind his head, cupping the back of his skull as he moved lower, now dropping kisses on her collarbone . . . atop the swell of one breast . . . and there, the nipple itself, hard and aching as he took it fully into his mouth and began to suckle her through the thin fabric of the chemise.

  “Oh, Elliott,” she breathed, trying to draw breath.

  Soft, suckling sounds as he pulled the swollen nipple up into his mouth. Sweet anguish as his tongue licked and laved it through the wet fabric, pulling a hot, tingling ache from ever cell in her body, causing her to drive her heels down into the mattress, to moan with need as his other hand roved down her body and once more found the center of her passion.

  And then, his mouth left her breast, was kissing her abdomen through the fabric as he moved lower down the bed, and then, oh, God help her, he was sliding his hands beneath her hips, pushing the chemise up, up, past her hips and to the level of her waist, until she was shamelessly, deliciously, wantonly bared to his gaze.

  “You,” he breathed, “are the most beautiful creature that God ever made.”

  She saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, hard, and then he was moving down between her thighs, his hands gently parting them, wide, wider, wider still, as he gazed at her most inner and private flesh. He looked up, once, and met her gaze, and with a dark look of intent, parted her with his thumbs and lowered his head.

  The first touch of his tongue against her flesh nearly undid her, and she caught desperately at the sheet as his mouth went to work on her. A sob rose in her throat and stuck there, and a sound came out of her that she did not recognize as her head twisted on the pillow and her fingers frantically laced in the thick waves of his hair. Her skin went hot and everything inside her started to burn as his tongue began to lick at her seam, up one side, down the other, his thumbs still holding her shamelessly, impossibly wide. Above her, firelight danced on the plastered ceiling, swam, and Pippa shut her eyes against it, trying to hold back the rising tide of sensation that was building in the floor of her pelvis, a rising, burning ache as his tongue stroked her over and over again. The balled sheet grew damp in her hand. The bed sighed beneath her as her body began to writhe. She felt his breath against her most inner flesh, soft, hot, coming now as hard and fast as her own. He spread her a little wider, and then, just when Pippa knew she could not take this sweet punishment anymore, he dragged the tip of his tongue over her swollen nub, and her world began to splinter as climax rushed down on her in an unstoppable wave of feeling.

  “Elliott”—

  He only pressed his tongue against her, and then, as she cried out and began to spasm out of control, sucked her engorged bud deep into his mouth and held her there in its hot recesses as she arched and keened beneath him, not letting her go until tears of joy were coursing down her cheeks and she was reaching down to pull him back up against her body, to seek his erection with her hand and gently, firmly, began to stroke him.

  “Marry me . . . Pippa,” he said, straddling her from above, taking his weight on his forearms and letting his head droop between his shoulders as she handled him gently, firmly, and began to guide him toward her wet cleft. “You are no longer the vulnerable one . . . I am.”

  His mouth found hers once more, and she tasted herself upon him. She moved her body slightly, angling her hips so as to better receive him, and then, opening her thighs wide to him once more, guided him toward, and into, herself.

  The sensation of being stretched, of being filled, widened, and fully possessed by this man, was enough to bring her senses sharply back into focus and once again, sensation began to build within her. Deeper he penetrated, inch by hard, hot inch, filling her so completely that she felt as if they were joined at the heart, which, with the part of her mind that could still function, she supposed they were. She fastened her arms around his broad back, savoring the play of hard muscle over his shoulder blades as he began to move, and of their own accord, her legs came up to lock around his hips.

  He drew back, pushed forward, and so began the timeless rhythm, slowly building pressure, slowly building speed, as she arced up to meet each powerful thrust, her own hips matching his, their mouths desperately seeking, meeting, grinding against each other in rising frenzy as he took them both closer and closer to the edge. Harder now, each thrust, deeper now, each lunge, each one bringing her closer, closer, closer to the edge, until at last he stiffened and drew back, and she felt the warm pulse of his seed against the walls of her womb. Then his palms were against either side of her jaw, cradling her, holding her, his mouth fierce yet gentle against her own and covering her own cries of release as her muscles clenched and spasmed once more.

  They lay there for a long moment, trying to recover. Then, still buried inside her, he eased himself down and alongside her, turning her body on its side so that they lay facing each other. Her bare legs lay entangled with his. His skin was hot against her own, and reaching out in the gloom, he found her hand and squeezed it tightly. She slid her fingers within his, interlocking them. Heartbeats steadied, and began to slow. Panting breaths began to level out and to quiet, and eventually, they both became aware of the sleet pinging and tinkling against the window.

  “A beastly night out there,” he murmured, raising himself up on one elbow to gaze down at her.

  “But so cozy and perfect right here,” she returned with a little smile, feeling safe, warm, and protected.

  “I love you, Philippa.”

  “I love you, Elliott.”

  “Will you be my wife?”

  She reached up to touch his cheek, so dear, so beloved to her. “I will be your wife, Elliott.”

  “Don’t go to America.”

  “I have to . . . the land I inherited must be seen to, possibly sold.”

  “The land, and anything you inherited upon the death of your husband, is in your past, Pippa. Let the past remain in the past. It is a done thing. I am your future.”

  There was a desperation in his words that tugged at her heart. “I’ll think about it, Elliott,” she murmured, hooking her arm around the back of his neck and drawing him back down alongside her. Quietly, he eased out of her, and reaching out to find the sheets and blanket, pulled them up and over both their bodies.

  They lay there in the darkness listening to each other’s breathing, neither saying a word, each content to just gaze upon the other’s face, to study each beloved detail, until the fire began to die in the grate, the candle burned low, and sleep began to weigh heavily against their eyelids.

  Elliott gave a sigh, rolled onto his back, and pulling her up against his bare chest, positioned her head in the cup of his shoulder. Then, one arm cradling her gently to his heart, he finally closed his eyes.

  “Good night, dear Pippa.”

  “Good night, dear Elliott.”

  “I love you.”

  Tears wet her eyes. “I love you, too, Elliott.”

  Pippa lay there for a long time. She heard his heartbeat beneath her ear, strong and steady, so very beloved to her. She felt the comforting weight of his arm around her back, growing heavier, now, as sleep claimed him and drew him down into its restful depths. His breathing grew rhythmic and he twitched once, twice, before finally falling still. She snuggled herself closer to him, lay her palm against his tiny nipple, and gazed lovingly up at the line of his jaw, his firm but sensual mouth, his long, pale, lashes lying against his cheeks.

  There was nowhere else in
the world she would rather be.

  No other person with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

  Let the past remain in the past. It is a done thing. I am your future.

  And no need, really, to go to America, after all.

  Turning her head to place a kiss against the admiral’s heart that beat so strongly just beneath her cheek, a heart that beat for her, and her alone, she settled back down against him and closed her eyes, safe beneath the loving embrace of his arm, the steady tattoo of that noble heart the last thing she heard before sleep claimed her, too.

  the end

  About the Author:

  Bestselling, multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten novels, previously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means listed below:

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