The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  “A bit more room than this cramped and uncomfortable settee,” she replied. “Mmm,” Phaeton murmured. “With those lovely limbs wrapped around me, I could go the night.”

  “Goodness, that long?” She rose from the settee and faced him. The nightshirt covering her breasts slipped to the floor. Golden green eyes watched him as he took in the sight of her.

  Phaeton thought America as strong and fine a woman goddess as he had ever seen. In the dim light and shadow of the room her movements were mesmerizing. The curve of that lovely, high-dimpled derrière, breasts bouncing suggestively—he took a deep breath.

  Searching her travel bag, she brought out a flask of essential oil; pouring some into the palms of her hands, she rubbed the fragrant oil onto her throat, breasts, and stomach as she stood before him. She was thin, but she was also immensely fit from the physical exertion of crewing a ship. Her skin glistened, and Phaeton felt his cock throb from his raw need to take her—and none too gently.

  “I wish to use our act of love this evening and the passions evoked to focus our will. Using this night of bliss to make both a wish and a prayer for certain happy events to occur.” She spoke in a kind of ritual language—her Cajun mother’s witchcraft speak.

  His eyes never left her. “What is this wish of yours, my love?”

  “I have already received my wish. Your healthy return to me from the Outremer.” She pulled him onto his feet and kissed his mouth.

  “And your prayer?”

  She talked to him in a whisper. “That no harm shall ever come to the pea in the pod.”

  Her kisses moved to his ear and neck. “Angele Dei, qui custos es mei.” She recited a prayer to his guardian angel as his breathing grew harsh and more rapid. “Me tibi commissum pietate superna,” She unbuttoned his shirt. Wetting her lips, she kissed his chest. “Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna.” Her tongue circled his nipples and she used her teeth to scrape gently. She whispered the name of God along with her own name. She returned to his lips, then his forehead and brushed it with kisses. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  She finished the sign of the cross on her haunches—one sleek, muscled thigh thrust forward between his legs. She then unbuttoned his trousers and took him in her mouth. Phaeton held onto a nearby bedpost and stretched his frame as her tongue licked and her lips surrounded his shaft. He thrust deeper into her mouth, and she gave him such exquisite pleasure he begged her not to stop. Ever.

  Throughout the rest of the night they traded off stimulating each other again and again. The slightest touch or kiss from her, and he easily fell into more lovemaking. Finally they lay still, the air of the bedchamber infused with the scent of intercourse. He had thrown off blankets for they were not needed. America lay naked with her arms and legs wrapped around his frame. The tips of her fingers traveled lightly over his chest hair, then trailed down a narrow strip of fuzz that ran down his torso. It was his favorite place she took her fingers walking.

  Phaeton stroked her back, contentedly. “After we find the Moonstone and close the bloody connection with the Outremer, I plan on keeping your belly fat with babies.”

  Wide-eyed, she lifted her head. “My prayer worked, then.”

  “I knew I should have paid more attention in Latin.” His lazy lopsided grin met her look of amused affection. “Do remember I slipped in a caveat, darling. I used the word after.”

  “After you find the Moonstone,” she recited.

  He lifted a brow.

  She sighed. “And close the inter-dimensional portals.”

  “Hoo-hoo.” Phaeton lifted his head and stuffed another pillow under his neck. “Very scientific terminology, Miss Jones.”

  “It’s in the book I started this evening.”

  “You mean the book you fell asleep reading.” He teased her with a one-eyed pirate grin.

  She pushed away to make eye contact. “A Guide to the Probable Locations of Inter-Dimensional Portals, by Timothy Noggy.” Phaeton scooped her into his arms. “Tell me more.”

  “ ’Tis a book full of hidden knowledge. All about the rabbit holes and time travel and—”

  Phaeton cut in. “And some sort of solution to this unraveling business, I hope?” He rubbed the bristle of his beard against her temple. “I saw some frightful sights tonight.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Not now, darling.” Why would he possibly wish to give her nightmares?

  America nuzzled his ear. “And I look forward to covering your lap with a squirming toddler while you attempt to conduct business with Detective Inspector Farrell.”

  Phaeton actually found himself smiling at the thought of bouncing a squalling, raucous babe on his knee. “Are we not to have a nurse or nursery?”

  America placed an arm around him and ran her hand down his back and over his buttocks. “I stand ready to volunteer my nipples and since I have already reserved your knee . . . all we need is a cradle.”

  Phaeton looked at her for a very long time. “I love you, America.” He stroked her breasts and moved lower to her belly, which was slippery from scented oil. She shuddered gently from his touch.

  “I love you, Phaeton.” She kissed him sweetly.

  He brushed strands of curls off her face. “When two people are expecting a child together—preferably before the blessed event is large and round and obvious . . . it is customary to . . .” The knot in his throat was palpable. “. . . Marry.”

  America’s lip twitched, as she tried not to look overly joyous or amused. “Yes, Phaeton.”

  He could not believe he heard himself chuckle. “Why am I laughing at this? This is horrifying.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “YOU WERE RATHER WOLFISHLY INSATIABLE LAST NIGHT.” America sat on the bed with her legs tucked under her. She had taken him in her mouth, and he had been quick to his release, but Phaeton had more than made up for his hasty climax. In fact, she could still feel the pleasurable ache from his hot-blooded invasion.

  He stepped out of his morning bath and slung the towel around his backside. Rivulets of sudsy water meandered through his chest hair and down his torso. America paused to admire a ripple of thigh muscle and that handsome bum as he toweled off. Everything about him was well made, including that mighty sword between his legs.

  “What on earth happened over there to put you in such a mood?” She resumed drying her hair. Phaeton had a genuine talent for naughty, energetic lovemaking, but last night had been particularly delicious.

  “The expedition began on an interesting note.” Phaeton wrapped the towel around his waist. “I arrived in Hanway Yard, and was immediately drawn to an exotic little shop specializing in ladies’ . . . unmentionables.” Phaeton grinned. “A number of very abbreviated pantalettes and camisoles were artfully strewn about the display window.” He had that look in his eye—the heavy-lidded lustful look. “Naturally, I was intrigued.”

  America blinked. “You went inside?”

  “The rest of the team hadn’t arrived. I saw no reason not to explore.”

  America considered feigning a bit of outrage, but drat, she was curious. “And?”

  “A shop girl helped me pick out a present for you.”

  Her heart raced at the thought of little French undergarments. “I didn’t see a package.” She sat up straight and looked about the room.

  “They’re in my coat pocket.” He lifted his coat off the back of a chair and dug in one of the pockets. “I thought they might unravel on the return trip. It was the first thing I checked upon arrival.” He untangled strings and lace and held up a triangle of ivory satin and string. “The shop girl called it a v-string pantie.”

  America stared. “A what?”

  Phaeton raised a wicked, charming brow. “Note the strategically placed rhinestone.”

  Stunned, she rose from the bed. “Is there anything with a bit more fabric?” Her gaze moved to hints of black silk and violet lace in his hand.

  “Think of t
hem as the briefest pantalettes imaginable.” Phaeton held up each color. “And as these frivolous little items cost me a half year’s rent—I would appreciate a bit of trying on and posing.” Despite the cost, his grin was back.

  He loosened a corner of the bath sheet and the towel covering her fell to the floor. “It’s hard to believe I look forward to putting clothes on this luscious body.” He stretched out the tiny pantalettes and bent over. “One foot at a time—hold onto me as you step in.”

  “I’d hardly call this clothing.” America snorted. “In fact, I’m not sure why the ladies bother at all.” He slipped them over her knees and up her thighs, angling the strings at each hip. He stepped back and just looked at her. Finally, he spoke. “I think the Outremer has taken the concept of dishabille to new heights of inspiration.”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Phaeton?”

  He continued to study her. “Cross your arms and cover your breasts with your hands.”

  She cupped her bosom, creating a bursting-out-of-a-corset effect. “Like this?” America looked up. Phaeton lifted an index finger and circled the air. “Turn around—slowly.”

  She pivoted in a circle and returned to him. Lowering her eyes to the towel covering his manly parts she saw her new undergarment was having its effect.

  “Once more, but this time, as you face away, widen your stance and turn your upper body toward me, then give me your best, sultriest stare over your shoulder.”

  Somewhat amused by his requests, America circled and turned.

  Phaeton lowered his chin. “Now think about my finger slipping under the string between your legs.”

  Arousal fluttered through her body. She opened her mouth and narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.

  Phaeton removed the towel around his waist, and the velvet beast angled up hard. “Allow me to rub up against your bottom.” His warm breath raised the hair on her neck. He slipped his hand beneath the pale ivory triangle. America lay back against his chest and rubbed her bottom against him. He slipped two fingers into moist flesh and circled.

  His lips stopped just under her ear to whisper. “In the Outremer they have casinos called clubs. The dance music is loud—all percussion—and the beat throbs through your body.”

  Phaeton began to rock against her. “Move with me.”

  Her lower body swayed with his, and then—playfully, she shook her bottom against him—taunting his cock. He lay her head back on his shoulder. “Tongue me, deep, love.” She tilted her chin up and he covered soft plump lips with his mouth.

  It was broad daylight, but there was something deliciously erotic about Phaeton’s requests—his demands. She licked up through that devilish beard of his to the sensitive underside of his upper lip, until he nibbled the tip of her tongue.

  He lifted her up and placed her on rumpled bed sheets. “Open for me, Miss Jones.” He moved between her knees. His fingers slipped down the inside of her thighs, and pushed the fabric and string aside. She moaned as his fingers circled and rubbed. He knew exactly what she wanted—what she needed. He moved over her body and pinned her arms.

  “The entire house is up and about, darling. A cry from you could bring the maids running.”

  “Or perhaps one of the Nightshades.” Phaeton narrowed his eyes and whispered. “And you wouldn’t want that—would you?” Her arousal shot to new heights. She knew what he was doing—he was making her think about being seen. Caught in the act of such scandalous lovemaking.

  He nipped at her nipples and caused a shutter to ripple down her body. He licked his way past her trembling belly. Once again, he pushed fabric and string aside as he lapped with his tongue. Slow, long licks that caused her to flood with arousal. His hands moved under her bottom and lifted her up to his face—he sucked gently on her pleasure spot. Within minutes she was writhing in his arms as he took her over the edge of pleasure.

  As was his custom, Phaeton waited patiently for her to return to him. His fingers played over her body and with the pantalettes’ strings at her hips. When she opened her eyes, he was propped on an elbow, smiling at her. “Last night, we entered a kind of casino off Tottenham Court Road. The dancing, if you could call it that, is everyone for themselves. Women and men, makes no matter, move up to you and rub against you—just as we did together.”

  America wrinkled her brow. “Do they . . . know each other?”

  He rolled his eyes upward. “I received a booty rub from Jinn that was rather memorable.”

  “Booty?”

  Phaeton grinned. “Their slang for bum.”

  America frowned. “Ping—or rather—Jinn was rubbing her bum on you?” She propped herself up. “I’m suddenly feeling rather cross about that.”

  “You asked what put me in such a mood. If you’d rather not know what goes on—”

  “No.” America bit her lower lip. “I want to know.”

  Phaeton turned his head and lowered his chin. “You’re sure?”

  “I dislike secrets. I want you to feel like you can tell me everything and anything.”

  His smile broadened. “All this lovemaking has left me famished. Get dressed and you can interrogate me to your heart’s content—as long as it’s over kippers and egg.”

  On their way down the grand stairs, America blurted out her first question. “What is a lap dance, Phaeton?”

  He paused on the landing. “Where—how did you hear of such a thing?”

  “Something you murmured in your sleep—just before you awoke this morning.”

  Phaeton slowed his pace downstairs. “A lap dance is done in a private room for male pleasure, primarily. The customer sits in a chair and the dancer does a booty rub all over him—but the man can’t touch her—hands off or your arse is out the door.”

  “And . . . did you . . . ?” America felt the heat rush to her cheeks.

  Phaeton paused outside the dining room. “Yes.”

  Try as she might, she could not hide her vexation. And she thought he looked greatly relieved when he opened the door. Nearly everyone in the house was still at breakfast.

  Exeter peered over the top of the Daily Telegraph. “Good morning.”

  Phaeton filled a plate for America and returned to the breakfront.

  Exeter lowered his newspaper. “I understand you had an unusually productive and stimulating expedition. Let’s hear it Phaeton. Not just the highlights—details, as well.”

  Phaeton swallowed a forkful of smoked fish. He did a quick scan of the breakfasters around the table. “How much have you been told?” He was fishing for a clue as to what the ladies knew of their adventures last night.

  “You missed a lively discussion about The Orchid Lounge,” Cutter piped up.

  “Wonderful!” America brightened. “It’s all out in the open then? Jersey and Cutter mentioned the booty rubs and lap dances?”

  Cutter blinked.

  Jersey cleared his throat.

  Phaeton rolled his eyes.

  America smiled. “Phaeton has promised to be uncensored and completely forthcoming about their gentlemen’s night in the Outremer. Interrogate him to your heart’s content ladies—as long as it’s over kippers and eggs.” She winked.

  The silence at the table was broken only by the clink of Valentine’s teaspoon as she stirred. “What’s a booty rub?”

  As delicately as possible, Phaeton took on the task of explaining. “It seemed obvious to ask about the Ryder sisters—considering Georgiana directed us to the club. As it turns out one of the succubi worked as a lap dancer. Velvet—”

  Ruby snorted. “Perfect name, wouldn’t you say?”

  Phaeton set down his fork. “As it turns out, one can’t simply have a conversation with one of these girls, one has to pay an exorbitant fee and gratuity for a ten minute—dance.”

  America’s grin was flat and unnatural. “Naturally, Phaeton volunteered for duty.”

  Phaeton looked up from his coffee cup and stared across the table. “Tell America what I said at the club,
Cutter, about the dancing.”

  The big raspy voiced Nightshade straightened in his chair. “The most fun you’ve had with your clothes on?”

  Phaeton eyeballed Cutter. “No-o-o.”

  She was not quite sure what came over her, but she tossed her teacup across the table at Phaeton and missed. The china hit the buffet with a crash and splintered into a million pieces. Thoroughly embarrassed, America rose from the table to flee the room. Phaeton jumped from his seat and beat her to the door. He stood with his back to the raised panels and held his hand up. “Wait.”

  America raised her chin. “Just let me leave, Phaeton.”

  A rap sounded at the very door he guarded. “You’re not going anywhere—until you hear what I said last night.”

  America shifted her weight from one hip to another. She exhaled. Loudly. “Fine.”

  Phaeton opened the door. Julian Ping stood in the corridor—looking as masculine as Ping ever looked—which was at best androgynous.

  Ping bowed to America. “I believe Phaeton is referencing the remark he made later in the evening after he questioned the succubus.”

  America sighed. “All right, Ping, what did he say?”

  “He said as pleasurable as the dance was, all he could picture was America’s lovely plump booty doing the rubbing.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. She didn’t know whether to kiss Phaeton or slap his cheek. No doubt he would enjoy either one. He tilted his head and smiled at her. “The thought is so arousing I believe I’ll fill another plate.”

  Exeter gestured to America to come and sit beside him. A servant entered the room to sweep up the broken china. Completely humiliated, she joined their host at the end of the table. “I am so sorry, Doctor Exeter.”

  “Jason,” he reminded her.

  “Sorry, Jason.” Shaking her head, she grimaced. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Pregnancy came over you, America.” The doctor smiled. “Remember what we discussed last night—sudden mood changes, emotional outbursts, unexpected tears.” Exeter looked up, “Are you listening, Phaeton?”