Bliss River

by Thea Devine

  She had never felt like doing that with anyone else she'd ever been with.

  Keep him at bay. Make him beg. Make him lust for her like no other woman he had ever known.

  He grasped her hips, pushing downward, hard. "I have to—"

  She shimmied away from his pulsating penis. "Not yet."

  He pushed again, urgently. "There is no not yet, khanum ... there is only"—he canted his hips up like a cannon and drove his penis hard and deep into her as she gasped for breath—"now..."

  Now she was not empty. Now she sat back on his hips, filled so deeply, so thickly that her pubic hair rubbed against his. Her breasts were swollen from his voracious sucking, her nipples tight hard points, constricted from the hot wet pulling of his mouth.

  This was now, the moment perfect. She had him be­tween her legs. She could see his face clearly, in the filter­ing light, the emotion there even with his eyes closed, his mouth in a straight line, wrestling for control.

  She rested her hands just on his breast, just at his nip­ples. And she waited, not wanting to move.

  He didn't want to move either. If he moved, he would blast her and never stop.

  He had to stop. It was enough to be embedded so deeply within her. Just for the moment, it was enough. Of all the moments that were left, it was enough. How many mo­ments? He had a strong urge to calculate them, all the mo­ments that were left. Then he would know how many more times he could fuck her before it all ended.

  But just for now ... it was enough, because everything about her and her sex sent him into a frenzy of lust. She was a queen, sitting there, straddling him, mounted on his throbbing penis.

  And he was within a breath of blowing everything he had into her.

  She rocked against him, teasing him, writhing her hips and sliding herself down the long pole of his shaft, up and down, testing his endurance, his stamina, his will.

  Oh no, no teasing, not now. He drove upward into her, hard and meaningfully, pumping her tike a piston, ignor­ing her rhythm, her guile.

  He had waited too long for this release; morning was al­ready nigh and she had been playing with him all these hours. There wasn't a man alive who could have endured such torture.

  And now, he heaved upward one more time, one more great driving thrust, twisting into her, and he exploded, erupting like a volcano, hot and thick and pouring his seed into her as deep as he could go.

  She came in the backwash of his orgasm, a flooding, rich, thick, languid mushroom of pleasure, blooming up and out and over.

  She didn't want to acknowledge it. She wedged herself against his hot, sweaty body and took his sopping penis in her hand.

  It's almost over...

  There was an urgency between them, suddenly, as if they had to cram all the sex possible between that moment and when they would make landfall.

  They didn't come out of the cabin. She was always on her back, her legs spread, inviting him in. He fucked her every way he could think of: standing, sitting, on her back, and from behind.

  She especially liked from behind, where all she could feel was his thick rutting penis penetrating her obversely, and his merciless fingers tugging at her nipples.

  "Who said no fucking?" she murmured once, only once during a break in their coupling when they were actually eating.

  "Never mention it again, khanum, or there will be con­sequences."

  There was a glint in her eye that he didn't like. "Truly?"

  "You can count on it."

  "I hope so."

  A little brazen of her, he thought. "Take the conse­quences then..."

  And he burrowed his fingers between her legs. "Whenever we aren't fucking, I will penetrate you with my fingers, so you will never get away from my possession of you."

  Whoever said I wished to? But she never spoke the words. He made her breathless with his ferocity, but time was growing short. He was always reaching for her. Or when he was utterly spent, he took her with his mouth, furrowing tightly between her legs and licking at her trea­sure. And she took him in her mouth, and lapped up his cream.

  He fucked her standing, sitting, on her back and from behind. She took him by hand, and she topped him and mounted him and rode him hard and high.

  He memorized her body with his hands. Her long legs, her curvy bottom, the contours of her wet and welcoming cunt. He knew her breasts by heart now, every nuance of her response to his sucking and playing with them and he fucked them often with his fingers shoved up between her legs.

  She loved that too; she loved it a lot. She adored all of their steamy sweaty sex and everything he devised to do to her as the hours ticked by and day wore into night into dawn into day.

  How much time? Suddenly, as in the desert, there wasn't much time.

  They never talked about time. They only felt and fon­dled and fucked each other and never looked at the time.

  And they never said a word about what would happen when they reached Greybourne. Journey's end. Two, maybe three hours from London, and from civilization.

  A scary new world—civilization. A place where there were mores and rules, and things she would have to learn. A place where she would no longer be able to inhabit a tent in just her naked body.

  In civilization, she would become Georgiana again. And he would no longer be her cadi.

  Two more nights . . .

  If she could have, she would have chopped through the ship's hull so it would sink and she could live in this per­fect little world forever. They lay still after another savage coupling.

  / don't want to go . . . She couldn't even form the words on her tongue. He had fulfilled his promise, and there was nothing to keep him once they reached the safety of her fa-ther's house.

  This was a diversion merely, predicated on attraction, need, desire, and on the fact that she was well used to ser­vicing men and men were used to taking whatever a woman offered freely.

  That was all. Really all.

  I don't want to go —

  It was how she would acclimate to her father's house and her father's rules that was worrying her, she decided, That was the sticking point. What would happen once she crossed the threshold of Aling.

  If he lets me in . . .

  No! She couldn't think about that yet. That was wasting time. And there was hardly any more time.

  It was terrifying how close they were to Greybourne. A night and a day perhaps. They could hear, all the time, conversation outside the cabins, snippets of discussion about the weather and transportation once they reached England. Where to stay, and how to go post or hire a car­riage. The best routes to travel. The best places in London.

  It was horrible, knowing your future was hours away.

  And he was no help, with his impassive expression and his ever-wandering hands, and the way his body and his need blotted out everything else in sight.

  But her desire matched his on every level. And she was perfectly willing to obliterate every thought of the future with sex. It was all she knew how to do anyway, and that ought to have frightened her more.

  Instead, she threw herself into every last moment with him, knowing the moment the Malabar dropped anchor, everything would change. Wishing fruitlessly that if they just kept themselves isolated enough, everything would stay the same.

  The weather got colder, the sky darker. The dampness invaded the cabin, the dusky light overlaid everything as the ship chugged inexorably through the calm waters of the channel toward Greybourne.

  They separated slowly each time, dreading to hear the inevitable ring of the bell, the shout and rush of passengers on deck, the first view of land, of home, of England.

  She sat hunched on the bedding, wrapped in her robes against the chill morning air. The ship's bell tolled as they passed Penzance and Plymouth and Torbay. Soon... soon, the song of the bells. Home to Aling, to her father, to a life of civility and sanity.

  She knew how to walk away; she'd never done anything else. And anyway, a man never stayed. And that would be
the end of it. He'd redeemed himself, salved his con­science, resurrected her life. His father's and Lydia's mur­ders would go unavenged.

  The will and desires of Moreton had prevailed once again.

  She had not thought of him in weeks. The beginning of their flight and the reasons for it seemed like something she'd dreamed now. The Valley was the stuff of fiction, and Moreton was its evil emperor, reigning supreme, his harem by his side.

  Of whom she might have been one.

  She was one. Charles Elliott's one, passage paid, and soon to be expunged from his life as well.

  So be it. She wrapped the robes more tightly around her naked body. Already she did not like the seeping damp­ness, the clammy air. It made her feel dank; it suppressed every hot feeling.

  Or was that to the good?

  He was making tea. In the cold light of the morning, there was nothing else to do but make tea. The warmth would be as comforting as his body was not. There were barely hours to go before they docked at Greybourne.

  He handed her the cup and she wrapped her icy hands around it. He settled himself next to her and sipped his own cup thoughtfully.

  There was nothing to say. The bargain was the bargain, fairly met on both sides. But now, the reality of cutting her loose loomed. Before the week was out, Georgiana would be at her father's house, in her father's hands, and he would be free to roam the world again.

  The musky taste of the tea was like fog in the mouth, like fog on the moors. Places he'd roamed and loved—for­bidden love, love at odds with everything he'd been taught and raised to believe.

  And yet, he loved.

  The smells, the sights, the sounds, the whole tenor of English life, he loved. It had been the biggest conflict of his existence, that divide between his two worlds.

  Nor would it ever be easily resolved. He was still his fa­ther's son. And his mother's. Moreton Estabrook had mur­dered them both, and he was aching to exact revenge.

  But he needed to return to the moors to finally and properly mourn Lydia. And he would never return to the desert, nor live among his father's people again.

  Vengeance would come later; the need was there, and he was a master at plotting and patience. That part of his desert heritage he would never deny. He could wait, as long as he had waited to confront Lydia, if necessary. And he would see.

  And meantime, there was Georgiana, with her tumbled hair, her insatiable body, her wild impetuous nature, her innocence—all damned.

  He had no idea what awaited them at Aling.

  He set aside his cup and began rummaging in the bed­ding and tossing things at her: the gun, the knife, money. All those nights, with those articles knotted into his head­dress, used as a pillow in the rare hours he got to sleep. He'd protected it all against her, who had the resourceful­ness of a dragoman and the guile of Eve, and was scared to death now of what lay ahead.

  He eased himself back by her side and picked up his cup. "There are all the krans we have left. Useless here. We need the money you took from me."

  She stared at him over the rim of the cup. "For what?"

  "We need to dress you properly before we engage to go to London. And we need to book a coach and at least one night at a cheap inn. And that might just about cover it."

  "There are shops in Greybourne?"

  "I should think, it's a fairly large port town, a lot of ships in and out from all over."

  The bell clanged; a bullhorn of a voice rang out, "Weymouth ..."

  "Give over the money, Georgiana." He said it softly, he said her name. For the first time in weeks, maybe ever, he said her name.

  It was almost like a spell, that word, breaking the inti­macy between them, cleaving through the connection, the heat, the sex. Everything.

  She felt her body grow colder as she reached for the edge of her abeya and untied a knot at the hem. Banknotes fluttered onto the bedding.

  Many, many banknotes. He'd forgotten how much money he'd had in that pouch. He'd forgotten everything but endlessly inserting himself into her pouch.

  He picked up it up and counted it meticulously.

  Everything intact. His papers. His money. The gun. He watched as she eyed it speculatively, and then he took it, the knife, and all the money and packed it up again.

  "And now?" Georgiana asked, her voice brittle.

  "We can do no more."

  The words had a double edge. On any level, they could do no more, together or apart.

  They sat in silence over a second cup of tea.

  An hour later, the bell tolled again. And that deep bull­horn voice of doom: "Greybourne ..."

  The end was here.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The thing she noticed first was the church spire looming over the thicket of masts in the harbor at Greybourne. It was nearly noon, the sky was overcast, as the Malabar chugged into the harbor and into the chaos of ships along the quay.

  Warehouses, gray as the sky, lined the wharves, which were alive with activity. At any given slip, a ship was load­ing up to leave, or off-loading barrels and crates onto drays and lorries.

  In the midst of this, there were rowboats ferrying out to ships anchored offshore, and swans following them in graceful punctuation.

  The noise of a port town was audible even on the deck of the Malabar with its noisy rusty engine straining to make the last few fathoms to the dock.

  Close in, the harbor was not a particularly pretty sight, and the smell of rotting fish and the dank air overshad­owed everything.

  So many people. So many ships. So much noise.

  She started to shiver. This was worse than Dar el Rabat. And it was so cold. And there were so many wagons and the drivers kept shouting at each other, and cursing at each other—

  This was an awful place, horrible. She didn't know why she ever thought she wanted to come here. She could never live in such a place. She wanted to go back.

  Charles could arrange it. She would just go back and everything would be the way it was before he ever invaded the Valley.

  Except, no Lydia. Oh God, no Lydia, and she'd forgot­ten all about that—and her mother, and Moreton. All of that, in the swamping undertow of fucking him endlessly in payment for his bringing her here.

  What would she trade for a return trip?

  And a return to what?

  Moreton's Valley, Moreton's way ...

  No. No. She forced herself to consider the quayside scene once more.

  It's not that bad. It's just cold. And this thing between Charles and me is over, and he'll become nothing more to me than one of any of the dozen faceless men who were serviced in that old life. And now my new life starts. And I don't know what to expect. That's why I feel so panicky. I just don't know what to expect.

  Better. Maybe. But she still felt shaky and unsure. And cold. God, she was cold. In this weather, the enshrouding robes of the abeya did not protect her against the cold or the future.

  And she looked exotic and foreign next to the plain-dressed Englishmen and women who populated the ship. The difference was stunning standing next to them on deck here; it had been inconsequential in Sierra Leone.

  So long ago, their sojourn in Liberty Town. Two or three weeks? That long ago? She felt as if her mind were babbling. She just could not encompass the breadth of the scene before her, or even comprehend what came next.

  All she could do was try to concentrate on one thing at a time. And not think about herself and her fears.

  She wrapped her arms more tightly around her body and leaned over the deck rail. Far away, over the view of the bobbing ships, there was a prettier side to the harbor. One she could see in the distance: buildings that were bet­ter kept, tall trees, winding streets, the church spire thrust­ing up into the gray clouded day.

  Greybourne was aptly named.

  People lived here, worked here, had families here. The business here was not fornication and gratification. This was the real world. So could it be that the Valley was Eden after all?


  She shook off that notion. It would do her no good to romanticize what in effect had been business transactions in the valley. The difference was the currency: sex.

  She could not present herself at Aling like this. Charles was right. She needed the proper clothes, the proper atti­tude. She had to show her father that she could be a proper daughter in a proper setting and make him proud.

  It was just—it was so crowded on the wharves. And the people were so rustic, and raw. And loud. And they crowded you, even on deck, they shoved and nudged and pushed you out of the way.

  And where was Charles, who had gone off to see about debarkation? Why had he left her in this awful place, naked and alone?

  "Do you see, my dear, do you? Was I not right?" They were in the offices of the Trans-African Shipping Company, pretending to be wealthy importers looking for a new venue to ship their goods, having found out that Greybourne, rather than Brighton, was the port of entry for England-bound passengers from West Africa.

  The clerk had just gone to fetch the company head, and they were standing at the window overlooking the bustling wharves, and they'd caught sight of the very thing they'd hoped to see: the Malabar chugging up the inlet into the harbor, newly arrived from West Africa.

  "Well then, Lord Estabrook." A portly gentleman en­tered the room, rubbing his hands together. "Goods and services, hey? Well, we all need those, don't we? What are we talking about specifically?"

  "We have to get out of here soon," Olivia whispered. "If we want to catch them ..."

  "Leave it to me," Moreton murmured, and turned to the gentleman who was now seated at a desk shuffling pa­pers and preparing for a long afternoon of haggling.

  Moreton disabused him of that idea quickly. "Mr. Cable. So pleased. Here's the story: we have a source of native decorative items, iron and ivory out of the Agonjo region that we are seeking to import here. So I won't take very much of your time right now. What I need from you is a schedule of shipping and the pricing to study the feasi­bility and cost of doing business with you."