by Lara Temple
All fear of the storm, the queasiness and embarrassment just...evaporated. Her body shimmered with heat, expanded and woke into awareness of every point of contact, of the tingling warmth between her legs, of the need to do something...
Oh, lord, she was in trouble.
‘Maybe this was not the best idea.’ His voice was even rougher than usual, but he didn’t remove her from his lap. ‘I think you’d be safer on the floor.’
‘But not as comfortable.’ She was purring. She’d never purred in her life.
‘Comfortable isn’t the word that comes to mind,’ he muttered, but his arms tightened around her. ‘Just try not to move.’
The ship pitched again, as if rolling in laughter at their pretence at civility. His legs braced harder against the side of the cupboard.
She rubbed her feet together and tucked them against his thigh.
‘Stop it. Or I’ll drop you.’
‘My feet are cold,’ she protested. He dragged the blanket towards them and drew it round her shoulders. She snuggled into it.
‘I’m so glad Captain Chris appreciates fine things like cashmere. Isn’t it soft?’
His answer was more grunt than corroboration, but his arms closed around her again under the fuzzy cocoon, one hand warm and heavy on her hip, the other tucking the blanket under her feet and staying there.
She sighed. If this storm was the end for all of them, at least she would go down more comfortable than she had been in...in for ever. She snuggled deeper, flexing her feet. His hand tightened, his fingers firm against her instep. She smiled.
‘Thank you, Rafe.’
‘Please don’t. Just...stop moving.’
‘It’s the ship, not I.’
‘Liar. I know I deserve to be tortured for all my sins, but this is beyond my dues. Please try to sleep.’
‘I don’t think I can.’
‘Try. Please.’
She did try. She tried not to think of how addictive and unique his scent was or wonder what it was about it that made her wish to fill her lungs with it and keep it with her always.
She tried, not very hard, not to take advantage of the rolling ship to expand her map of his body against hers. To be quite fair, he was not helping. His arms and hands tightened with each roll and pitch, his legs tensing and relaxing. He was no more still than she and she could not tell how much was necessitated by the workings of gravity and how much driven by the same demons that were hard at work undermining her control.
She kept waiting for the next wave—his hands would close tightly on her hip and foot, sending sweet waves of bliss through her like music from a chime. She risked flexing her foot against his hand as they rolled and his fingers pressed hard against her sole, sending a shiver all the way up to her scalp. It felt... Oh, yes...marvellous!
‘And stop humming, blast it.’
‘Sorry. I feel a little fuzzy. Can one become tipsy from being cuddled?’
‘I don’t know, but one can and is becoming addled by it.’
‘Sorry,’ she said again and kissed the side of his neck. He seemed to collapse like a house of cards, with a protesting groan that echoed the creaking of the boat. She was no longer cocooned but crushed—stretched out on the bed with a very heavy and warm giant on top of her, her arms still tight about his neck.
‘I know this is my fault, but there are limits, Cleopatra, and we’ve just passed mine. I’m going on deck where it’s safer. Now go to sleep.’
‘I don’t want to sleep. My future...my whole life is a great unknown, but this feels so right. How could it be so wrong?’
His breathing was deep and unsteady, his chest brushing against hers with each breath.
‘It certainly is in the world you are heading to.’
‘But we are not there yet. We are not anywhere yet. We might not reach anywhere if this storm worsens. Would it be so terrible if we take this pleasure?’
He raised himself a little. In the dark his eyes were even more menacing—twin shards of a northern sea. If she hadn’t felt his heart thudding against her, she might have worried she was alone in this drugging need.
‘You are under my protection...’
She unhooked her arms.
‘Oh, God, not that again. I am no longer under your protection, but under Captain Christopher’s. I am, however, under you and I like it here. If there is one thing I have learned in my addled life it is to take what pleasures come my way as long as they harm no one.’
He didn’t answer immediately, but the muscles of his jaw were working away, making the scarred skin ripple.
‘This isn’t good. I’m far gone enough for you to be making sense, Queenie.’
‘I am making sense. You said yourself lust is the manifestation of a natural need. Or were you prevaricating?’
‘No, but it is different for you. You’re...’
Her eyes narrowed.
‘I am what? If you dare say a woman—’
‘Well, you are.’
‘You have taken others of my genus to bed, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but they were...more experienced. Stop glaring at me like that. It matters. At least, it matters to me. Right now you are lonely and scared. Hell, I’m the same. I would like nothing better than to drown my mind for a while in this madness, believe me. Nine out of ten parts of me are hitting me over the head for not saying yes at the top of my lungs.’
‘Those are the nine parts of you that I like, Mr Grey.’
He smiled, his hand coming up to clasp hers where it was still pressed to his chest.
‘The tenth part is deeply wounded, but it likes you best of all and doesn’t want to sacrifice our friendship for the price of pleasing my damned libido.’
‘Tell Mr Tenth to keep its nose out of the other parts’ affairs. And I mean that literally. What happened in Alexandria was not an aberration; I want this honestly.’
He sank his head on to her shoulder. She could feel the battle inside him, the rigid weight pressing down on her. She wanted to tell him the battle was for naught. She would never hold this against him, but despite his strange life, he had rigid standards and she was not certain she wanted to force him to break with them.
She sighed and turned to brush his soft dark hair with her lips.
‘Just a kiss, then? And then I promise I shall stop torturing you.’
‘Just a kiss?’ He raised his head and she wasn’t certain if there was relief in his voice or disappointment.
‘Yes. That is all. For tonight at least,’ she amended conscientiously.
‘Then you sleep?’
‘As best I can. Yes.’
He adjusted himself on his elbow, gazing down at her. After moment he gave a small, determined sigh and brushed his fingers from her cheekbone to her jaw, his thumb settling on her lower lip, brushing gently.
‘Just a kiss,’ he repeated and she nodded.
‘Just a kiss. After what we did in the hammam, how much harm could a simple kiss do?’
‘At this rate a simple kiss might burn me to cinders, Cleo.’ His fingers were tracing the lines of her face, gliding over her cheek, the curve of her ear and the sensitive skin below it before returning to her mouth. ‘This is probably not a—’
She slipped one hand into his hair and drew his head down into the kiss.
Just a kiss.
Just the whole world cracking open and revealing itself like a ripe fruit, just her body saying—yes, finally...more.
For a few moments he let her explore his lips with hers, doing nothing more than holding himself above her, his hand as gentle as a down feather against her cheek.
This was hard for him, this control, she realised with glee. She wanted it to be hard. She wanted him to need this. To be buffeted by it just like the waves outside, just like the forces inside her that kept pushing
her towards him.
She wanted him to want this as much as she did. No, she wanted him to want her. Not her kiss or her body, but her. This was different from Alexandria. She didn’t know how; she just knew it was.
He raised himself suddenly, his hand pressing into the cushions, his face taut.
‘Hell, I want more than a kiss, Cleo. I want to watch you come like you did in the hammam. Just listening to you makes me hard...your voice, your laugh...it lights me up inside...’ His voice was rough and shaky, his hand sliding down between her breasts, pushing aside her pendant, down over her abdomen and up again, splaying across her ribs.
Her pulse chased his warmth, but it was his words that were working on her now, his voice a drug pouring through her, pumping heat and need through her veins.
‘You amaze me, Cleo,’ he murmured against her skin, his mouth following his hand, his breath shaping the words over her breast, along the surprisingly sensitive curve of her waist. ‘You hold so much inside. But you’re so generous, so true.’
He kissed the softest point just beside her hip bone and her legs drew up in a convulsion of need. He was driving her to the brink.
‘Touch me,’ she urged, rubbing his shoulders, reaching as far down his back as she could without stopping his destructive, beautiful progress. He pushed back for a second, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside and then did the same to hers, much more gently.
‘I will,’ he promised. ‘Trust me.’
‘I do,’ she whispered and he went still for a moment and then very gently eased her thigh to one side, his breath warm on her skin as his mouth lightly brushed kisses from her hip downwards. It felt foreign and a little frightening for him to be so close to her there.
‘I want to hear your voice when I touch you,’ he murmured against the inside of her thigh, his tongue tracing slow circles that made her skin skitter and pulse. ‘Tell me what you like.’
She shook her head. That was beyond her.
‘Whatever you’re doing, I like it. Just do it more.’
His laugh was its own torture, a puff of warmth that rushed up between her legs and she clenched her jaw. When he slid one hand under her behind, raising and adjusting her, she let him. When he pressed a trail of gentle kisses to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh she held herself still until he reached the soft centre of the thudding heat between her legs. Then she couldn’t hold back a spurt of breathy laughter—embarrassment and pleasure and gratitude all clashing.
She draped one arm over her eyes, as if hiding from the world could protect her. Her other hand hovered near his head, brushing at his soft dark hair until he threaded his fingers through hers and brought her hand to her breast, his thumb catching at her nipple and making fireworks explode.
The sensation was sweet and sharp and as it met the rising pulses of pleasure at her core she knew it had to stop, but it didn’t. She tried not to cry out as the pleasure whipped itself into a storm, but the sounds burst from her—soft, then urgent, and finally imploding in a long breathy moan as honeyed heat crashed through her, sweet, molten. She was drowning in it...
She went rigid and he stilled, just holding her as wave after wave swept over her, softer each time until she lay there, exhausted but still humming.
‘Listening to you is better than any aphrodisiac, Cleo.’ His voice was raw and she could feel the tension in him. She turned lazily to press against him, her hand slipping down to see...oh, yes, he was hard and hot, the skin velvet-soft.
His breath hitched and he tucked his head into the slope of her neck.
‘Wait a little...don’t hurry.’
‘I’m not,’ she said idly, her hand gently stroking—her palm, the back of her hand, testing each sensation, mirroring the swaying of the ship. She whispered, ‘Look, the storm has calmed.’
‘Has it? Doesn’t feel that way.’ His voice was muffled against her neck. He held himself very still and she turned to kiss his temple, his flushed cheekbone. He was big and warm against her and it felt so absolutely right to have their naked bodies intertwined like this. She nudged him on to his back and raised herself above him, her legs slipping against his, her breasts half pressed against his chest. She traced a long line down his chest, over his stomach and up his erection, resting her palm on its heat and slowly closing it into a gentle squeeze. His eyes fluttered closed and a rumbling groan caught deep in his chest.
She smiled and trailed her hand the other way, right up to the dip at the base of his throat and back again. As her fingers and nails travelled up and down his muscles contracted and goosebumps rose on his skin. She could feel the vicious control he was exerting, but he couldn’t control the shudders that struck, especially when she reached a certain point just by his navel or when her hand brushed his nipple. And when her fingers closed on his erection, each time a little tighter, a little longer, his breathing began coming apart at the seams. It made her feel hot all over again, powerful...happy.
He might keep himself from her, but she felt so close to him she could not believe there wasn’t at least part of him that cared, that wanted to take what she was so willing to give.
‘I like to make you feel like this,’ she murmured, brushing her mouth across his, in long slow sweeps just like her hand. He said something in reply, but it might have been old Norse for all she knew because he dug his hand into her short hair and kissed her—a long, drugging kiss that began spinning its own magic through her body. His other hand anchored on hers, guiding her until his head arched back on a hoarse groan, his body tightening in release.
* * *
The storm had released the ship and it settled into a gentle swaying, like a great hammock. Rafe held her close as their bodies cooled and pulses slowed.
As the wondrous warmth began to fade, one thought rose like a jagged rock out of the mist—he had to tell her the truth of his identity. He could no longer hide behind the cowardly fiction that there was no need to do that since they would soon be in London and each heading on their merry way.
She kept condemning his conscience and right now he wished he could send it to the devil himself. But whether his bond with her went any further or not, he had to tell her who he was.
For the first time in his life he was about to voluntarily reveal his identity to someone other than Birdie. It terrified him and he did not know why. Perhaps he was more superstitious than he thought, as if revealing his title, his origin, would somehow unleash a curse he’d escaped when he repudiated his name. It was absurd, childish, but it made his stomach roil.
He had to tell her.
He stroked a hand down her arm and she gave a little hum, stretching against him. A greedy shudder ran through him in response and set his heart pounding, not with desire this time, but with fear. The web his body and mind were weaving around her was tearing down all his defences, all his control.
She pulled away, rising on her elbow. Her smile faded as she met his eyes.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing... I used to have some semblance of control. Apparently not any more.’ The words were wrenched out of him and she placed a hand on the centre of his chest. Now he could feel his heart slamming against his ribs—like a fool pointlessly throwing himself against a wall.
‘Rafe. You keep telling me not to go that way. Now I am telling you—don’t let your conscience ruin this moment.’
‘I can’t help it; this is who I am, Cleo.’
No, it isn’t, said the mocking little voice of his detested conscience. Who you are is Rafael Edgerton, Earl of Braden, Duke of Greybourne. Tell her the truth.
He slipped her off him and stood, searching for his clothes. It was still pitch dark outside, but he could hear the men hurrying about the ship, no doubt righting the chaos of the gale. They’d weathered the storm outside, but he had no idea how he would fare in the storm ahead.
Tell her.
The coward in him dressed in silence. Once she was safely on her way to her new life he would tell her and risk whatever curse life chose to toss at him next.
‘I must go help Chris. A storm like that was bound to cause damage.’
‘Of course,’ she replied and he cast her a quick glance. She sat curled into the corner he’d occupied only a few hours ago, the blankets cocooning her.
‘Your hair is getting longer,’ he said inconsequentially and her hand snaked out of the warmth of the blankets and touched it.
‘It must look a mess.’
‘It looks beautiful.’
She shook her head a little and he fought the urge to walk back to that bed, to her, and send the world to the devil.
‘I must help Chris,’ he said again and left the cabin.
Chapter Seventeen
The Thames, England
‘Good morning and welcome to England. Land of horrible weather, worse food, and plenty of phlegm.’ The Captain’s morose greeting was a perfect echo of Cleo’s sentiments. They stood for a moment watching the flat, reedy shores slide by as Benja steered the Hesperus up the estuary.
‘It looks soothing, though,’ she replied, trying for cheerfulness. ‘All that green.’
‘True. There is a great deal of green.’ He looked up at the sky and wiped the mist of rain from his hair. ‘And grey.’
‘Speaking of which—where is Mr Grey?’
He turned to look at her. Evidently her attempt at nonchalance left much to be desired.
‘He spent hours with us cleaning up after the storm and he looked exhausted, so I sent him to rest a little before we dock and must face the real world.’
‘I wish we could keep on sailing for another month at least. I’m not ready,’ she blurted out and Chris sighed.
‘Neither am I. In fact, quite a few people on this ship are dreading going ashore for one reason or another, including your knight errant, Viola. Perhaps our concerted repulsion will send us back out the estuary. I can’t very well wish my sister remain unmarried merely for my own convenience, but I do wish her letter had missed me in Alexandria.’