by Archer, Zoe
His hips went back, then forward. She breathed in deeply, forcing herself to relax, as his cock filled her mouth completely, hard and thick. He moved again, thrusting into her mouth. She made a soft noise of arousal and encouragement. A noise that meant More.
With a growl, he gave her exactly that. His thrusts deepened. He held her immobile, hands and cock, and she closed her eyes as sensation pulsed in every part of her.
It was a kind of penance for the hurt she had caused, kneeling before him, allowing him to use her mouth so roughly for his own pleasure—but she did not feel subjugated by it. She knew her own power. It couldn’t be touched. This moment was for him. And for her.
Opening herself to him like this, no sense of self, no will but the need to give and receive pleasure . . . her arousal knew no boundaries.
Of its own volition, her hand drifted between her legs. The other plucked at her nipple. She moaned around his cock. Almost at once, another climax tore through her.
His strokes grew quicker, his breathing ragged. Everything within him tensed. His own release loomed. His hands eased from around her head, and he moved as if to pull away, but she wouldn’t allow it. Opening her eyes, she looked up and their gazes held. A question in his eyes. She answered it silently by keeping him in her mouth.
His body went rigid. A groan ripped from deep in his chest. His seed poured into her. Eyes closed in rapture, she swallowed—eliciting another groan from him.
He pulled out of her mouth and scooped her up in his arms. In two strides, he stood next to the bed and gently laid her down. She drifted for a moment, floating on echoing currents of sensation, and came back to awareness when she felt a wineglass pressed to her lips. Grateful, she sipped at the dark, rich wine. Eyes opened to slits, she watched as he drank wine as well, then set the glass aside. Drowsiness began to set in.
“Can’t sleep yet,” he cautioned with a wicked smile. “We’ve got more to do.”
“But you . . .” She glanced down at his groin and was amazed to see that he was still just as hard and upright as he’d been before.
“Still want you.” He pushed the braces off his shoulders and undid the buttons lining the front of his shirt. The shirt was dropped to the floor, and she saw again the astonishing musculature of his arms and torso, limned in starlight. The telumium implants gleamed on his shoulder.
He pulled off his boots, which thudded to the ground, and then stripped out of his breeches. He was naked.
She levered herself up on her elbows, no longer sleepy. The muscles of his thighs were thick and carved, his calves solid. And when he turned to shove all of their discarded clothing aside, she couldn’t stop the gasp that sprang from her lips.
“You could charge admission to look at your arse.” It was rock hard, with beautifully defined divots on each buttock.
He slanted her a grin. “Good to know I’ve a plan if my naval pension isn’t enough.”
Yet both of their smiles faded. They both seemed to realize at the same time that the prospect of a pension was unlikely. Neither of them believed they would survive the next twenty-four hours.
Lying back on the bed, she opened her arms to him. He went to her at once, sinuous and powerful, and stretched out beside her. The berth was narrow, but they pressed tight against one another, flesh to flesh. She always loved the contrast of their bodies, and now that the differences were even greater, she reveled in the sensation.
Braced on one elbow, he leaned over her. His fingers curved over the back of her neck, his thumb against the pulse drumming in her throat, and he kissed her deeply.
“I dreamed,” he rumbled, “but never dared to hope. To have this with you again.”
“Every night, I wished for you.” She felt her heart in her gaze as she looked up at him. “It was my own fault I was alone, but that couldn’t stop me from wanting. I would lie in my bed and ache to have you next to me, inside me. I’d touch myself and try to pretend it was you. Your hand on my skin. On my breasts. My sex. I’d come, crying your name.”
His breathing became jagged, and he took her mouth again in a deep and searching kiss. She gripped his biceps, arching up to him.
“Did you think of me?” she whispered against his mouth. “Would you take your cock into your hand and stroke it, imagining it was my hand that gripped you? My pussy around you?”
As she spoke, she reached down and wrapped her hand around his cock, stroking him in time with her words. He groaned.
“Tried to deny myself,” he said through his teeth. “So angry after you left. Tried to picture anyone else. That I was fucking some other woman.”
She hadn’t the means to be outraged over his confession. Her actions had been shameful.
“But I couldn’t,” he said. “It was you I imagined in my bed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get you from my mind.”
“Or your cock,” she added, scraping her fingernails down his shaft.
He sucked in a breath. “Damned traitor—it wanted you even when my heart was bleeding.”
“You can’t know how sorry I am.” Tears choked her throat. “For the suffering I caused us both.”
“We’ll not talk about that now.” He stroked over her breasts, her belly, his touch both reverent and commanding. “These hours belong to the present, and I won’t waste them on regret.”
In response, she kissed him, sweeping her tongue into his mouth that she might drink him up. His tongue rubbed against hers, and they fell together into sensation, a long, liquid spiral.
Flames of need coursed through her. “I want more,” she gasped. “I want you inside me. Where you’ve always belonged.”
In a blur of movement, he shifted, kneeling between her legs. He gripped her hips, angling them up. The head of his cock nestled at her entrance. A heartbeat passed. He stared at her as though with sight alone he could devour her, and she gazed back as they shared a brief eternity. This was a ship of war, he himself was a weapon, but this . . . this was theirs.
He surged into her. A single, thick thrust. She bowed up with a cry, hands pressed to the bed. Ah, god, he filled her. Completely. Almost to the point of pain. But it was exquisite.
More sounds of ecstasy tore from her as he stroked in and out of her. Her pleasure climbed even higher, watching the flex and movement of his muscles, the metal on his shoulder supple and gleaming, as though some fantastic creature from ancient myth made love to her in the depths of night. And the noises he made verged on bestial, exciting her to madness.
She threw herself into the pleasure they made, pushing against the bed that she might take him further, deeper. Still, she wanted more.
As he did. He suddenly gathered her up, his arms supporting her beneath her buttocks, and stood. He was still buried deep within her as he strode to the bulkhead and braced her against it. With the bulkhead firm against her back, he sank even deeper into her. She cried out, and wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Wanted this,” he growled. “So badly.” He kept one arm supporting her from below, holding her up with his incomparable strength. With his other hand, he gripped her wrists, stretching her arms up over her head and pinning them to the bulkhead.
The posture sang with the truth: She was his. Unquestionably his. That had never changed.
“Kit,” she moaned. “I love you.”
His gaze flared with pleasure. He kissed her, hard, consuming her gasp as he thrust into her. Again and again, he sank into her welcoming depths, gaining speed and strength with each stroke. Here again, the benefits of his transformation, for he moved as no ordinary man could, piston-fast. Overwhelmed, lost to ecstasy, she could do nothing but feel, and what she felt was pleasure, devastating pleasure.
Release was incendiary. It utterly destroyed her. She bit down hard on his shoulder to muffle her scream. He snarled in approval. And as she came and came again, he continued to move, creating even greater pleasure.
Then the climax had him, and his whole body went rigid with release.
&n
bsp; It could have been moments or years later when he let go of her wrists, and her arms slid bonelessly down. She barely had the strength to lift them so she could wrap them around his shoulders.
He carried her back to the bed, and there they lay down together. She draped over him. He cradled her close, murmuring wordless endearments against the crown of her head. It was almost like how it used to be after a night of intense lovemaking, when they would lie in each other’s arms, drowsing and sated, content and secure.
She felt herself slipping into sleep. Never had she been more replete. But she couldn’t feel content, nor secure. A perilous mission loomed just beyond the sunrise, and she could only wonder—had she found Christopher again, and the truth of her own heart, just in time to lose everything?
Chapter Nine
SLEEP WAS FOR ordinary men. Since receiving his implants, Christopher had discovered that he needed less sleep. Three or four hours, rather than six or seven, were all he required to be at optimum capacity. At first, the change had been unsettling. By force of habit, he’d make himself get into his berth and stay there for the whole of the night. This became phenomenally dull, and he had soon begun to use those hours to write in his log or patrol the ship. Sometimes he even took the wheel from whoever had been assigned night watch.
After the chaos of his days, he’d started to enjoy the quiet and solitude of night, when the ship felt like his alone, and the canopy of stars seemed adorned for his private delight. It could be lonely, however, those long stretches of solitude, and those had been the hours when his thoughts had often turned to Louisa, reawakening a slumbering pain.
He was grateful now that he didn’t need much sleep. It meant he could bask in the pleasure of holding her one final night without a moment wasted.
She lay in his arms, softly asleep, her breath feathering across his chest. He wanted her again—but she needed her rest. And he wasn’t entirely certain her body could withstand any more. That he hadn’t hurt her seemed miraculous. Had she made the slightest sound of pain, he would have stopped immediately, agonizing though it might have been. Yet she’d reveled in him, in the almost brutal way he’d loved her. The bite mark on his shoulder ached pleasantly, evidence as to just how much she had enjoyed herself.
Brushing strands of hair from her face, he gazed down at her. At rest, the acuity of her usual expression fell away. She looked unguarded. Her sharp beauty softened. She seemed almost vulnerable.
She was both. Edged as well as vulnerable. He would never again make the mistake of believing she was simply one or the other.
She stirred, blinking up at him groggily. “Kit?”
“Shhh, love. Sleep.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Perhaps it was a measure of how he’d worn her out, for instead of insisting that she would stay awake, she promptly dozed off. Though when he drew the blanket up to cover her shoulder, she shrugged it away. Always had a mind of her own, even when sleeping.
He stared at the ceiling of his quarters, marking the subtle changes in light. Dawn would arrive soon, and with it, the most dangerous stage of the mission.
Fear for her clawed through him. She could protect herself, could fight as ably as any trained sailor or soldier. But his was a primal fear. It couldn’t be reasoned with or explained away. She was his. He wanted her safe.
She loved him.
God, hearing her say those words had been pure ether. His heart had soared, and even now, it felt as though it flew up amongst the constellations.
But he hadn’t been able to say the words in return. She had demanded that he give her everything, as she gave him all of herself.
The words were there, filling his mouth with their shape and honeyed flavor. They couldn’t move past his lips, however.
In the dark, he smiled, sardonic. This day would see him finding the enemy munitions plant and work to destroy it. A very good chance existed that he’d be killed in the process. Yet his two greatest fears had nothing to do with his death.
He feared for Louisa’s safety.
And he feared the damage she could do to his heart.
He’d laid himself open to her three years ago, and the direct consequence had been unfathomable pain. Even with death looming close, and her sincere apologies, he couldn’t fully trust her not to break his heart again. The lesson she’d taught him before had been too hard won.
Yet he had to wonder—how culpable had he been in her flight? She had been clear in her desire to avoid marriage, not merely to him, but to anyone. He’d asked for her hand anyway, convinced that he could change her mind. She had fled, but he’d driven her away, too.
He muttered a curse under his breath. Nothing was as simple as right or wrong, innocent or guilty. Only degrees of culpability.
Therein lay the beauty of a mission. It had a clarity of purpose. A direct goal. Find the munitions plant. Destroy it. He knew precisely what was required and how to go about executing the objective.
Love, however, was a rocky shore, full of uncertainty and hidden peril. No wonder so many men took to the sea or the skies. Easier when you knew the enemy would simply shoot at you, rather than sneak up with silken touches and then rip the beating heart from your chest, then tearfully apologize for the mortal wound.
He pushed all these thoughts from his mind. What he needed right now was clarity. He had only a few hours left with Louisa, and he fully intended to enjoy them for what they were. A beautiful woman slept in his arms, exhausted by their fiery lovemaking. She loved him. And he . . . cared deeply for her. That’s as much as he could allow himself.
It would have to be enough.
STANDING AT THE forecastle of the ship, Christopher gazed at the chain of the dark, serrated mountains rising ahead. They looked like the black teeth of a huge beast, ready to clamp shut around the Demeter and make a quick meal of its crew. An unsettling thought for a ship’s captain.
Louisa stood beside him, her spyglass trained on the mountains. Only hours earlier, they’d been naked in each other’s arms. He still felt her there, the imprint of her body against his. Perhaps the last time he’d ever hold her.
He couldn’t think of that now.
Her mouth formed a thin line beneath the lens. “No way to know which of those damned peaks is the one we want. Not from this distance. Can you see anything?”
“Just the tops of the mountains, which don’t tell us anything. If we bring the ship closer, going from mountain to mountain, we’ll be spotted long before we even find the right one.” He gritted his teeth. “Hell. We can’t use the train tracks leading out as a guide. There’s got to be another way to figure out which of these houses our target.”
He leaned against the rail and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the explosives expert. If you had to pick one of these mountains as a place to assemble munitions, which would it be?”
“They all look the same.” She snapped the spyglass shut. “And I’ve never built arms or explosives on a massive scale before. Components and chemicals, these I know. The construction of a weapons factory? That’s outside of my bailiwick.”
Frowning, he straightened. “Chemicals.”
“The essential constituents of all explosives. Yesterday proved how specific the process needs to be. A single element out of place results in disaster.” Her brow creased. “You’re thinking something.”
“The byproduct of the energy generated by my telumium implants is ether. It’s the same with chemical reactions, too, isn’t it? To create something, there are byproducts and excesses. Surplus and runoff.”
Her eyes widened. “There are cloth mills that don’t use tetrol or coal. They still rely on energy created by rivers to power their machinery. And the chemicals they use to dye the fabric wind up in the river. It runs all the way to the ocean, polluting the bay.”
“But if you started in the bay,” he said, his excitement growing, “or even farther up the river, you could follow those chemicals all the way to their source.”
“
Right to the factory itself. And a factory needn’t use the river as its power to contaminate it, either. Chemicals are often either dumped or leech into nearby bodies of water.” She gave an astonished laugh. “You’ve undervalued yourself, Kit.”
Heat pulsed to life beneath his skin as he remembered her moaning that name—his name, shared only between them—as he’d buried himself in her. Color bloomed in her cheeks now, as well. Good. He didn’t want her to forget a moment of what they’d shared.
But at this moment, what they needed to concentrate on was locating the munitions plant.
He pointed to the glint of water ribboning below. “Half a dozen rivers are fed by the mountains’ snowmelt.”
“Only one of them will take us to the factory. We’re going to have to test each of them to find the one we want.” Her mouth curved as she stared at the valley floor. “We’ve got a busy morning.”
THE JOLLY BOAT skimmed over the treetops, its hull barely clearing the upper branches. As Christopher manned the tiller, he continually scanned the ground for signs of Hapsburg troops, or indeed anyone who might be alarmed to see an English boat flying above a Carpathian forest. Armed marines also kept lookout, one at the mounted swivel gun.
Louisa, too, had a rifle across her knees. She remained as vigilant as the rest of the boat’s company. No one wanted to stumble into the hands of the enemy, not when they edged closer to gaining their objective. To have survived as much as they had, only to fall short at this juncture—it couldn’t be allowed to happen.
Something gleamed ahead. Above the rushing wind came the laughter of running water. A river.
He dipped the jolly boat down below the treetops, slowing the vessel for its approach.
“Just ahead,” he called over the wind. “Sharp eyes, everyone.” Where there was a river, there could be troops provisioning or watering their horses. Or a local, terrified at the sight of a British Man O’ War and red-coated marines.
The silver river twisted through the forest, and after a thorough scan of the area, Christopher landed the jolly boat on its wide, sandy bank. He held his hand up, a silent signal for everyone within the boat to wait before disembarking. If the enemy was near, he wanted to make certain that he, Louisa, and the marines could make a fast escape. He strained his sensitive hearing, searching for the tiniest sound—the snap of a twig, the creak of a leather strap—that might indicate soldiers were near.
