by Chloe Harris
Connor sat up, wrapping his arms all the way around her at the same time. This was where he wanted to be. His mouth found the puckered, delicious pebble of one breast and engulfed it, eagerly sucking it until he felt her arms around his head, pressing him closer to her. He left his teeth open a little so that her nipple rubbed against them but was then caressed by his lips. She must love the gentle abrasion. Her breathy moans were lower, coming faster as her ride became harder.
Quickly, he flipped them around, never leaving her warm embrace. When she landed on her back sprawled under him, he braced himself against the mattress and pumped into her hard, rolling his hips with long strokes that sent fire pulsing through his veins. He was going to burn alive, but it didn’t matter. It was all right; he’d die a happy man in her arms.
He was close and her sheath was fluttering around him. They’d come together. No, he had to hold back, he wanted to see her sigh and moan and whimper, her body rocking with another climax beneath him while he plunged into her tender flesh.
Closing her eyes, she bit her lower lip and froze, her whole body stiff with the calm before the storm. The blink of an eye later, she gasped and exploded, her nails raking his shoulders, eyes wide, body heaving off the bed in waves. Connor slowed, heightening her enjoyment, drawing it out not just for her sake but for his own. He’d never seen a more striking or mesmerizing sight than Jaidyn peaking so completely. The intensity of her orgasm shook him, raged through his body. He couldn’t hold back much longer, but he had to. He wanted to.
The waves of her orgasm ebbed by degrees and her body became softer, pliant under his. She swallowed hard; then he saw the haze crawl away, and when her emerald gaze focused on him, the contented smile on her lips sent a sizzling bolt through his body. He was lost. The last conscious thought he had was that he needed to pull out before it was too late.
His climax exploded through his body and burst from his mouth in a hoarse bellow.
He pumped into the hot tunnel he suddenly found himself in, not knowing how he’d gotten there. He thought he’d pulled out. Bending his head, Connor saw that it was Jaidyn’s hand that milked every last drop out of him, his semen dripping over her fingers and onto her lower belly. When he was completely spent, her hand retreated and she met his stare in which his utter amazement must have shown.
She smiled. And Connor didn’t just feel satisfied. He felt without question completely and truly happy. He wanted her to look at him that way always. He wanted her to…
Having wiped her hand on the bedsheet, her arms snaked up around his back and he let himself fall into her embrace. His heart was pumping in an erratic rhythm, his breaths coming hard. Bringing his hands up, he brushed a few wayward strands of her strawberry blond hair from her face.
Her body fit his like it was made for it. It was the perfect port, the only port that he’d ever want or need.
Connor mirrored her smile and brought his lips closer to hers, just an inch away. He could taste her breath on his lips, her warm, soft, luscious lips that quivered right now before he…
Sudden shock at what he was about to do surged through him. An ice-cold iron bar had replaced his spine and his eyes widened as realization hit him with the force of a cannonball.
What on earth was he doing? What in bloody hell had happened to him?
Cursing under his breath, Connor immediately left her arms, rolled off the bed, and stalked to the washstand. He filled the china bowl with cool water and splashed his face a few times, dragging his wet fingers through his hair. Bracing his arms against the stand, he watched, head bent, the bead that formed on the tip of his nose drop back into the bowl, rippling the surface with flawless circles. The water barely helped to cool his mind.
The sleepy early morning sun glimpsed at him through the open window. He gripped the rim of the washstand so hard that his knuckles turned white.
What had he been thinking?
He’d wanted to kiss her? A whore? Kissing didn’t work without feelings. He certainly didn’t have tender feelings for her, and surely she didn’t have any romantic feelings about him. What devil had possessed him?
“Connor?”
He could hear her move on the bed behind him, but he wouldn’t look at her and didn’t answer her. He was too embarrassed. No, he was too angry.
What had she done to him?
Whatever spell he was under, he had to get away from her. Lips grim, he grabbed one small washcloth on the stand beside the bowl, immersed it, then wrung it out. He didn’t even look back when he tossed the wet cloth in her direction, growling a distant “Clean up,” while he did the same.
“Connor, what’s wrong?”
He still didn’t talk to her. Instead, he went to the chair where his clothes were and donned them hastily. He didn’t even bother tying his hair back. Just before he reached the door, he looked back at her. He had to; he didn’t know why.
His grandmother always used to call freckles like hers “fairy kisses.”
Clearly he was under some kind of spell.
They were staring at each other. Her eyes were wide. She bit her lower lip, averted her eyes, and reached blindly for the blanket. Lips quivering, she covered herself but didn’t look at him again. She turned her back, away from the door, away from him.
Connor felt the muscles in his cheeks jump. He turned and ground his molars so hard he could hear them make tiny little noises in his head, creaking and crunching like the planks of a ship at sea in the middle of a calm night.
Hand wrapped around the doorknob, he narrowed his eyes at the door’s panel in front of him. His heart was beating heavily up to his throat. Something akin to dread was squeezing his neck with cold talons.
Whatever she’d done to him and that had him so…confused…it didn’t agree with him. Not at all.
He turned the knob and left the room without another backward glance.
The door fell shut behind him when he was almost down the stairs. With each step he took, something in his chest constricted, more and more, until Connor had to pause to catch his breath.
He was cursed; that must be it. There was no other logical explanation for it.
“Monsieur O’Driscole!” Madame Poivre’s lilt tore him out of his dark thoughts and his head snapped up to see her standing right in front of him at the foot of the stairs, barring his hasty retreat from her establishment.
“Why, you’re a little pale. What ’as ’appened?”
For the first time since he’d known her, he couldn’t manage his typical smirk. His eyes were glued to her and instantly he avoided her searching gaze, looking to the side, then down.
“I think you need a glass of something stronger than port right now. Come with me.” She slung her arm around his, hooking in his elbow, and much to his chagrin guided him to another room at the back, even farther away from the exit. But Connor complied. The house was asleep; besides, he had too much respect for the madam to just brush her off.
Next thing he knew, instead of halfway to the harbor, he was seated in a comfy armchair in a room he’d never been in before. Madame Poivre thrust a slightly chipped lead crystal glass in his hand that was filled with golden-brown liquid. Its fragrance was familiar and it soothed his agitated mind right away. Irish whiskey. Single malt. He guided the glass to his lips in a slow and deliberate way, savoring it like it was ambrosia. Indeed, to him it was. Taking a sip, he let the liquid splash against the roof of his mouth, then linger on his tongue. Swallowing it, he felt its almost nonexistent burn down his throat, tasted the gentle, tickling whisper of its unique flavor on his palate. Connor closed his eyes as the liquid brought balmy calmness and tingling strength back to his body at once.
“You’re leaving us already, O’Driscoll?”
Connor’s head snapped up at her having said his name without the usual disfigurement of a fake French accent, and he realized her small, shrewd eyes were taking in his every reaction.
As much as he wanted to reply something, nothing came to his m
ind. “Yes” was not quite the truth, because he was sitting here now and not on his way like he wished to be, “no” would be a lie; “as soon as you let me” was stating the obvious but rather impolite. So what could he say?
“You’re not displeased with her, are you?” She focused all her attention on him.
Connor averted her searching gaze yet again, looking instead into the lead crystal glass in his hand. “No.”
Madame Poivre sighed with relief. “Good. After two days that would have sounded rather unbelievable, anyway. You’re probably asking yourself how she came to be here in my house?”
When she said it, Connor knew that that was part of what had been bothering him all along. But before he could react in any way, she snorted and went on, “I have this acquaintance. He is a young sailor who has chosen, might I call it a less than perfectly respectable profession? The poor boy never had anybody else to look after him but his Auntie Polly, who herself grew up in the worst part of London. But she made something of herself. She even learned a bit of French in her time, and she taught him some virtues that are so easily forgotten these days.”
Connor looked up at her and she winked at him. Was she talking about herself?
“Oh, listen to me, digressing again and chattering about something that is totally beside the point. This acquaintance of mine is probably the last honorable buccaneer there is, and I have seen one or two in my time. He brought her to my doorstep.” Pausing, she let out another dramatic sigh.
Connor finished the whiskey and set the empty glass on the small table next to him. He’d rather she stopped talking about Jaidyn. And he’d rather be on his way. Standing, Connor bowed to her and excused himself. “I thank you, Madame Poivre, but I’m afraid I need to leave now. I—”
“She is a rare beauty, is she not?” Speaking quickly, her eyes narrowed at him once more with a peculiar glitter.
Connor paid her no mind, though. He turned to leave the room. He’d show himself out; after years of coming here, he knew the way only too well.
“I will make a fortune with her now that she’s trained, you know.”
That stopped him. Slowly, he turned around and met her stare. Her lips twitched into a grin as she leaned back in the chair, obviously pleased with herself.
“I beg your pardon?” Connor didn’t know why he reacted the way he had. He’d heard her perfectly well; his ears were in faultless condition. He didn’t know why he cared. That was the way with whores. They sold their favors to the highest bidder. He knew that, after all. Why was it bothering him, then?
Counting off on her fingers, she began to enumerate the “benefactors” who were on the list, falling back into her fake French accent. “There is Monsieur Abeiros ’oo expressed interest in ’er. Also, Monsieur Cameron wishes to get an appointment with ’er. Viconte Maleroy ’as written ’ee would visit us in a few days—”
“Maleroy?” Connor felt his eyes bulge. “You can’t be serious, madame. We both know his preferences.”
Rolling her eyes, she laughed. “Oui. They do not exactly include women nor ’armless entertainment. But ’ee pays so well, Monsieur O’Driscole. Besides, she is very thin. She might look like a boy from be’ind if you get my meaning.”
Madame Poivre was thinking about introducing Jaidyn to Maleroy? If so, she must have lost her mind. That sadistic bastard? Connor had once seen what that fat, ugly beast did to women. How could she have told him about Jaidyn?
“Then there’s of course the usual clientele that ’ungers for a beauty such as ’er from the old world. And…”
Connor wasn’t paying attention to her rambling on about who’d be next anymore. All of a sudden he was too focused on sorting through his own strange feelings. He desperately needed to leave, to find some time to sort through everything. But one thing was for sure. He didn’t care at all for the idea that there’d be anybody but him next, even though right that moment he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see Jaidyn again. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself.
Yes, he was still himself. The old Connor. Nothing had changed. He’d used her well. Jaidyn might be sore a day or two, actually. She’d been sore the last few times already, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself even if she’d wanted him to—and she certainly hadn’t wanted him to. No doubt about that.
“Enough!” His bellow had been sterner than he had at first intended.
Madame Poivre blinked with her mouth still open. “Monsieur?”
Connor brought his left arm up and leaned his forehead into his hand, letting his fingers massage his temples. He figured if worse came to worse, he’d be gone a week at the most. He’d think of something meanwhile. Anything was better than her meeting Maleroy. Or any of the others. Jaidyn would need time to rest. Yes, he could afford that. Much more if it came to that. Connor owed Jaidyn that much at least. “How much for the whole week?”
Crossing her pudgy fingers and leaning them against her chin, Madame Poivre studied him a long time, her right eye a little narrower than her left. Clearly, she was adding figures in her head. With interest.
Connor sighed. With one step toward her, he fumbled for the purse in his waistcoat. Taking it out, he tossed it on the small table next to where his empty glass stood. Madame Poivre’s eyes lit up with glee at the distinctive clatter of gold coins muffled by the leather of the pouch.
“Here. That should compensate you.” Connor had difficulty not hissing through his clenched jaws.
She uncrossed her fingers to grab the heavy purse. Opening it to peek at its contents, she hummed her approval.
“Just make sure nobody touches her until I return.”
She bowed her head and that asinine turban bobbed once. “Very well, Monsieur O’Driscole. That should suffice for…ten days?”
Nodding to show he’d understood, Connor left. One problem at a time. He had a prior appointment. Right now he’d focus on his friend and see whether Reinier needed his help. And then he’d think about…the other matter.
11
After spending the morning losing herself in her work again, inspecting the planting back in the fields, then overseeing the boiling and the rum production as well, Emiline now found herself famished having skipped breakfast. So she started toward the mansion taking the route past the harbor.
This morning she had promptly lost her appetite. There had been a note on her breakfast tray that explained why there was a breakfast tray in the first place since she usually broke her fast in the sunroom. Having read the note, she’d been nettled. Well, if one could call her unladylike growl and the emotional outburst that followed just a little piqued. She’d furiously shredded the condescending, incredibly high-handed dismissal into tiny pieces.
Merely thinking about it had her temper flare yet again. Any positive thoughts she’d had about that man the day before had been shredded to bits like the vile note. What had that note said? If only it were as easy to wipe the words from her memory as it had been to tear up the slip of paper and watch the confetti rain on her while she wished those specks would miraculously vanish like soap bubbles.
Dearest Lily, it had read. Go about your day as you see fit. I have other matters to attend to that will not require your presence. I will seek you out when I have need of you again.
Disdainful, arrogant fop. Who on earth did he think he was?
Ah, yes, of course. He was the monsieur. After all, he’d signed the note with “M” for monsieur, she supposed. Foolish title in her opinion.
Sniffy, haughty dandy! How dare he dismiss her?
What in the world could he have possibly had to do? Emiline had resisted the despicably immense urge to run to the window and see if the top of the Sirene’s main mast was still peaking over the green hills of Ronde.
She had passed the harbor later on her way to the fields, anyway, and the Sirene had still been there.
Thinking again now of that moment of weakness made Emiline halt in her angry stride. She harrumphed, almost failing to resist the contemptible ne
ed to stomp her foot.
Well, fine! If the whole point of this ridiculous exercise of his was to do as he said, then, of course, she would do as she pleased!
She resumed her walk heading down the path cut in the vine-covered slope leading to the sea, feeling very proud in her defiance only to stop short again when it dawned on her that the whole thing was rather depressing.
The saddest part of it all was that she’d gone back to work because it was the only thing she knew to do, the only thing she ever did. Well, except for reading or cooling off in her secret swimming spot, but she had much too much frustration to burn for either of those.
Emiline threw her arms up and hid her face in her hands, muffling the frustrated sound from her throat that was a mixture of a despairing shriek and a discomfited huff.
When had her life become such drudgery? She had known how to have fun once. She’d had friends, attended parties, and been invited to tea. In fact, when her parents were alive, the island was always full of visitors. It had been rare that a week went by without someone else at their dinner table.
What a horrible hermit she had become. She’d never thought to question it before, but she’d cut herself off from almost everything she’d known before her marriage. Agreed, her life might have been a teensy shallow and frivolous before, but surely there was some medium between that and the sad, boring existence she had now?
Well, not right now. Until this morning the last day and a half had made her normally lonely existence seem so very far away.
Did she really want to go back to that life in just a couple more days?
Lowering her arms and blinking into the sun, Emiline wondered, when her divorce became final, she wouldn’t have to go back to…that. She’d be completely free then and she could do anything she wanted.
Hope blossomed in her chest as she continued to make her way toward the manor. Indeed, she thought, almost bouncing in her tracks, she could create a great scandal by throwing a lavish ball to celebrate her new-found freedom. She could even find another lover or another husband, for that matter. Or both?