He lifted her chin with a single finger, his other hand lightly clasping her waist, and let her clearly see his determination. “You’re mine now. I’ve spent years studying, practicing ways to drive you insane with lust.”
Jessamyn closed her eyes, shaking, and strongly wished she knew someone else who could take her into those mountains.
He touched his tongue to her lips, teased them open. Breathed lightly into her mouth until she sighed and relaxed slightly. Sucked gently on her lips until her whole mouth was open and yearning for him. Then his tongue entered her, swirling over her teeth, teasing her tongue, twining and dancing with it.
She moaned softly and stretched up to meet his kiss, utterly absorbed. He kissed as if they had all the time in the world, as if days and weeks and months could go by while he learned the taste and shape and feel of her mouth.
Her eyes drifted shut and her hands clasped his shoulders, pulling him closer. She rubbed herself against him shamelessly, sighing his name. Her breasts firmed inside her corset, her nipples stabbed against the plain linen, as her blood began to race.
A soft tap on the door shattered her absorption in Morgan. She tried to pull herself away, blushing furiously.
Morgan simply surveyed her, smiled with a very satisfied air, and tucked her into the crook of his arm. They were both facing the door when Abercrombie entered. She tried to look nonchalant, but she knew her mouth was bruised and her hair almost certainly mussed.
Abercrombie gaped—and Morgan growled. Abercrombie promptly wiped his face clear of all expression, except a vacuous politeness. “You inherited a few personal items from Mr. Jones’s wife, Serafina, which are in this small chest.” He tapped a stoutly made, locked wooden chest, slightly smaller than a carpetbag.
“We’ll take it with us,” Morgan answered casually.
“Would you care to join my wife and myself for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Evans?” the lawyer asked nervously, his eyes darting to the knife at Morgan’s hip. “We always enjoy hearing the news from the West.”
“We are honored by your invitation, sir,” Morgan said politely, standing so close to her that she could smell his brand of soap. “But we’re scheduled to dine with my employer, William Donovan, and his family tonight. We must leave in a few minutes.”
At least she’d have a brief reprieve before she’d be alone again with Morgan. Perhaps she could regain some of her composure.
Morgan hailed a cab as soon as they were outside. She settled against the seat, trying not to lean against him. “Where are we going?”
“Back to my hotel.” His tone held more of a growl than a civilized comment.
“I thought we were to dine with Mr. Donovan?”
He snorted and began to play with her fingers. “We’ll meet with him and his wife later. There’s time enough for a taste of you now.”
She stared at him. His voice was slow, soft, and heavily laden with lust. His face was silhouetted against the window, masked by the flickering late afternoon shadows. She had no idea what he meant to do and a thousand fantasies leaped to mind, every one setting her pulse racing.
He lifted her hand and started to kiss her fingers one by one. When he finished with the little finger, he returned to her index finger, licked it, and sucked it into his mouth.
Lust speared through her to her loins. She gasped and sank against the seat, her core softening. Hot cream pulsed between her legs and she groaned softly, half in anticipation and half in denial.
Dear God, was this how her mother had felt when she’d looked at Forsythe’s jewelry?
Upon arrival at the hotel, Morgan registered her as his wife with all the arrogance of his aristocratic ancestry, then took her upstairs, waving off any offers of champagne. She was certain everyone watched them depart, with lascivious smiles. At least she had the right to be called Mrs. Evans.
At every step, she was acutely conscious of the man beside her. Of Morgan’s leg brushing against her skirts, as he prowled beside her in the stride that had always captured her attention. Of his fingers burning through the thin silk of her best day dress. Of his coat catching briefly on her bustle, or dress improver as polite society called it. Of the rise and fall of his chest under his sober black vest and white shirt. The dawning stubble on his chin. The pulse beating in his throat, above the starched white collar and black string tie. And his gray eyes, sharply scrutinizing everything, as they moved through the corridors’ hissing gaslight.
His room was small, although of the finest quality. She stood between his bed and the door, near a long mirror, shaking slightly as she tried to study the inanimate objects. Rosewood bed, marble-topped table, Brussels carpet, crystal lamps…But all she was really aware of was the man closing the heavy velvet curtains.
Now the chamber was lit only by the two lamps shining directly onto the bed. At this hour of the day, the neighboring rooms and hallways were empty, wrapping them in privacy.
A single bead of sweat ran down Jessamyn’s back as her breasts seemed to grow heavier and her nipples tighter, as the seams of her old corset’s silk brushed against them through her chemise. She didn’t know if she wanted to run from him or hurl herself at him.
Morgan’s hands came to rest lightly on her upper arms. Her head came up, startled, and she met his eyes in the long mirror opposite. She looked dark and mysterious, with her black hair and black dress against his black clothing and the room’s shadows. But the lamplight struck fiery sparks from his chestnut hair, glints from his gray eyes, as if he were a torch ready to be set alight. She stared at him, all of the past forgotten for the first time.
“Your dress is very soft, my dear,” Morgan purred, his voice as enticing as a whiff of the finest French brandy. He caressed her lightly, every fingertip evident through the thin cloth. His voice deepened and slowed, his Mississippi origins coming to the forefront. “But I do believe your skin will be even softer, and finer, than this silk.”
Every word uttered in that deep, rich drawl settled into her bones. Heat coiled deep, reached up her spine. Desperate to regain some sanity, Jessamyn tried to return the situation to one of logic. “Morgan, we need to talk about how to deal with my cousin’s—”
He stroked her shoulders and lightly ran his hands down her sides to her waist and over her hips. Involuntarily, she quivered as tiny lances of ecstasy skittered across her skin in the wake of his touch.
His drawl was even darker and more enticing as he undid the top buttons of her dress. “And I do believe the goddess Venus herself would be jealous of your figure. The womanly breasts and hips, the narrow waist, the firmness of your flesh thanks to your delight in horsemanship and dancing…”
His hand trembled slightly as he pushed aside a curl to kiss her neck. She tilted her head to give him access, but to her surprise, he nuzzled her gently first, then a delicate lick, a very light scrape of his teeth against one of her most sensitive, erotic points. Her knees buckled. Her wits frayed and she moaned, trembling at his dark, explicit promises of exactly what he planned to do to the rest of her body once he had bared it.
Eager for more, she reached back and slid one of his hands forward, until his fingertips grazed the underside of her breast.
“Do you wish a more direct touch, my dear? Or could certain portions of your anatomy be aching, perhaps?” His clever fingers caught her nipples between them, while lifting her breasts out of her corset. His wicked, all-too-knowledgeable eyes were heavy-lidded as he watched her in the mirror. “Is this how you play with yourself when you’re alone, Jessamyn?” he whispered in her ear. “Lifting and squeezing your breasts? Gently? Or a little more firmly?”
She gasped sharply, thrusting her hips back against him. Her hands fluttered, not quite certain how boldly to encourage him. Her bustle tilted up and collapsed against the small of her back so that only her thin dress and petticoats lay between her and Morgan. But her dress was so old and thin, her petticoats so fragile and limp, that neither formed much barrier to feeling her companion’s bod
y. And this time when she rotated her hips in a woman’s first invitation to a man, her derrière encountered the heat of his cock—standing hard behind his fine linen trousers. Her tongue swept across her lower lip in anticipation.
“Firmly then.” Morgan’s voice ensnared her again, pulling her attention back to his luminous eyes watching her in the mirror. “Do you prefer your nipples plucked, my dear lady? Or simply held while the rest of your skin receives attention?”
She choked, tossed her head back against his shoulder, and found herself writhing under his hands. “More often plucked, if you please,” she managed to gasp. Dear heavens, even her best summer corset was no protection from Morgan, who obviously knew far too much about how to reduce a woman to a morass of quivering lust. It would have been easier to control herself if he hadn’t continued to ask naughty questions or comment on her responses, while he fondled her breasts.
She was barely able to form a complete sentence, lances of heat pricking her flesh as her core clenched and melted for him. Then he lifted her skirts in back, leaving her completely respectable in front. His big hands stroked her flanks, the callused fingers sending answering ripples up her veins.
Jessamyn wriggled against him, almost dancing under his hands. If—when!—his expert fingers moved to the inside of her thighs and started to explore her, she could hardly be expected to remain calm.
“Your breasts are crying out for more attention, my dear,” he crooned in her ear, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust. “Place your hands on them as you do in private—”
“What?” she whispered, startled that he’d speak openly of such intimate activities.
“You’re a very passionate woman, Jessamyn.” His wicked voice was honeyed brandy, an invitation to sin in the warm lamplight. His sensual mouth curved in a half smile, as if he, too, remembered private delights. “Pleasure yourself now.”
She was helpless to resist the rasp of an order beneath his voice’s wicked invitation. Her hands lifted, tentatively at first, then with more certainty as she lost herself in the familiar movements.
“Ah, just as I wished to see you. Preparing yourself for my possession,” Morgan whispered in her ear, as his callused hands shaped and stroked her derrière.
She moaned her willingness, stretching up on her toes when he lifted her—and sighing in ecstasy when his fingers finally, finally found her through the slit in her drawers.
A deeper flame burned in her veins when she saw the image of lust they made in the mirror, both outwardly the image of propriety from the waist down at least in their street clothes. But both their faces showed carnal hungers—hers the desperation of a woman eager to find satisfaction, his the delight of a man enjoying the slow climb to fulfillment. She writhed against him restlessly, while he was steady except for the continual movements of his hands against her and the magic of his voice drawing her deeper and deeper into a world where nothing existed but the pleasures of their bodies.
She deliberately rocked against his hand, savoring how his eyes widened and her movement drove his fingers deeper into her dripping cleft. Waves of lust tightened her belly and breasts until she fought to breathe, ached for the climax so very near, that he was keeping just beyond her reach. She arched against him and pushed down harder, her eyes slitting like a cat’s as she heard his breath suddenly catch.
“Are you hot for me, little Jessamyn?” Morgan whispered, as he nibbled that sensitive point on her neck again, matching the tempo to the movements of his fingers inside her. She moaned, her hips falling into the same primal rhythm.
“Do you hunger for completion? Will you ask me this time, as you didn’t nine years ago?”
The soft words were heard but not by her brain. Her body, desperate for fulfillment and well accustomed to a man’s loving, understood. “Please.” She forced her eyes to open, thereby meeting his in the mirror. “Please take me, Morgan.”
His face blazed with passion and triumph. At another time, she’d have flinched to put herself at his mercy. But now she was simply desperate for relief.
“Put your hands on the mirror,” he growled.
She obeyed promptly, eager to be finally possessed by him.
He tossed her skirts up over her rump and she braced herself instinctively, watching eagerly. They were both almost fully dressed, yet about to indulge in the most carnal pleasure of all. How very, very hedonistic of them. Her body blazed its approval, gushing a torrent of cream down her thighs.
“Good girl,” he rumbled approvingly and turned away briefly, only to return rolling a thin sheath over his cock.
A condom? She blinked in surprise. She’d heard of them, even seen a few, but never used one before.
Morgan unbuttoned his fly, baring himself very little. She whimpered in frustration as her hips wriggled imploringly.
He stroked her hips, shaping them for an instant. His leg slipped between hers. Jessamyn gasped and arched against him, tremors rising through her at the touch of his trousers’ linen against her highly sensitized flesh.
Morgan lifted her off her feet then pulled her down hard onto his cock. It barreled into her, driving through her core, propelling all the air out of her lungs. She gasped her pleasure at finally being filled by a man again. Climax hung just out of reach.
He started to withdraw for another stroke. She clamped her internal muscles down hard on him but he slowly drew inexorably out, his cock’s crest rippling along her tight muscles in both promise and temptation. He shuttled into her again and again, working his way into her as hard as she tried to hold him in her, until finally he was seated to the hilt.
Everything in her was one giant knot of desperation, screaming for release.
Morgan’s eyes met hers in the mirror. They were both breathing harshly and sweating hard. For the first time, she saw carnal hunger as desperate as her own in his eyes.
“This time, dammit,” he gritted out. “This time, you’ll be the one gasping in ecstasy.”
“Then do it, damn you!”
His eyes flashed sparks of light. He braced his arms under hers, supporting her. He began to move, drawing out until only his very tip remained inside her. She fought to hold him, losing herself in the bliss of a man’s possession. Then he drove back in and her deep inner muscles flexed to welcome him, their flesh hot and wet against each other.
He pistoned in and out of her, harder and faster, the mirror slamming against the wall. Shattering all the memories of the long lonely nights of widowhood.
Rapture built higher and higher, tightened every muscle until she was ready to explode.
He growled and nipped her neck just behind her ear. She shrieked in surprise and climaxed immediately, shuddering and gasping his name as long, rolling blasts of pleasure roared through her body.
Deep inside her, he pumped rich jets of himself into her core, the heat muted by the condom.
Her eyes almost closed as she lost herself in sheer, ecstatic bliss, with his arms locked around her. She’d consider his unreliability another time.
Chapter Seven
Aftershocks still pounding his spine, Morgan dragged air into his lungs as if he’d just staggered to the top of Pike’s Peak and let Jessamyn down gently. She sighed, shuddered, turned, and hid her face against his chest.
He twined her raven ringlet around his finger one more time, savoring its silkiness, before lifting his hand from the nape of her neck. She shivered slightly at that last, faint caress to a very sensitive spot—and his gut tightened. Playing with her hair was almost more intimate than the carnal possession he’d just had of her.
His tongue ran out over his dry lips and he threw his head back, staring at the carved plaster moldings overhead as he fought for control. He’d never before been at liberty to play with her hair, not when he was a fifteen-year-old boy helping an eleven-year-old tomboy clean up after an escapade. Certainly not when he’d escorted her so briefly that Christmas nine years ago. But now, now he could do anything he liked with her, as long as he chase
d after Ortiz’s illusory gold.
Christ, what a mess he was in. Jessamyn believed that he was a rogue and a scoundrel because he had benefited from get-rich-quick schemes and lacked a stable home life. He’d been a spy, when every other man of her acquaintance—Cyrus, David, George, and the others—had fought in a regular unit. By any comparison to Cyrus, he looked like an untrustworthy rolling stone.
He still wished he hadn’t risked Uncle Heyward. If that stupid neighbor chit, Clarabelle Hutchinson, hadn’t invited him to that dinner, he’d probably have left and matters would have proceeded differently. But he’d taken the easy way out—the reckless, lazy way, as Jessamyn so accurately expressed it—and heedlessly endangered Uncle Heyward. He was damn lucky it had worked out. But Jesus, he’d sweated until he’d heard Uncle Heyward had left Memphis safely!
But that wouldn’t help today’s mess. He should have refused her offer this afternoon, just to prove he was a gentleman now. But if he had, she’d have made her way to Denver and God knows what offer she’d have made there or what scoundrel she would have made it to.
No, he was doing this to protect her.
Morgan softly snorted in derision, well aware his cock had been doing most of the thinking—and would likely continue to do so, every time he was around her.
But how the hell could he convince her he was a gentleman if he kept behaving like a scoundrel, taking her along on the damn fool expedition she was so crazy for and sleeping with her?
Visions of her, naked and flushed with passion, begging for more of his touch, swept into his head. He’d spent nine years learning the discipline he’d lacked the last time they’d been alone together. This time, she’d be the one whose self-control shattered and he’d have the self-control to walk away at the end. Somehow.
In his letters, Cyrus had spoken proudly of her as a wife and helpmeet, able to follow him anywhere the Army sent him. But with him, she was always escorted by multitudes of soldiers. On this trip, only a dozen rough teamsters would protect her on a dangerous race against Jones and his wife, a pair who made Apaches seem like pillars of the community.
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