by Amber Lin
“Julia.”
Her expression fell. But she came to him. Terrified, bewildered, she came to him. He couldn’t have spoken then. The trust she put in him was too great, too undeserved. She was extending an olive branch, not realizing he’d already burned down the tree long ago. He couldn’t tell her, though. He could only pull her between his thighs and tilt her face to his, and press his lips against hers—could only breathe her in to fan the flames.
Just for a minute, he closed his eyes against the past. There was no honor to avenge, no retribution to seek. He didn’t kiss her because he had to. He kissed her because she tasted so sweet.
And because, in that moment, he could imagine that this was enough.
…
Julia felt the change in him. At his house he had been tense, his movements stiff, his seduction calculated. But here on the ship, his kiss felt…natural. An extension of the words they had exchanged and the heated glances he gave her.
It felt inevitable that he would nudge her lips open and press inside, and so she let it happen, without the detachment she’d felt on land. She let him inside her body, and opened her soul.
He moved his tongue along hers in a slow, steady rhythm. An answering throb began low in her belly—and he knew. The mastery with which he tilted her head back and devoured her proved he was aware of every heated reaction in her body, but she couldn’t resent him for it. He gave her the gift of his experience, his attention, and she returned the favor in the form of utter submission. It didn’t matter whether he would become her protector or whether she would fall from grace. He was already protecting her; she had already fallen.
“Julia?”
A tremor shook his voice. She couldn’t account for his hesitation now, but he wanted her. She could tell by the way his body leaned toward her, even as he tried to set her away. She could tell by the barely-banked fire in his eyes.
“I need to feel you on top of me,” he said.
And yes, because of that, too. Because he wasn’t afraid to bare himself alongside her.
He sat on his bed with a creak of ropes, then helped her climb onto his lap, pulling her up and lifting her skirts until she could settle with her knees straddling his thighs. Like riding—only she doubted the animal between her legs could ever be broken. He would always lead, and she found she didn’t mind.
“What are we doing?” she asked. How far are we going? she meant.
He pressed a kiss to her jaw, then another. With two fingers, he lifted her chin to give himself access to her throat. Each press of his lips, each new inch of skin seemed to answer her. Far, farther. What were they doing? Everything.
“Why did you come to my ship, Julia?”
She knew he didn’t want to hear about negotiations or rationales. He wanted the truth, and maybe he deserved it, too. “I wanted to feel alive.” After cold water and dark shadows, after sinking. “I wanted to choose something.” Penniless. Friendless.
She wanted to choose him.
But as she had told him the truth, he owed her the same. “Why did you stop, in your house?” she asked. “Why did you leave?”
He paused, breathing hard, his cheek against hers. She could feel the bristle there; it scratched her gently with every harsh breath. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He said it as though it should be a revelation, as if he’d surprised himself with the confession. And she knew that sometimes it did hurt, this act. That knowledge came from the dark rooms of her memory. Who had told her that? And when? It didn’t matter, though. Everything hurt. Healing and hungering and losing hope all hurt, and those were just the parts she remembered.
“You’ll be gentle,” she whispered, but she didn’t really believe it. Until his fingers sank into her hair, finding each pin and removing it with such tenderness her throat ached. Tears sprang to her eyes. He treated her hair like silk, and that meant she was precious, too. Silk hair and satin skin and lace eyelashes, that was how he touched her—careful and reverent.
He was massive. His arms could block her in. His hands could hold her down, and they had. He had used his body against her, before, but he had never hurt her. He didn’t hurt her now, either. He cherished her, by remaining beneath her, so she could set the pace.
When her hair was down, he kissed her again. The air around them changed, grew charged. As if a storm had brewed unseen, and now it raged around them. Sitting astride him, her face was now higher than his. She looked down, and her hair formed a veil, shielding them from everything else. The world narrowed to the space between his mouth and hers—the hot air, the damp sounds. The impossible pleasure such a small, soft touch could create.
He reached behind her and lifted her skirts. Cool air kissed the heated skin of her bottom, her thighs. Startled, she pulled back. He was gazing at something behind her, eyes dark with passion. With wild wishes.
She glanced behind her and froze. There was a mirror. She had noticed it when she first came in and assumed it was for dressing. But now she realized an alternate usage. The mirror gave a clear view of the bed. Of the rumpled white sheet and his pants and boots. It showed her turquoise skirts rising around her like a frothy wave.
She could see the pale, curved flesh of her bottom. And his hands, darkly tanned in contrast, as they gripped her.
God. The sight turned her insides to liquid. As if she had just melted, low in her belly—and even lower than that, deep between her legs. If he reached his hands a little farther around, he would feel it. But she couldn’t wait for that, couldn’t count on him. He moved like molasses, slow and sweet. She needed something more forceful and she found it in her hips. She rocked them against him, and there, there was the pressure she needed, in just the right spot. His body felt like a ridge, made perfectly for her to sink down on, just the right shape to use for this.
“Christ,” he muttered.
His cheeks had turned ruddy, his eyes glazed. He looked sick with fever, but that seemed right. As if they were both doomed, and every swivel of her hips brought them a little closer to the end.
He stared at her with something like wonder. “How are you doing this?”
The truth was, she didn’t know. She had wanted to take control of something, and so she’d taken control of him. But wanting something didn’t mean knowing it—she wanted her memories, but that didn’t suddenly give her the knowledge of them. This felt right, though. Instinctive.
Familiar.
She had done this before. Not with him.
But she didn’t have time to marvel over that new memory. He tugged the bodice of her dress until her nipples appeared above the lace. Doubt made her breath catch. She was far from a bounty there.
Beauteous orbs.
His gaze took away any doubts. He looked…hungry. He kissed the top curve of her breast, the side of it. Roughened fingers fanned over the swell, lifting it so he could lick the crease underneath. All of that paled in comparison to when he flicked his tongue against her nipple. She cried out, her hips jutting up against them, uncoordinated and painful.
He grasped her bottom again, firm and meaningful. He showed her the rhythm, pressing and pressing, until she moved naturally with the small thrusts of his hips. Until she moved with the ship itself.
A surge of pleasure rushed through her, at once expected and entirely new. She may have done this before, but it had never been as powerful, as terrifying. It had never been as acutely pleasurable in a way that hurt and soothed her at the same time. Helpless sounds escaped her, and he caught them with his mouth. He held her everywhere, caressing a patch of skin just beneath her thigh, making her shudder with a final, painful climax.
She collapsed on top of him. Her head rested on his shoulder, eyes shut. She attempted to sit up, but he clamped his hands on her legs, holding her still.
“Just wait,” he said tightly. “Don’t move.”
His body felt strung tight beneath hers, like ropes about to snap. She obeyed him and remained motionless. Gradually, the tension in him
eased. The hardness still jutted up from beneath his trousers, but his muscles no longer trembled.
“Shall I—?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. It wasn’t only modesty that kept her mute. She could not remember what came next.
Had she ever known?
“No, I…” His head fell back with a thud against the wooden headboard. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated.
A shiver ran through her, because he still sounded surprised. “Of course not,” she said.
There was a pause, and then he laughed, the sound so hollow and hopeless that the air on the back of her neck stood up. She wasn’t afraid of him, she reminded herself. Even if he sometimes got a cold, hard look in his eyes.
Like now.
Chapter Eight
Nate wasn’t a man who denied himself. He went after what he wanted with single-minded determination, with relentlessness, with passion.
And what he wanted was revenge.
Revenge sat in front of him, on him, dress rumpled, cheeks flushed.
And he wasn’t taking it.
Why in God’s name was he holding back? Her body was graceful and feminine, enough to make any man hard. Hard and hurting. He wouldn’t have relief soon, either, not with the way she looked.
He had chased her, caught her, held her captive, and she’d still faced him with quiet strength. Now she held her head high, meeting his gaze, half-naked, well-used. But also resigned. As if she knew he would hurt her, and God, she was right.
He didn’t want her to be right about this.
“Come here,” he murmured.
She didn’t move. And well, of course she didn’t. His voice had come out low enough to be intimidating… threatening… but he hadn’t been lying before. He wouldn’t hurt her. At least, not tonight.
He was just so damned painfully aroused, it hurt to breathe.
He cleared his throat. “Come lie beside me. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”
She slanted him a sideways look for that. He lay down on his back looking up, waiting, pretending his dick wasn’t trying to punch through his clothes. He could feel her gaze on his face, measuring him, weighing him, so he kept his gaze on the wooden planks above. It would have to be enough that he hadn’t fucked her. He wasn’t also going to expose his soul.
After a long moment, she scooted up in the bed and lay down. A rustle of fabric. And again.
“What is it?” he asked tightly. The constant sounds of her body. The motion. She was like water, a soft whisper and steady rhythm, and his body longed for the cool surcease of her touch.
He had to make her stop. He needed to remind himself why he was doing this.
“My father was in shipping,” he said, answering the question she had raised at dinner.
She tensed. “He was?”
“His sloop was half the breadth of Nightingale. It was a wonder he managed to cross the distances he did without falling prey to a storm or pirates. But he was focused.”
“Did you work on his ship?”
Black memories moved over him, but he ignored them. “My father wanted me to come with him, from the time I could walk. But my mother believed in education. So I stayed at home and went to school.”
She already sensed the story would end badly. He could tell by the way she stilled to look at him.
“They would fight about it. She worried about him, too, when he was gone for months. Every time my father came home, he would bring her something. A trinket, to remember him by.”
She made a small sound in her throat.
“Wouldn’t you know, he returned safely from every trip. Even the last one. He was caught by footpads on his way home from the docks.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I remember thinking, though, wondering what he’d brought home for my mother that time. They never found it. The footpads stole it, of course.”
“Oh, God,” she moaned as if she’d made some discovery.
He drew back. “Julia?”
“No wonder you hate thieves so much.”
“Don’t be dramatic. I’m not some tortured soul. I dislike thieves because of their propensity for stealing from me, nothing more.”
She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the sympathetic set to her mouth, the soulful look in her eyes. And, well, she had good reason to doubt. He may not be a tortured soul, but he was held by old promises, ancient oaths. But it wasn’t because his father had been murdered by street thugs. If it had only been that…
He needed her to stop looking at him as if she were going to cry. He thought she might already be crying. Her grey eyes glinted in the moonlight from the tiny porthole. It was hard to see. He had started this story to distract her, but he had only made things worse, spinning a web around himself, tighter and tighter, until he was trapped.
“I’d better get you back to the house,” he said grimly. Before he said something truly idiotic.
Like the truth.
“No, wait! Please. We’ll talk about something else. I promise.”
Absolutely not. You don’t belong on this ship. I don’t want you here. Those were all the things he should have said. Instead he shrugged. Shrugged. He had never shrugged so much in his life. It was as if he’d gone to the continent and spent his days making nonsensical fatalistic paintings and this was what he’d become. The sort of man who could have a conversation with a woman, apparently.
“Talk, then,” he said, annoyed. At himself, mostly. But also at her, and the way she could tie him in knots.
She thought for a minute. He thought she might have fallen asleep when, finally, she said, “I wasn’t completely honest with you. I did remember more.”
He stiffened. “Oh?”
“I remember my school. Not the specifics of it, its name or what years I attended. I just remember the color of the hallways. The smell of the library. Things like that.”
“Oh.”
“Are you disappointed? I am. If I knew where I came from, I might be able to find assistance there. Then I wouldn’t have to rely on your goodwill.”
Goodwill. It made him sound like that blasted countess who had come to see him. He could be the founder and sole member of the Society for Drowning Girls Dressed as Boys. He shook his head. “The memories will come back. The fact that you have remembered some things already is proof of that.”
“I hope so.” She sounded doubtful.
His stomach tightened, imagining her reaction when she did remember. Anger. He could countenance that. Hurt. Betrayal. They were inevitable.
She remembered her childhood…her schooling…she was gaining back her memory by leaps and bounds, by years and decades. How long did he have until she remembered everything?
He cleared his throat. “What else do you remember? If you describe it to me, maybe it will help.”
She flushed a deep rose, from her cheeks down to the tops of her breasts. She had straightened her dress before lying down, but the bodice was still too low. Beautifully low.
His curiosity stirred at her embarrassed expression. “Julia?”
He hated saying the name. It felt like a lie. Hell, it was a lie, one she had told him, but one he volleyed back to her.
Her lashes hid her eyes, and he took a moment to study them. Each lash was a different color, shades of mahogany and butter, a single strand of cacao, striking. An urge overtook him, to kiss her there, once on each eyelid, so strong his body grew taut, straining to hold still. The skin was so thin, almost bluish, bruised. He couldn’t touch her or he’d take her. He couldn’t have her without ruining her.
“What you and I did,” she murmured.
It took him a second to catch up, to register what they had done. Her, straddling him. Him, pushing up into the warm curvature of her body, desperate for entry. What else do you remember? he’d asked.
His heart began a tribal beat, though he couldn’t have said whether it was prurient in
terest or horror or fury, or some combination of the three. “Wait. You did that at school? With a teacher?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Oh, well then, of course not. Why don’t you explain it for me?”
“I thought you might react this way,” she said faintly.
“I’m not angry at you. Damn it, Julia.” It did not escape his notice that he was enraged by the idea of someone taking advantage of her while he was trying to do the same thing. He didn’t care.
“It wasn’t with a teacher,” she insisted, though she still wouldn’t face him. In fact, she had pressed herself into the linens so much that her voice came out muffled. Especially when she said, “It was another student. I did it with…”
“Willingly?”
“What? Yes.”
“Give me his name—”
“It wasn’t a boy.”
It was a little like being hit in the head. The world went silent, her voice replaced with a buzzing sound. His vision dimmed, going dark before focusing on her again. He forgot entirely how to speak or move or breathe.
“We had a pact not to tell anyone,” she said. “Which I’m breaking now, by telling you, but, you see, I don’t have many memories, at all. So that makes the ones I do have very important. And I wanted to share one with you. It seemed appropriate.”
“It seemed appropriate to tell me that you gave your female friend at boarding school a climax.”
“When you put it that way, it doesn’t seem as appropriate.”
He barked a laugh. Appropriate. God. She was going to kill him. She would say something outrageous, and he would shrug, because that was what he did now, he shrugged.
But the worst part, the horrible part, was that it did seem appropriate. The telling, that is. Because he understood her well enough to know what she’d been trying to do. She’d been trying to cheer him up after he’d told her about his father’s death.
And it was working. He’d never felt so cheerful in his life. His chest felt full, almost bursting. There was something like a smile on his face, but it felt stiff with disuse.
“Have I shocked you?” she asked innocently. The little devil. She knew she had.