Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1

by Sandra Jones

He made a sound—half-laugh and half-something-else—hearing the same words he’d said to her. “You can plainly see I do.”

  “Then tell me what you like.”

  He fondled a strand of her hair. “Anything and everything about you, Dell.”

  She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder when he tickled her with the ends of her hair. Desire and frustration swelled up inside. “But I’m not experienced. Not like…Viv. I don’t know how to ‘accommodate your needs.’” She ducked her head, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. “And I want to, Rory.”

  His hand covered hers, guiding her down his length. She glanced up to see the seriousness of his expression. His Adam’s apple moved. “No, you’re nothing like her. Or any woman I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t have you be any other way. You’re a quick study…and a seer. Perhaps you could experiment, if you must.”

  She followed his motion, moving slowly up and down his flesh. He kissed her, putting a hand behind her neck, and guided her above him as he reclined on the bed. She kept her grasp on him, languidly stroking. His smoky gaze followed her, offering no advice and no censure as she settled into a tempo above him. His hand caressed hers, edging up her arm—so hot, scorching her as it traveled up. He was so impossibly beautiful, inside or outside of his clothing. She craved him, wanted to eat him, and as if reading her thoughts, he squirmed ever-so-slightly, his free hand spreading atop the bed.

  Intrigued, she leaned closer so that there was just a small breadth of space between their bodies. His hand left her arm to cup her breast, and he kneaded her. Her insides twisted painfully with want, intensifying as his lips parted. She longed to put her nipple in his mouth. Wanted it badly. But that would be for her. This was for him.

  She slid lower, enjoying the brush of his thighs against her naked skin as she moved between his long legs. Hovering above his hips as she continued to manipulate his engorged shaft, she recalled her own reaction when his breath had touched her there.

  She rested her head against his pelvis and heard him gasp as she exhaled, her breath fanning across his sex.

  His hand touched her shoulder, slid shakily into her hair. Ah. She smiled. A drop of dew rose from the end of him, his unspoken wish glistening, waiting for her to take it. And take it she did, drawing him into her mouth. She licked the salty drop away and swirled her tongue around the head.

  His fingers curled in her hair. “Oh, God, yes!” The words exploded from his chest.

  His pleasure sent molten desire to her womanhood, and her body buzzed with excitement. She continued to pump her hand up and down his length, while licking and sucking. He touched her shoulder, caressed her, but lost in her actions, his motion carried a half-hazard, broken rhythm. She quickened her pace, glancing up once. Seeing his eyes rolling back like some maddened stallion with his nostrils flared, her blood fired with triumph and ecstasy. She flicked her tongue along his ridge, ignited by want and greed for his complete abandon.

  “Dell…” He moaned, urging her upward to look at him.

  She lifted her head, keeping him in her control. His eyes were narrowed in frustration, his face strained. His sides heaved as he collected himself. Perhaps this was the equivalent of how she felt when he brought her to the edge. She made to cover him with her mouth again, but he resisted. Rising up, he turned her over on the bed, and slashed his mouth against her neck, making her pulse throb against the soft nibble of his teeth.

  “Philadelphia,” he cautioned in a rumbling tone.

  Why did he oppose his own pleasure?

  “You want me to stop.” She hated how small and hurt her voice sounded, though his mouth made her body quiver with delight.

  “It isn’t that I don’t enjoy it.” He leaned on an elbow to gaze down at her. His breath stirred her hair, and he brushed it aside with an unsteady fingertip. “It’s that you make me insane. Absolutely, stark raving mad.”

  “I do? I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry.” He bent and kissed her none too gently.

  The wrathful force of his mouth against hers was only the beginning of what she felt certain he withheld. His restraint wavered, yielding tremors through his grip, coursing up her arms.

  He was nearly in the condition she’d found him in the night before when he’d ransacked the room. A healing outlet must be what he required. If only there was some way to offer him complete liberation from his mental anguish—a meltdown of abandon.

  He needed relief from his mind. He needed this. He needed to control her and not be controlled. If she pushed him hard enough, he would release his demons.

  “Do want to talk about it?” She didn’t bother naming the source of his troubles, certain he understood.

  He stilled above her. “No. I’d rather talk about you—or not talk at all.” His kisses made a lazy half-circle along the outer curve of her breast. “I won’t have him come between us.”

  But he’s already here. Right in this room.

  To rebuild Rory, first he had to be broken. She would provoke him, as she had before when he’d taken her from the gaming salon and claimed her maidenhead. He would be angry, but it was the only way.

  “You can tell me anything. I promise it’ll change nothing.” She caressed his broad shoulders.

  “No, I said!” His muscles bunched beneath her touch.

  “Let me in.” She gripped his arms harshly. “I want to share it with you. To share everything.”

  “No, damn it!” Rory cursed through clenched teeth, rising up. He moved away, shutting her out.

  This wasn’t what she wanted, nor was it what he needed. She must use a different approach.

  “You don’t want to talk to me or sleep with me. I understand perfectly. You have Vivienne who can surely commiserate with you, and I”—she sat up and fluffed her hair—“will have to find someone of my own to talk to. Kit is very forthright. Maybe he and I—”

  “Philadelphia…” He turned to her, his lips in a tight line. “You know I don’t want Viv. You’re all I think of.”

  “But she accommodated your needs, needs you won’t share with me. You can’t expect me to give you all of myself while you hold back.”

  “I hold nothing back!” he growled—a stark contradiction to his words. “Nothing you would want anyway.”

  “Let me be the judge.” She slid a leg across his hips, trailing her fingers down his abdomen and stopping just above his cock. “You do things with her that you don’t with me, don’t you?”

  He stiffened at her touch and words. His eyes grew darker. “You’ve no idea what you’re asking.”

  “Haven’t I? I’m not an innocent anymore, and we both know how quickly I learn.” She passed her hand down his length, cradling his weight and making his breath stutter. “I’m strong enough, and you know it. Show me, Rory.” She stared directly into his eyes, hoping her courage and strength reflected in her gaze.

  The longer he looked into her eyes, the more granite his flesh became, and another guttural sound issued from his throat, causing a tremor of excitement low in her belly. He gripped her buttock, and pulled one of her legs around him as he rolled her on her back. Entering her, he drove hard into her crux, burying himself recklessly in her wet, heady core. Her body pulsed against him, reveling in the decadence of his breakdown. His eyes darkened, lidded with emotion. “Is this what you want from me?” he ground out, a line of concentration between his eyes. “To see how depraved I truly am?”

  “Yes, Rory. Please!”

  He made a short laugh and pounded against her walls. The quilt at her back rubbed with the friction of his thrusts—burning like flame thrown on her flesh, carnal and divine. He was glorious atop her, proud and wild, his muscles undulating beneath glistening skin. His hand scorched her with heat as he raked down her body. “I want this! Yes, I enjoy you this way! How do you like accommodating my needs now?” he growled and slamm
ed into her.

  Exquisite.

  His touch, his scent, the sound of his ragged breathing, and his pounding thrusts bearing ever deeper but never reaching her limits—all combined to madden her, as well. She whimpered on the edge of ecstasy. He hovered over her, his body flattening against hers as he pushed and thrust, deeper and higher.

  “You…tell…me,” he demanded, his voice laced with anger, not a tone he reserved for her. “Who owns you?”

  His expression fierce and eyes steady, he looked into her, through her, seeing something she could not. He simultaneously took and gave everything he had, exerting his rage into his passion and strength, conquering his demons. Finding his redemption …and salvation. Perhaps he was doling out revenge in his mind against the man who’d tried to break him, showing him who was boss, who was the victor. Or perhaps he fought himself, reclaiming that part of himself he’d thought Moreaux had taken.

  “You do!” She gasped and jutted her hips into him. Sobbing for him now—for both of them—she leaned into his neck. “Please, Rory.”

  He cupped her face and turned her to look at him. His simmering fury gave way to devotion, as his eyes shone with inner light. “My darling, dearest angel.”

  His thumb passed across her bottom lip, and he followed it with his mouth, drawing her into his kiss and embrace as he filled her once more. Then he broke away with a rapturous cry.

  The aftermath of his powerful release moved through her like honey, almost yet not quite providing the relief she craved. He moved inside her slowly, his lips pressing gentle, loving kisses along her hairline and to her eyelashes, wet with unshed tears.

  Then she felt his hot breath against her ear. “Now for you, my sweet minx.”

  He kissed her full on the mouth, achingly caring. His body withdrew and then returned as he bent over her, gliding tenderly inside. Taking his time, Rory’s mouth moved down her neck, over her breasts until he pulled one into his hot velvet mouth. Dell felt herself arching up for him, lifting, seeking as he pulled away, and then he finally filled her anew.

  His rhythmic motions brought her up, their souls, twining, soaring. Together they created a frisson that spiraled into a shattering quake. She came for him with his name on her lips and collapsed in his arms.

  They loved again and again with Dell provoking his rough play and alternately accepting his delicate gentleness. She took all he was willing to bestow through the night. Healing him. Loving him.

  And whether he wanted it or not, she gave more than her body, surrendering her heart and soul to her captain, her pirate…her Rory.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Standing beside the Pomeroys’ horse in the dark street, Rory’s breath caught as Dell shared one of her dazzling smiles with him.

  His pride stung a bit, seeing as how this particular smile didn’t come free.

  For fifty dollars, he’d bought the Allen and Thurber pistol Dell handled now with almost as much attentiveness as she’d shown him just a couple hours earlier in the bedroom. It was nearly enough to make him jealous of the weapon the way she cradled the wood pommel in her palm, turning it between her slender hands, weighing the cast steel.

  For more of those smiles and the way they sent blood rushing to his groin, he’d buy her an entire armory. The feeling had become familiar lately, as he brightened at the mere idea someone so perfect would care about the likes of him.

  “It’s not my Brunswick, but it’s a good weapon,” she said, squinting down the barrel as she aimed at the crescent moon.

  “Better than the pepperbox at close range. I’m glad you like it, but I pray you won’t have to use it.” He moved closer and tucked a loose strand of her hair inside the top hat.

  She looked up at him with a grateful smile, lowering the weapon. “I just wish I had time to practice. It beats anything I’ve ever owned, for sure.”

  “Think of it as repayment for bringing me the extra clothes. And don’t worry. I sighted the gun in. If you can handle the kick, from twenty feet, it’ll put a hole the size of Texas in a gambler’s heart.”

  At his words, her smile disappeared. It wasn’t funny, but he hadn’t meant to be lighthearted. He took the gun from her hands and pulled the tail of her shirt out, securing a place to hide the weapon inside her waistband. He savored one last caress of her silky skin before tucking the shirt back in, adjusting it over the bulge of the gun.

  She put her hands on his chest and seemed to ignore the fact that William Pomeroy had just shut the front door, coming to escort her back to the wharf. She regarded him with hopeful eyes. “I’m visiting Wainwright today at his house.”

  Unapologetic for their audience, Rory latched his fingers onto her belt, tugging her close, and kissed her, running his tongue inside her mouth to taste her once more.

  When he released her, her brown eyes sparkled with tears. “Can you come?”

  His chest tightened with yearning. He shook his head. “You know I can’t risk it. So…Kit says his uncle is prepared to play on the Queen.”

  “Yes. Tonight I’ll tell Quintus that Bartholomew’s ready.”

  “Do you think he trusts you enough to bet the fleet?”

  Dell ducked her chin as if ashamed of something. “I told Quintus about your bank account, said it was here in St. Louis, and I’d withdrawn all your money.”

  He chuckled, easily imaging his boss’s anger that he’d kept the money a secret from him all these years. “Perfect.” He kissed her forehead. “And don’t you worry. I’ve plenty of money.”

  “If he doesn’t trust me yet, he will. I’ll make him.”

  Dell slid her arms around his neck, and they shared a brief kiss before Rory helped her mount the mare in front of Pomeroy. He hated that he couldn’t take her back himself—would’ve loved riding a horse with her, really—but if anyone placed him near the Queen, it would ruin everything.

  She was right. If Moreaux didn’t trust her, he soon would. Rory would make certain. He’d made the mistake before of leaving Dell in the dark and had almost lost her help. But Moreaux wasn’t stupid. Dell was too emotionally involved, and the monster would see through her acting.

  Rory’s methods would test Dell’s loyalty to him. This time her tears would be real. She would hate him, feel betrayed and rightly so. But the less she knew, the less she’d have to lie.

  If he drove her to leave him…well, she would be better off. She had plans, a good life ahead of her, wanting to help others. After all, she’d already saved him, hadn’t she?

  He watched her ride away, drifting out of view as they turned a corner of the darkened street. She was headed back to the hazards of the Queen Helen to finish the job he’d started and would somehow finish.

  Lady Luck had smiled on him the day he’d gone looking for Eleanor in Arkansas and found Dell instead. Dell’s mother never would’ve agreed to this scheme, and he’d been crazy to attempt to ask her. Only Philadelphia, his darling, clever angel, would sidle up beside the Devil to knock him down on his knees.

  Without being on the boat to monitor the gambling, Rory had no way to control the outcome of the game. Knowing Moreaux, he would fight the loss, either with a challenge or with his gun. Which meant, he’d have to find a way to get on board, to be ready in case there was violence. He wouldn’t send Dell into that kind of danger without being around to protect her.

  He’d never lived a day in his life until she had come along. After last night, he felt good and powerful and alive—not so different from when he stood at the helm of one of the mighty steamboats.

  He had no freedom to make Dell his yet, but if there was any way between hell and high water he could keep her, by God he would.

  Kit rose from the cherry dining table, and asked felicitously, “Would you like some coffee?”

  Dell stopped him with a hand on his sleeve, hiding her yawn behind her fist. “No, no.” She sighed and smi
led. “I’ll be fine. I stayed up late last night.”

  “I cannot fathom how you gamblers manage playing at all hours of the night in every port. It boggles the mind. I’m drained for a week after one evening!”

  “City life has you spoiled, son,” Bartholomew groused from across the makeshift poker table and drained a glass of scotch.

  Dell grabbed the cards, gave them a shuffle, but even as sleepy as she was, she caught the tense expression that passed between Kit and his uncle. They didn’t know she’d spent most of the night in Rory’s arms, and her weariness had been well earned. Pleasant warmth filled her, remembering her lover’s devotions to her beauty, his tender declarations of his feelings towards her. Though he hadn’t professed his love, his actions gave her hope for their future.

  “Try not to tax us with so much with talk, Kit,” Bartholomew continued to complain. He had shed his coat and now leaned back, tugging at his shirtsleeves uncomfortably.

  The brewer had a number of nervous ticks, among them yanking at his uncomfortable clothing and spinning his cane.

  “Be still, sir,” she instructed in her most stern voice. “You must remember not to fret so.”

  His frown deepened. “Bah! I’m not holding any cards. What have I to hide?”

  They’d practiced more than an hour with her pretending to be Quintus, and each hand had been the same. She’d won, because Bartholomew couldn’t sit still.

  “If you only wager on your good hands, Moreaux won’t feel compelled to bet his fleet. Don’t be afraid to lose. Have confidence, sir.”

  “Yes, Uncle. You’re a Wainwright, after all.”

  Bartholomew snatched his cards from the table and cast a hateful glare at his nephew. Dell compressed her lips to keep from smiling. She placed her bet, and her opponent pushed in a large stack of chips. He lifted a craggy brow in challenge.

  “Bluffing.” She raised him another twenty.

  “I am not!”

  “Whatever you’re holding is less than a full house. Maybe a pair. Aces is my guess.” She sighed. “You’re moving too much when you place your wager.”