His lips stayed on hers, molding her to him as his left hand shoved off her black coat. His fingers rough, they dragged up the bare skin of her right forearm until his thumb dove under the curve of her breast, the tips of his fingers slipping underneath her black corset and shirt, finding her nipple.
The first swipe against the nubbin and she curled at the waist, her core firing alive, throbbing. Her body more desperate for touch—his touch—than she’d let herself believe. A gasp caught in her chest and she shifted her hands in along his bare shoulders, moving up into his hair, tugging him downward. Away from her lips and onto her skin.
A chuckle bubbled up from his throat as his mouth left hers and dipped, his lips hungry on her neck, drifting downward, trailing along the bare skin of her chest as he worked free the ties on her corset.
The ties yanked apart and her corset fell from her body, then he tugged her too-big linen shirt over her head. Air. Warm air slipping around her body, his lips finding her skin once more, his tongue tasting her.
As he rolled her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth descended to her right and clamped on, his tongue swirling.
Heaven. Heaven and hell dancing, tugging her body into a frenzy, all restraint leaving her. She sank her hands along his head, untamed mews vibrating up from her throat with every swipe of his tongue.
Her hips swayed toward him on their own volition, insistent, demanding more from his body, from his hands.
Trailing a line of kisses up her chest, Des suddenly stood straight, pulling away from her, an agonized quirk to his left eye as he shook his head. “This goes too far, Jules. It’s too much. Heaven help me, it will kill me, but I can still step away—we can still stop this.”
She moved forward, setting her lips on his skin, the taste of him on the tip of her tongue. “No, we can’t.” The words murmured onto his chest, heating the skin under her lips.
She could no more walk away from this than stop her very breath.
To prove the point, her hands dipped down, her fingers working the fall front of his trousers. Buttons loosened, and he was freed, his shaft jutting outward into her waiting hands as his trousers fell to the floor.
“Bloody hell, Jules, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
Her fingers tightened around his member, the cords straining along the length of it smooth bumps under her touch. “I imagine it’s the exact thing you’re doing to me.”
His mouth collided down onto hers, stealing her words as he dragged loose the hemp rope that held her trousers and ragged skirt in place above her hips. They fell, landing in a heap about her feet. She stepped out of the pile, kicking the clothes to the side with her boot. Her fingers couldn’t leave his shaft, unable to set free the raw core of him that demanded her touch.
The air in her chest ready to explode, she considered for one moment the bed, but didn’t want to aggravate his wounds.
“Sit.” The word twisted from her tongue to his.
He lifted his head from her, his right eyebrow arched.
She nodded, a lascivious grin curling her lips. “Sit.”
Des moved a step backward, dragging her body with him, his mouth dipping back to her nipple, his tongue swirling around the nubbin as he sat.
She slipped onto his lap, her naked thighs dragging along his skin and then settling aside his hips. Her folds curled around his engorged member that strained high for her.
Her nipples taut, pulled to the very brink between pleasure and pain, she moaned as Des worked his way up along her chest, his lips finding hers.
A searing kiss, the very heart of him—the very need of him—stealing away every thought of breathing away from her.
She lifted herself, setting the tip of him at her entrance.
He pulled away from the kiss, his hands clasping along the sides of her face, his hazel eyes burning her to her core. “Jules?”
“Yes.” The demand seeped from her lungs with the last breath she had managed to hold onto.
A growl and he drove upward, sinking deep into her, filling her with every look, every breath of lust he’d had for her during the last weeks.
Deep. Deep and so full her body twisted, her nails digging into his shoulders as the first wave of a building orgasm hit.
Soon. Too soon.
She locked her feet onto the inner rungs of the chair and lifted herself, teasing her own body with the length of him—the torture of the emptiness his shaft left behind.
A tormented groan rumbled from his chest. He needed to be inside of her as much as she needed it.
She sank downward, his cock lifting, devouring the emptiness she couldn’t suffer. Upward. Downward. Her thighs straining, she curled against Des’s hands splayed under her backside, guiding her path along his shaft.
Until the shudders started again. Started so deep and ferocious there was no stopping them this time. She sped, no longer able to bridle the screams in her throat.
Des stilled her, every muscle of his body straining as he held her high at the apex of his shaft. “I can pull—”
“No. No.” She drove her hips downward against his strength. “Deep. Deep in me.”
A growl shook his belly, his shoulders, and he slammed up into her, exploding, the force of it sending her over the edge. Her body crumpled against him, clutching him as a savage shake overtook her limbs and waves of greedy relief wracked her body.
All sense of control abandoned her, stolen by the shock-filled waves ripping through everything she was.
{ Chapter 11 }
Des’s breath, hot and wild into her neck, told Jules he hadn’t expected this either. The force of her orgasm, the violence with which it had taken over her entire body, her entire being—no thought had been possible as it destroyed her from the inside out.
Still gasping for breath, Des dragged his head backward, the blue specks in his hazel eyes vibrating as he stared at her face for long seconds. “That—I wasn’t ready for that.”
Choking in air, she managed words with an exhale. “Me neither.”
He sank forward against her, his face in the crook of her neck as they both struggled for breath.
Minutes passed and then his right hand curled into her hair, his lips next to her ear. “What is this between us, Jules?”
Her breath stilled in her chest. She didn’t have an answer. Not a real one. She gave a slight shake of her head. “I don’t know, but it goes far beyond the esteem I have for you. Beyond this pull in my gut that makes my body want yours.”
He drew back and his hazel eyes darkened, intent on her. “I vowed long ago to never love again.”
A crooked smile curled her lips. “Funny, as I gave up on that very thing four and half years ago when I married Redthorn.” She nodded. “So it is settled. Love is not a part of this.”
“Agreed.” He returned the nod.
She shifted off of him, lifting herself to her feet. “Turn—I still need to get to the bottom cuts before the scabs crust over.”
He grabbed her wrist. “But you should know—the pull—I feel it as well. Yet I don’t know what to do about it.”
She grinned. “I think we just did exactly what we were supposed to do about it.”
Her fingers found her threadbare linen shirt on the bed and she slipped it on, the bottom hem of it brushing against her thighs. She turned from him and picked up the wet rag from the floor, then shuffled over to the basin, rinsing the cloth as Des pulled on his trousers.
“Yet this in no way sated that pull,” he said from behind her. “It satisfied it for a moment, but the second you just stood up and away from me, it’s back.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, a grin lifting the side of her face. “I’m going to finish cleaning your cuts. Pull or no pull.”
“Jules, what is that?” Des’s brow went wrinkled, his stare on the back of her left thigh. His finger lifted, pointing to her leg. “You said Redthorn never hurt you.”
The instant fury in his hazel eyes
sent a chill down her spine—like he wanted to go back and find the Red Dragon and rip Redthorn’s dead body limb from limb.
She glanced down at the rear of her leg, knowing she’d see the long ragged scar that ran across the back of her thigh. Her veins went to ice at the memory. “It wasn’t Redthorn. It was one of the crew.”
“What happened?”
“It was early on.” She squeezed the excess water from the cloth and then turned back to him, her fingers twisting the rag. “The man had attacked me, dragged me down to the hold, his dirty hand across my mouth.” Her face went dark. “I stopped him.”
Des’s head tilted forward, his eyes upturned as he studied her. “You killed him?”
Her head shook ever so slightly. “No, but that would have been kinder. I managed to get to the blade on my calf that Redthorn insisted I keep strapped on me at all times. I sank the knife into the man’s back. It was enough to scramble away, but then he sliced the back of my leg with his dagger. His scream, my screams of pain and Redthorn was there in an instant.”
The weight of the moment long ago fell upon her and her chin dropped toward her chest. “I should have killed him, for what Redthorn did to him. I had to watch, the entire crew had to watch.” She shrugged, heaving a sigh as her voice dipped to a whisper. “Maybe that’s when I lost my humanity. Watching his body being ripped apart like that. I wanted the man dead for what he was about to do to me, but that—that went beyond all sanity. Redthorn kept him alive, tortured him for a day. No wind in the sails. The ship bobbing in the swells. The man’s screams in our ears. None of us were allowed to leave the deck.”
She shuddered, sucking in a garbled breath, and glanced up at Des. “It was every nightmare, the very kiss of hell, rained down upon that man. Redthorn made him an example. And not a man on the crew ever lifted a finger to me after that.”
“Did you ever have to kill anyone?”
Her eyes closed for a long breath, then she shook her head, looking to him. “Not directly—but so many of the deaths on the Red Dragon still weigh upon me.” Her fingers twisted along the wash cloth in her hand, her knuckles turning white. “There were ones that I did not fight for. Did not know how to help as they were tossed overboard, still alive, still breathing, still trying to stay alive. I did nothing to stop it, time and again. Those are the deaths that haunt me, for how brutal many of the men were—some were not. Some had glimmers of kindness—some had just lost their way at some point in their lives. Some were ones that should have been saved—if only I had known what to do to help them—if I had been brave enough to stand against Redthorn. But I wasn’t.”
Silent seconds passed as Des’s eyes darkened, the pain she was feeling deep in her chest reflected in the creases about his eyes. His voice, soft, filled the void hanging between them. “The deaths I’ve caused—justified or not—sit upon me just as those sit upon you.”
“They do?”
“Where you lose part of your soul. The part that made you whole…good. Yet you would still do anything for your own survival. Anything. So you trade it away, that part of you. You do that and it turns you into something you can’t recognize, can’t identify—not the person you once were, not the person you’ll ever be again. You lose what you were. A death.”
She nodded, staring at him. The little piece of her soul that had been missing for the last six years, crystalized in just a few words.
Des returned the nod and with a sigh turned around, settling himself backwards on the chair again so his bloody back was to her.
She stepped forward, silently drawing the cloth across the next line of blood. Gentle, careful. The strokes wanting to take the pain of the past from him just as he wanted to do for her.
Pain neither one of them would ever escape. No matter how she washed away the blood.
Des cleared his throat. “We do have something else we need to talk about.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “What?” She set the wet cloth onto the second lowest cut.
“The box.”
Her hand stopped mid-swipe. “I cannot.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “So you admit you brought one aboard?”
She looked down at his bare back, at the lines of long-healed scars. Why wouldn’t he let this be?
She nodded.
“Why can’t you tell me about it?”
Her look lifted to him, her voice haunted. “You’re already cursed, Des. You said it yourself.”
His right eyebrow cocked. “What does a box have to do with curses?”
She looked down, sending the cloth long across the bottom cut. “Everything. And I’ll not add to your burden.”
Des spun around on the chair, his gaze hard on her. “You need to tell me, Jules.”
Turning from him, she stepped to the basin and rinsed the cloth, watching specs of blood float from the fabric to swirl in the water, dissolving. “Whoever has the box is not only cursed, they are obsessed. My father was obsessed. Redthorn was obsessed. Men have died over the box—my father killed a man—Mr. Draper—shot him dead—in front of me to get it. He made us travel with him across the world for it, and then didn’t stop until he had it in his hands.”
“Men have died?”
“Yes, it is that important.” She squeezed the excess water from the cloth and turned around to Des. “When Redthorn boarded the Primrose, my father made me hide the box in my skirts—because my skirts had deep pockets—my mother’s didn’t.” Her look lifted to the window, her gaze on the sea for a long breath. “It’s not that big, and it was that silly a difference—pockets—that I had the box and she didn’t when they came aboard.”
“So it was with you when Redthorn dragged you off the Primrose?”
“Yes, and Redthorn found it almost immediately once he had me in his quarters.”
Des’s eyebrows drew together. “What, exactly, is the box?”
“They call it the Box of Draupnir—or at least that’s what my father called it. Him and Mr. Draper and the men that had been tracking its whereabouts.”
She looked down at the cloth twisted in her fingers, debating on how much to tell him. Even though she knew she owed him this—the truth. “But it’s more than a box—it’s what is embedded in the wood that weaves throughout the inside of the box. It’s a ring—ingrained somehow like branches grew around it, through it, and someone whittled down the outside of this tree into a box, so it could capture the ring within the wood forever. The ring is gold, nine strands of golden cords wove together, and they curl about the most magnificent ruby, large—too large to wear on a finger. And the ruby is dark red, so dark one has to flick the stone under the sun to watch it come alive. And it does come alive. It moves. Something inside of it that wants to escape. But it is married to the box. Bridled by the wood. It is believed that the box turns whatever riches one has into nine times the riches every third lunar cycle. It’s why my father was determined to find it—to possess it. He collects lots of things—rare artifacts—but this one—this one was special. It was the one thing he coveted but could not have.”
Her legs started to quiver and she sat down on the bed.
The box did that to her. Anytime she thought too long on it. Anytime Redthorn had talked to her at length about it. He had spent so much time staring at the blasted thing, mesmerized, jumbled words drifting from his mouth.
“It’s why I didn’t tell you about it. Everyone that has possessed that box—the ring—has become obsessed. Everyone. My father. The men he was on the expedition with. Redthorn. Obsessed and then cursed.”
“But not you?”
“No—not obsessed. But cursed, aye. That I have not been spared from.” Her look centered on him. “You don’t believe me.”
“If anyone believes in curses, it is me, Jules. You say you’re not obsessed, but yet you grabbed it.” His hand lifted, running along the back of his neck. “That was the one thing you took from the Red Dragon.”
“I respect it. That is why I grabbed i
t.” Her fingers weaved along the cloth on her lap. “I am already cursed and the box would have been found after the Red Dragon surrendered—I was not going to take the chance of your captain finding it.”
“Why not?”
“He would take it for his own.”
“The box is, by all rights, Captain Folback’s—part of the booty from taking down the Red Dragon.”
“I understand that.” Her head shook. “But I’ll not chance the possibility that the curse takes your captain—and the Firehawk—down with him. Not before I get home. Not before I step back onto English soil. Until then, I’ll hold the curse.”
“Or you can let me hold it.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “I’m the one that is cursed and I’ll not let that same fate befall you.”
“You truly believe that?”
“I’ve lived it.”
“So why not throw the box overboard?”
Leaning to her right, she hung the washcloth on the rim of the basin. With a sigh, her look dipped to her fingers as she played with the bottom hem of her shirt. “I’ve thought about it—again and again.” Jules shrugged. “But wherever it belongs, it is not at the bottom of the sea. I believe the curse that is mine will be lifted when I can pass it on to its new keeper. That is what I’m holding onto—hoping for.”
Des’s mouth clamped closed for a long moment as though he was holding back words. His head angled to the side as he searched her face. “You truly believe that as well?”
“I do. Embarrassingly so—I know all of this sounds like a tale of witchcraft of old. Fantastical and not real. But I’ve witnessed the box’s power over men.” She paused, her right cheek lifting. “Plus, the practicality of keeping it did not escape me. I didn’t know if I would need leverage to get home—I still don’t know that. The Box of Draupnir is my leverage should I need it. The box—the ring—is invaluable and I can trade it for my own survival if necessary.”
The Heart of an Earl (A Box of Draupnir Novel Book 1) Page 8