She yanked back, panting.
“Untie my fucking hands,” he growled. “I want to hold you.”
Too much, she felt too much, but she wouldn’t run away. This was just making the tide. Well, a storm tide. She couldn’t pretend this was a mere mild, satisfactory pleasure.
Like a storm, the only way out was through. She straddled his left leg and leaned in close, trapping his arms between them. His cock lay along her hip, hot and hard. She kissed him again, deeply, while her fingers found her knot at his wrist and released it with a few swift tugs.
He didn’t seem to notice at first that his hands were free. She unwound the line from his arms, stopping only when his mouth slid down her throat. He sucked lightly at her neck and abraded her skin with the edges of his teeth. She tipped her head back, sighing with pleasure, and squirmed against his thigh.
His arms snaked around her waist, supporting her before she slid to the deck in sensual abandon. “That’s better,” he murmured, nipping his way along her throat. “I can taste sea salt on your skin.”
She shifted, struggling to free herself from her jacket. Maxime shoved it aside with his chin and nuzzled his way beneath her loose linen singlet. She fought free of her jacket, letting it fall to the deck. She rose off him and yanked off her loose trousers, then her drawers.
Imena felt drunk, but not so drunk she couldn’t sit astride him again and reach behind his back, feeding out the doubled line as she went. Maxime covered her breasts with his hands and kneaded gently, murmuring something about how soft she was. Another moment and she’d wrapped herself in the rope, as well, binding them loosely together around the waist the same way they’d been bound by his arms’ embrace. She kissed him while her fingers fashioned a sheet bend, strong enough to hold when she leaned away from him to change position.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Maxime said when he discovered the rope. “Why did you—”
Imena swung her leg over his other thigh and braced herself above his erection. “Later,” she said. There might have been no interval between this moment and their encounter in the baths. She brushed her cunt against him, savoring the lightest brush of her outer lips against his straining cock.
“Oh, Imena,” he said. “Do that again.”
She brushed against him again and winced and shuddered, already on the edge of orgasm. She moved up, then down, gradually pressing harder, testing herself against his full length and breadth. He was big and solid, and would stretch her deliciously once they were joined.
Maxime’s fingers dug into her hips, but he didn’t try to control her movements. He said, his voice tight, “I hope you’re willing for me to fall dead on your deck, because you are killing me.”
Imena struggled to catch her breath. “What happened to take me?”
“I didn’t want you to torture me first.” She pressed against him a little harder and he said, “You can torture me later. Just fuck me now.” His voice lingered over the word fuck and his eyes met hers. She could see her face reflected, in miniature, in his eyes before he shuddered and closed them. “Please,” he said, shifting his hips. He grasped the hem of her singlet and lifted it over her head, tossing it aside before leaning down and sucking one of her nipples into his mouth.
She slipped her fingers inside her cunt, gathering moisture, then grasped his erection, using her other hand to balance on his shoulder. She could almost feel his heart beating, could see his pulse in his throat and feel its quick beat beneath her fingers. She stroked the head of his cock gently, spreading fluid around the cap, and he moaned, releasing her nipple and tipping his head against her. He panted hot breaths into her shoulder.
Imena breathed out and pressed down on his cock, letting her downward movement spread the lips of her cunt over the head of his cock, slowly and exquisitely. Maxime’s groan vibrated against her skin. She couldn’t stop a moan from her own throat as she took him into her, rocking slightly, taking him a little deeper with each breath.
Maxime murmured into her neck, “Imena, sweeting, you’re so sleek inside. So hot. I could catch fire and we’d burn together and it would be glorious.”
“The ship would catch fire,” she gasped, taking another inch of him and stopping for a moment to revel in the sensation. “Then we’d have to stop so I could kill you.”
“Metaphor, sweeting.”
“Do not quote poetry to me,” she said, squeezing her inner muscles on him. A shudder raced over her skin, and he made a choked sound.
“Fine. Then I want to fuck you hard up against the mast.”
“Obsessed with masts, are you?” She took more of his cock inside her and sighed. The initial joining was her favorite part of fucking, at least while it was happening: she loved that each time, even with the same partner, it felt new and intimate.
Maxime laughed, his hips surging up. “Masts, spars, long smooth prows—”
She was laughing, too, jolting her down onto his cock until, with a bump, she could go no farther and all her air rushed out of her on a moan. After a moment of being unable to draw breath, she rocked cautiously. Her nipples rubbed against the hair on his chest, and she gasped at the spikes of sensation.
Maxime said, slurring the words together, “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, you are killing me.”
Imena grasped his shoulders in her hands while her hips pressed and pressed against him, as if independent of her will. “You,” she said, “have the biggest cock I have ever had inside me.”
“That’s what they all say,” he said, his tone both wry and desperate. “I want you flat on your back, with your legs around my neck, and then you’d feel just how big I am.”
“You’d only last three heartbeats,” she said.
“I’d have my sanity back,” he pointed out. He shifted his weight, then froze. “Sorry. I’m trying to…to let you…but…”
Imena kissed the side of his neck, openmouthed, nipping skin between her teeth and sucking hard on it as she ground down, rubbing her clitoris hard against him, tightening and relaxing her inner passage rhythmically. Small shudders chased up her thighs and into her belly, precursors of the greater climax that rapidly approached. They weren’t going to be able to make much tide before it was all over. Maxime’s arms tightened convulsively around her waist and he pressed his mouth to the bare skin behind her ear, sending a cascade of warmth down to her toes. His hands kneaded and spread her buttocks, one finger teasing the tender skin between.
That tiniest of touches was enough to spark the first convulsive wave of her climax. She groaned, lifting off him for the first time and driving down, as his hips pounded upward. Maxime lasted barely longer than she did and only, she thought, because their position was so awkward.
As her spine fell limp, she was glad for the rope that bound them together. If only their emotions could be bound as tightly as her knots.
Maxime woke abruptly from his doze when he felt soft rope brushing his skin. Imena no longer straddled him. She stood nearby, coiling the rope around her hand and elbow. Her face looked dazed and satiated, and when she noticed him watching her, she bent and pressed her open mouth to his. He lost himself for a moment in the kiss. When she began to draw back, he pressed one more kiss next to her mouth. Lovesick, he thought. Definitely, hopelessly lovesick.
“That was wonderful,” she said, and swiftly turned away.
“You’re not leaving again, are you?”
She knotted the two ends of the rope together and tossed it onto her bunk. She handed him a damp towel with which to clean himself, then helped him pull his trousers back up. “There, now I can think.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Is thinking necessary just now?”
“Your Grace—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, stung. “You have always had permission to use my name.”
“Your Grace, I think you have a mistaken impression from my lack of control. I did not sail with you as part of a sexual game. You’re in danger.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
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SYLVIE REFUSED TO FEEL TREPIDATION AS HER carriage rumbled along the royal palace’s long, cobbled drive.
She’d planned carefully for this mission. She carried a letter of introduction under Maxime’s seal, sufficient to grant her lodging at court as she awaited a royal audience regarding an unspecified business matter. After consulting with Lady Gisele, who would conceal Maxime’s absence for as long as she could and rule in his stead, Sylvie had borrowed one of Maxime’s trusted couriers to carry the regular diplomatic pouch as well as coded word of her new mission to Madame. She could count on support from Duchess Camille, if such was ultimately needed.
For now, she needed to concentrate on finding the person who meant harm to Maxime, and either eliminate him or suborn him. In addition, she needed to find his confederates and hired help—she was sure there would be hired help whom she or one of her many contacts would be able to locate. Few aristocrats dirtied their hands with the mundane details of conspiracy. Finally, she needed to discover who the woman they spoke of might be, and if her intentions ran parallel, opposite or otherwise to those of the male culprit.
She shifted on the lavishly padded carriage seat and rearranged her layers of whisper-thin skirts. The fine cloth would have clung to the outlines of a pistol, but the knives strapped flat to her thighs and calves, beneath layers of petticoats, could not be detected except by touch. The busk of her snugly fitted bodice was sheath for another blade, and she had concealed a number of useful burglary tools made from fine wire within the hem of her lightweight silk cape. Finally, the decorative sticks in her piled hair were useful for stabbing, but any woman could make use of those. Hers were merely sharper than most.
The carriage rumbled to a stop. Grateful for the years she’d had to closely observe Madame, Sylvie gathered her skirts and scooted to the edge of the seat, ready to emerge with grace and dignity as Lady Sylvia, who’d supposedly gained her wealth as a proprietress of fine brothels on the peninsula, just far enough away that no one at the king’s court would expect to recognize her. For the rest, who might have seen her in company with Duchess Camille, would any of them expect to see a humble maid in the garb of a lady? She’d made judicious use of cosmetics and tinted her hair to a darker shade, just to make sure she would remain anonymous.
The carriage jolted as her footman, borrowed from Lady Gisele, sprang off the back and came around to lower the steps and open her door with a suitable flourish. Careful of whoever might be watching, Sylvie gathered her pastel skirts in her beringed hands and swept down the carriage stairs, spine erect and head held high. She saw a man watching her from where he leaned indolently against the palace wall, smoking a cigar.
She had to look away as she descended the last step, to avoid stumbling on the cobbles, and when next she glanced up, he’d moved; he was strolling toward her. He wore a sword at his hip. Beneath the brim of his hat she saw dark skin and a close-cropped beard. Possibly a peninsular native, or more likely, from the Southern Kingdoms that abutted the peninsula; the heeled, narrow-toed boots he wore were more common there. The embossed silver foil on his heels and toes, and the cutaway leather patterns on his calves, were less common. However, she doubted he was an envoy; his clothing was nowhere near as elaborate as a diplomat would wear.
Either a merchant or a gossip or a spy, Sylvie decided. He pretended to loiter so he could inspect the new arrivals to the palace, in any case. She would be glad to let him inspect her. Well, at least until she discovered the name of his employer.
She released her grip on her skirts with a flourish, to shake them back into place, and awaited his arrival.
He stopped a polite distance from her, took the cigar from his mouth and thoroughly crushed its glowing end between his gloved forefinger and thumb. He bowed to her, but did not remove his hat. It had a broad brim, carefully curled, and was banded and trimmed in embossed leather. She wondered if he either had some purpose for concealing his face, or simply wished her to admire his headgear.
“Sir,” she said, offering a slight tip of her own head in return. Her footman appeared at her elbow, ready for her defense, should it prove necessary. She could adequately defend herself, but shouldn’t appear to be capable of doing so in her guise.
“Madame, I see from your beautiful gown that you come from the peninsula,” the foreigner said. Sylvie nodded.
“My people trade with yours,” he said. “Though I must confess, I have never seen a trader so beautiful as you, or one so graceful.”
She nodded again, rather enjoying forcing him to speak by her reticence, even if he spoke mostly nonsense. Though his hat still blocked most of his features, she could see his lush lips whose beauty was enhanced by their slightly asymmetrical shape. At her scrutiny, the corners of his mouth lifted, and his finely carved nostrils flared. “I see you admire me as I admire you,” he said. “Is it not a lovely thing, to be admired? Is it not what we are to spend our time discussing, here at King Julien’s court?” He turned slightly in one direction, then in another. “I do not entirely agree with the fashions of this land, but you will note that they seem to agree with me.” He stretched out one boot. “The cut of the trousers, for example.” Fabric stretched over his muscled thigh, and clearly delineated his endowments.
He went much too far. Either he was completely shameless, he was joking with her or he was a prostitute. “Are you in search of employment?” she asked, resisting laughter.
“Employment?” he said. “Do you require a swordsman, madame? Or merely an ornament?”
Sylvie looked down the length of his body, slowly. “You have a fine sword?”
“The finest southern steel,” he said with relish, laying one black-gloved hand on the hilt of the blade he wore.
“Decorative but sharp. You would be surprised how long it holds an edge.”
She smiled, enjoying the verbal play, but she had no time for it this evening. “That is not the sort of sword we employ in my establishment. I am Lady Sylvia. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
“I fear not,” he said. “But since you have offered your name, mine is Raoul.”
“And what is your role here, Monsieur Raoul?”
“Why, I am a guest of the royal palace, just as you are. An ornament, as it were.”
“Not a courtier?” Or a paid concubine? He was lying about something. He was terrible at it. Or wished to appear so.
“No, madame. A mere visitor.”
“A merchant, perhaps.”
She caught the hint of white teeth gleaming beneath the brim of his hat. He said, “Must something always be bought and sold?”
Sylvie didn’t need to consider that for long. “In my experience, yes.”
Raoul sighed. “Then you will not believe that I came to this land only out of interest. I traveled overland for many weeks, then took a barge down the great river. Did you know the river, and the islands of the river, change shape every season?”
He demonstrated with his gloved hands, delineating an ovoid shape that thinned and disappeared as water curved and split around it. The gesture was sensual, graceful, a thousand times more so than his previous posturing. Sylvie blinked, for a moment sure she had seen exactly what he meant. He said, more briskly, “You have come on business?”
She recovered quickly. “I am always considering business,” she said. “I must be about it now.” She gestured to her footman. “Bring the baggage.”
King Julien, Sylvie learned with relief, was not in residence today or tomorrow. He was visiting a hunting lodge with various of his cabinet; she wondered if the retreat was due to Duke Maxime’s recalcitrance in the matter of his marriage. To her, it seemed likely the conspiracy against Maxime did not have its origin with the king himself. Julien was more efficient than that, she had always thought.
If that was true, and if Sylvie could capture the conspirator or conspirators, then surely the king would take her side. He wouldn’t like, couldn’t allow, action against one of his dukes by the hands of an underling, no matte
r his own feelings in the matter. Also, if Sylvie succeeded in this matter, it would please Her Grace Camille as well as His Grace Maxime. Pleasing the aristocracy was not a bad thing in general, and Sylvie lived to please Her Grace Camille.
After washing the dust of the journey from her face, hands and bare arms, and changing her dress with the aid of a palace maid, Sylvie took up her silk fan, left her guest chamber and descended a staircase to the main audience hall.
The hall filled the center of the palace, and was in turn filled to the walls with people. Its ceiling rose through all three stories; balconies with carved wooden balustrades projected from each level, large enough to hold musicians for balls and, on other occasions, either crowds of onlookers or companies of royal bowmen. The stone walls were concealed by paneling that had been plastered over in elaborate floral designs, painted while still wet and then glossed with purple lacquer. The designs gleamed like metal in the light of hundreds of fat beeswax candles, each shielded behind the finest clear glass. The smooth wood floor was today covered by layers of plush carpets in shades of lavender, gray, mauve and plum. Sylvie remembered how Captain Leung had bundled Maxime into such a carpet, and smothered a snicker.
She found Raoul idling near a fireplace, swirling wine in his glass. He was hatless, his curly hair cropped short above small, well-placed ears, emphasizing his deeply set dark eyes. He still, she noted, wore leather gloves. She wasn’t sure if this was affectation or merely the custom of his country, but she definitely liked it. She loved the feel of leather on her bare skin. If he touched her with his gloved hands, he would leave the aroma of leather behind. She might nip the tips of his gloves and drag them free of his hands before laving each finger with her tongue, tasting leather with each lick. Yes, she liked his gloves very much.
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