At that moment, his cock swelled quietly, proudly between his legs, lifting his nightshirt into the air. The hem—oh, goodness gracious, the hem barely reached his thighs. Below that, between his legs, a fat crimson pouch peeped out.
Jessamyn squeaked but didn’t jump away. Her pulse skittered and she crammed her fist in her mouth, as heat built between her legs.
Dear heavens, he was becoming aroused. She’d seen a stallion service a mare a few times before but she’d never seen a man’s private parts. Morgan—this was Morgan, beautiful, dangerous, and available for exploration.
He groaned, the sound somehow making her breasts ache until she wanted to play with herself. She twisted restlessly, rubbing her legs together. Why on earth was looking at him having this effect?
She slowly pulled the cloth up to his waist. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight that met her eyes.
Now she was definitely staring at his cock, which responded to her attention by swelling even more strongly. Had she ever seen a man’s private parts? Surely not, as well bred as she was.
Morgan closed his eyes, enjoying the distraction from being chained—and the sensations that danced through his veins when her eyes roamed over him. Now if he could just persuade her to touch it, give him a chance of escaping this place…
There’d been that one girl in Jackson, who’d petted it like a kitten, before he’d ridden her; that had been very enjoyable. The other fellows told stories of women who liked to fondle men’s cocks or even excite them with their tongues. But he’d never had time to try any of that. His two encounters with a female had always been focused more on getting the deed over with. He’d treated them politely, of course, but there’d never seemed to be much need for dawdling.
Perhaps he could somehow persuade Jessamyn to touch him. And if her head ever came within reach of his fingers, and she should happen to lose a hairpin in the sheets—he’d gain his lock pick and a way out of here.
“Jessamyn,” Morgan said as gently as he could. “My right ankle, the one that’s had the shackle on it for the longest time, is cramping. Would you consider—could you possibly rub it, just a little bit, please?” He tried to make himself sound as inoffensive as possible. If she could touch his body in one distant spot, then he could slowly persuade her to come closer and closer. It had to work.
“Uh, your ankle?” She jerked her eyes away from his ribs and stared at the chain on the limb in question, which he couldn’t lift more than a few inches. Obviously judging that it was no threat to her, she lightly rubbed her finger over the big toe. To his considerable shock, sharp pricks of heat ran up his legs and into his groin and chest when she did, very similar to how he’d felt with the Jackson lady. Did it have a direct connection with his cock?
He moaned softly, involuntarily.
Her eyes flashed to his. “Oh, poor Morgan, you must truly have a cramp.” She stroked his big toe again and the delicious sensations were stronger this time, centering strongly in his balls.
He opened and quickly closed his mouth. How could he object? And when she paid similar attention to his other toes, tremors raced up his legs into his balls and cock. He hung his head back against the pillow, trying hard not to groan in delight. After all, dammit, this woman held him prisoner, even if her hands could drive him crazy. “Again, Jessamyn,” he gritted, “please do that again.”
“Perhaps rubbing your leg would help?”
Her husky whisper brought his eyes up to meet hers. That would bring her hands close to his very aroused private parts. How long could he survive without erupting? When handling himself, he usually lasted only a minute or two.
Her eyes were dark and dilated, her cheeks flushed, as she licked her lips nervously. She seemed a mite excited, given how her nostrils had flared.
“Certainly, you should rub my leg,” he agreed, infusing more confidence into his voice than he truly felt. “Keep moving your hands upward so you also give my thigh a good rub. Knead, then release. Knead and release.”
She nodded jerkily and obeyed, her movements in perfect rhythm with his voice. His chest and nipples were so tight, the fine cambric nightshirt rubbed them as sharply as the coarsest homespun. And lordy, lordy, he was hard enough that his cock was flush against his stomach.
But she needed to be more excited so she’d toss her head, shaking her hair free and losing a hairpin, to give him his chance at escape.
Her free hand rubbed her breast quickly before falling guiltily away. Did she perhaps play with herself? Maybe another time, he could persuade her to do that for him.
Her slender fingers, uncommonly strong for a woman, slid up the inside of his leg. Morgan caught his breath as the deep pulses ripped through his body. Pre-come slipped over his cock, warning of his imminent eruption.
“Have you ever seen a man’s pleasure?”
Her eyes widened. “Never.” She glanced nervously over her shoulder, gauging the distance to the door. “Surely I should go now.”
“You can’t go, not now!” Genuine desperation rang through his voice. “I’ll explode if I don’t climax and I can’t do it for myself.”
She half-rose from the chair, staring at his privates. He could feel the drafts of cold air tickling his balls, where they were tucked up hard against his cock, ready to launch his seed. She could probably see them very well from her location beside the bed. Somehow, despite his already fierce excitement, his cock found the ability to harden even more. He gave himself far less than a minute before he exploded, regardless of whether or not anyone was touching him.
“Aristotle should be here, if I’m to handle you so much,” she protested.
“I can’t finish if another man’s watching me,” Morgan growled. In truth, he had no idea if he could or not—but he wasn’t about to waste time finding out. His cock needed her to be excited and so did his escape plans. “Dammit, Jessamyn, have mercy on me! I’ll explode in another minute, if you don’t help me.”
She swallowed hard, her tongue sliding over her lips. Then she stepped closer to him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just put your hands around my privates and start rubbing. Up and down, up and down.” His eyes slid shut as his seed began to rise from his balls. “Hold me firmly—yes, like that.”
“It’s almost like milking you.”
“Yes,” he gritted. “Faster, faster.”
“You’re dripping, Morgan.”
“I’m coming, dammit! Ah, yes, now!” he roared as the climax blasted through him like a freight train. Stars burned behind his eyes as his muscles locked and he shot jet after jet through her hands. Glorious, shattering ecstasy—far stronger than he’d ever had by his own hand or with another woman.
Morgan stirred slowly afterward and considered opening his eyes. Someday his father’s words would come true: he’d be old enough not to fall asleep immediately after carnal encounters.
Something had changed since Jessamyn had left, though: now he was chained to the bed by only one ankle.
“There’s a pitcher and washbasin on the table for you, Mr. Evans, plus a washcloth and towel.” Aristotle’s voice was completely neutral.
Morgan’s eyes sprang open and he glared at the impassive Negro. Dammit to hell, he hated being a captive, where anyone could watch. Especially since he hadn’t gained a hairpin to use for a lock pick.
Someday the tables would be turned and his fair jailor would be the one begging for ecstasy at his hands.
On the other hand, he had successfully talked her into carnal pleasures. So he should be able to convince her to sample more of those, until she finally lost a hairpin.
He smiled, not nicely, and rose to clean himself, ignoring his audience.
Chapter Three
Morgan paced the attic room, ignoring the impassive Socrates. Outside, a cloud brushed over the sun, darkening the room further. He clenched his fists, cursing his jailers silently, and resumed his prowling.
By now, Grierson would probably be close to Forrest
, who was burdened by so many raw troops—six times as many as his seasoned men. Besides, Forrest had neither artillery, horses, nor supplies. He wouldn’t be able to make his usual vicious, lightning attacks upon the enemy and he’d also need every man.
Yet Morgan, a lieutenant who’d fought for the Confederacy since Mississippi seceded, had been locked up in Memphis by a gently bred young lady and was of no use to his general in this crisis. It was time to put aside his wounded pride and face the truth.
Jessamyn had won. Even if he escaped within the next hour, he would not be able to warn Forrest of Grierson’s coming. However, if he escaped that night, he’d still be able to rejoin the army at the planned rendezvous—and join the coming battle. It was his duty to fight, no matter what he had to do to reach the battlefield. Even if he had to obey some nonsensical order Jessamyn gave him and pretend to be a willing follower in carnal matters.
Dammit, he’d learned far too well over the past hours just how much he enjoyed his own sensuality, especially when laced with bondage, demanding orders, and the contrasting sharpness of a heavy shackle.
But he didn’t want to be the one wearing the bonds. No, his excitement always built when he imagined himself giving Jessamyn the orders, watching her writhe as he handled her, made her climb the pinnacle to carnal frenzy, made her wait until he gave her permission to climax.
He was now bitterly aware that he would never be happy until he had a willing woman in his bed, passionately eager to wear his bonds and follow his orders to carnal ecstasy. The sweetest revenge of all for these miserable hours would be to have Jessamyn as that woman.
But he had to walk away from that revenge. Fighting beside General Forrest was more important.
Jessamyn covered her yawn and wished there were a Christmas hymn that Clarabelle Hutchinson could play faster than a dirge. Still, the rest of the performances at the musicale, here at the military hospital, had been well received, and Clarabelle’s was the next to last. She adjusted her attentive smile and shifted her thoughts elsewhere.
Father would return day after tomorrow, from selling Somerset Hall to Richard Burke, just in time for Christmas. He and Mr. Burke were concerned that Somerset Hall remain in family hands, given Burke’s lack of children. So they’d agreed that should Burke or his heirs ever wish to sell the house and its grounds outside of their immediate family, Jessamyn and her heirs would be given six months to buy Somerset Hall at the price Burke had paid for it.
She considered that clause, a “right of first refusal,” something she was very unlikely to ever use, given her poverty. Selling the shell of Somerset Hall would barely provide enough money to take them north, in hopes of finding a surgeon who could save Father’s life.
She and Father would leave Memphis next week for New York. Now it was time to say good-bye to Morgan and her childhood dreams of marriage to him, time to start building a future with someone else. A man she could always trust. A man who would tell her the truth, whether it was pleasant or distasteful, unlike Morgan.
Her mouth tightened as she clapped politely for Clarabelle.
But she was enjoying touching Morgan, tasting him, seeing his eyes darken in passion. Hearing him groan as she took him over the edge of control.
Such sweet payback for how he’d treated her family. She’d forgiven him easily when he’d enlisted in the Rebel cavalry, seeing it as his duty to fight for his own beliefs, no matter how misguided they were. But when he’d risked her father’s life, in his spying—that was, that was…She ground her teeth, unable to utter in these environs the stableyard words that best described his foul arrogance.
She had to release him soon, so he could leave town tomorrow night before Father returned and Cyrus arrived. But she couldn’t let him leave without seeing him one more time…
The weak winter sunlight was fading as Morgan flipped through Ivanhoe. Jessamyn stretched high on her toes to look out the dormer window, trying yet again to see what was happening at Army headquarters—and to ignore the fact that she was alone with Morgan. From this high on the bluff, sound carried quite well from the town below and the river beyond. Also, it was winter, when the leaves had fallen from the trees, so even the slightest noise from blocks away could be heard quite clearly.
So many men had left over the past week to chase Forrest that she’d grown accustomed to the Memphis garrison being quiet. But an hour ago, she’d heard cavalry saddling up with a great martial clatter and jangling. The hubbub had grown so great that Socrates had gone to move Morgan’s horse out of their barn and into the much more inconspicuous garden shed. Then Mrs. Hutchinson had abruptly requested Aristotle’s help to hide her family’s valuables from what she saw as impending looting by the Federal troops. Unable to spread-eagle Morgan to the bed without Socrates’s help, Aristotle had given Jessamyn a blistering lecture on keeping her guard up against Morgan and reluctantly left them alone.
Jessamyn rolled her eyes again at that unnecessary warning and strained a little farther to see around the mansard roof’s corner. Every young lady should be wary of Morgan, especially his tempting looks and voice. His broad shoulders or those strong arms. And the way the muscles in his thighs bunched when he neared climax…She blushed.
At any rate, she’d had Aristotle dress Morgan in street clothes, which should greatly reduce his attractiveness.
Metal rattled and horses’ hooves drummed, echoing across the pavement and the brick houses.
Despite all the noise, she couldn’t tell where the cavalry were going. She tried to tell herself they were just a small party, planning to join the others in pursuit of Forrest, but her tumbling stomach didn’t quite believe her brain. Cyrus would be here within a few days and he’d know exactly how to interpret the commotion. His strong sense of duty would also command him to put Morgan into prison.
“Do you plan to touch me again?” Morgan asked suddenly, his voice a honeyed drawl against the growing shadows.
Jessamyn glanced over her shoulder at him, trying to read his expression in the weak winter sunlight. She was dressed less formally today, in a blue house dress with petticoats but no hoops, given the narrowness of the attic stairs. “Why?”
“Do you really think you need to tie my hands to the bed? I swear I won’t kill you, Jessamyn, if you run your fingers over me.”
She spun around to face him at that and considered him warily. He’d closed his book and his expression seemed honest.
Why was he flirting with her again? Boredom? Were young men truly so fixated on carnal matters that they’d think of nothing else when isolated? Miss Ramsay, her old governess, had warned her of that masculine tendency but she’d never before had the opportunity to observe it.
Still, he hadn’t tried to hurt her the night before when she’d handled him. She couldn’t believe he’d injure her physically, no matter what he’d done to her family in the service of his precious Confederacy.
And she truly wanted to put her hands on him again, to do more than just run her fingers up and down his hard cock. Why, she’d lain awake last night in bed playing with herself, as she’d dreamed of doing so. She’d even brought herself to ecstasy while fantasizing about kissing the hard muscles of his body.
She gulped at the memory, her limbs softening.
If she was to be cautious, she’d have to summon Aristotle and Socrates back to chain him down. She scowled at the thought of letting them handle Morgan’s naked body again and made up her mind. “Would you do anything I ask?”
A muscle throbbed in his cheek. “You have my word.”
If she agreed, she could touch him and finally learn everything about what a man’s body was like and what pleasured it, after so many years and so many books. Dispassionately, of course. After all, Morgan was a splendid male specimen: healthy, strong, and virile. Her only interest was in learning what potential mates were like. There was no chance now that they’d ever marry.
Her mouth went suddenly quite dry. “Agreed.”
He bowed briefly, t
hen stood up beside the bed to face her, his head held just as arrogantly high as ever. Broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, long-legged. Jessamyn’s hands tensed at her sides as she fought against simply lunging at him. “Take your shirt off,” she ordered, “and your suspenders.”
He did so, far too slowly for her taste, revealing a military Adonis clothed in beautiful muscles, even when marked with so many scars. Some looked old and ragged, possibly from before the War when he’d ridden with the Indians.
Her breathing was far too fast when she walked over to him from the window. Jessamyn ran her fingernail down one particularly ragged scar on his forearm before dropping it to his hip. He grunted softly when her hand moved toward his stomach but never moved, his eyes slitting with pleasure like a wild animal. She tried a similar caress elsewhere, scratching his forearm again—and he purred. His eyelids drooped, veiling his expression.
She circled his neck lightly with her fingers, the strong cords throbbing against her palms. Groaning something, he arched his head back, sending his thick, chestnut hair sliding over the back of her hands. She shivered, transfixed by an unexpected stab of lust. She hadn’t known that the feeling of someone’s hair could have that effect on her.
She ran her fingers very lightly down his shoulders, exploring the differences between neck muscles and collarbone and shoulder sockets and biceps. Then back across his chest, finding the great sweep of his—pectoral?—muscles, under the neat mat of dark hair. Her thumbs met in the middle and traced the center line back up to his collarbone. He groaned her name, leaning forward to meet her touch.
He was such a pleasure to her eyes, if not to her heart. Even her bones seemed to melt in appreciation.
She swirled her fingers back over his chest muscles, around and around until she centered on his small male nipple. It was hard and pointed, a small taut nubbin, like a little dagger demanding attention. She caught it between her fingers.
The Southern Devil Page 6