The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He kissed her boldly, hungrily, claiming her as if they’d never tasted each other before. She responded eagerly, her lips parting for him and her tongue surging into his mouth. She moaned, sighing his name greedily. She needed Morgan the way she needed air to breathe.

  But his damn starched collar was in the way and those pearl studs down the front of his shirt were ridiculous. Beautiful, but an intolerable imposition when a woman wanted to touch her husband. She pulled away and started unbuttoning him as rapidly as possible, her head down and her eyes focused on her task.

  “Jessamyn,” Morgan purred in that deep, dark voice of his that always made her knees turn weak and her heart melt, “why are you paying so much attention to my buttons and not my mouth?”

  “Because they’re stopping me from touching your chest,” she snapped and yanked his coat off. She eyed his braces suspiciously, decided they just might be acceptable for the moment, and pulled his shirt open. Morgan stood with his fists on his hips, watching her, with a very promising bulge growing behind his trousers. She palmed it and closed her eyes, humming approvingly at its hot throb against her hand.

  “Jessamyn.” His voice was a trifle rough.

  “Hmm?” She fanned her fingers over his cock and sighed. She could probably still wrap her hand around it so it wasn’t fully erect. But it was already truly magnificent.

  He coughed hard, several times before he spoke. “What about that long wedding night you wanted?”

  “Hmmm…” She fondled him again and he jerked against her.

  “Jessamyn,” he growled warningly.

  A small damp spot was starting to appear close to his waistband. She sniffed, regretting the necessity to remove her hand. But perhaps if they both undressed quickly…

  She stepped away and unpinned her hat. “The first one undressed gets to tongue the other, agreed?”

  “You must have fifty or more buttons, Jessamyn,” Morgan pointed out, wrenching off his cuff links.

  “Are you claiming an advantage?” Thankfully, she’d taken off her kid gloves in the carriage. She began to undo the tiny buttons on her cuffs. With luck, she’d have them out of the way and most of the ones on her tunic before he was undressed. Then she could have the fun of being pleasured and disrobed by him, without worrying about too much damage to her elegant dress.

  “Not at all,” he denied, dropping his pearl studs and cuff links into a tray. He pulled off his boots with more haste than style, a technique he employed on the rest of his clothing and which Jessamyn heartily approved of.

  She was still unbuttoning her tunic when he faced her, gloriously nude and urgently erect. “How the devil can I claim my winnings, madame wife, when you’re still so completely covered?”

  She pouted at him and continued work on the recalcitrant buttons. He clucked, his eyes alight with laughter. “Dearest Jessamyn, you simply lack the proper education.”

  “Which you, no doubt, have as a thorough reprobate,” she retorted.

  “Exactly.” He strolled over to the champagne cooler, providing an excellent view of his bobbing cock. She considered his dimensions, the potential of the beautiful branching vein as a roadmap to his most sensitive spots—and realized that she’d stopped moving. She cursed silently and went back to work, her fingers itching to wrap around his warm skin rather than lifeless buttons.

  He opened the champagne expertly and filled a glittering crystal flute. Finally finished with the tunic, she glared at him.

  “Allow me, madame,” he bowed and handed her the champagne.

  She accepted it suspiciously. He drew the tunic off her as efficiently and swiftly as any lady’s maid, and tossed it into a corner.

  “Morgan!” she objected.

  He nibbled her bare shoulder in precisely the place where she was most sensitive, then licked it. She moaned, her eyelids drooping in anticipation. “You’re wicked.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed smugly and nibbled her again.

  She opened one eye just enough to consider her champagne. This wedding night would definitely be extremely enjoyable. She took a long drink of the golden bubbles and tried not to contemplate leaping on him.

  He ran his fingers up and down her spine. “Too many layers, I think,” he remarked, slipping a single finger down the waistband of her overskirt. He wiggled it. Jessamyn moaned when it found the seam of her backside. How had the reprobate found the one place where he could touch bare skin by delving between layers?

  It was all she could do not to whimper when he removed it to unbutton her overskirt. Or sob a plea for more when he teased her by drawing up her skirts over her flanks to remove her underskirt and petticoats, then stroking the delicate flesh of her inner thighs.

  By the time Morgan had removed her petticoats, Jessamyn’s heart was pounding loudly enough to be heard in Memphis. Her skin was flushed and tight, her nipples rasping eagerly against her fine silk chemise, desperate for his touch. All she wore now was her chemise, corset, and drawers. It was a wonder that her knees could still hold her up, yet somehow she eyed him seductively as he paced around her like a jungle cat. “Do you like what you see, husband?”

  “Hell, yes,” he growled and pulled her up to him by the shoulders. “You’re mine now, Jessamyn, do you hear? Mine.”

  She threw back her head, her curls tumbling down her back. “Entirely yours, Morgan, as you are mine,” she agreed huskily. Her core clenched and burned with longing for him.

  His eyes roved over her desperately. “Dear God, how I have dreamed of you looking like this for me.” He pulled her to him, crushing her against him, and her corset slipped open, his great strength having popped the steel busk’s studs undone in front. Her breasts slipped free and rubbed against the wall of his chest. She gasped, shuddering as lust speared her from breast to groin. Morgan was her rock—yet all he had to do was touch her and he set her free to passion.

  He flung her corset aside and stroked her back, his hips pushing against hers. Hunger rose higher in her, melting her senses until all she could feel or see was Morgan. Dearest Morgan, who’d risked his life for her dream.

  She wrapped her leg around his and rubbed herself against him desperately. Her rhythm matched the one in her blood, in her hips, in his hands’ hot caresses over her derrière, in his broken breathing. “Morgan, dearest Morgan…”

  He ripped her chemise off, her fine Parisian chemise whose ribbons matched her wedding dress. Yet all she wondered was why it had taken him so long, and she clawed at him for more kisses.

  He tossed her up on the bed, across the great bear skin, and ripped off her matching Parisian drawers. The fur was silky soft against her back, while the coverlet’s embroidery rasped gently against her legs. She gasped in approval at finally being naked, her world narrowed to the big chestnut-haired man in the golden light above her. The only thoughts she had now were primal instinct, focused solely on completion in his arms.

  He stared at her, panting, his cock richly crimson, swollen and dripping with his seed. For the first time, he made no effort to cover himself with a condom. Finally she’d feel the full glory of his skin and his seed. She smiled and held out her arms to him.

  He came onto her in a rush that sent her sliding halfway across the bed. She locked her arms and legs around him, clinging to her lifeline where he held it in his heartbeat. His cock pulsed against her belly, his balls fat and heavy against her mound, swollen with seed for her womb. His rich musk scented the room, mixed with hers and their sweat. Morgan, ah Morgan…

  He shifted, coming up onto his knees over her. His eyes met hers; hunger sparked and grew between them, as well as total understanding of the other’s need. Hunger for the other, body and soul, plus the hope of a child rising in both of them.

  His first thrusts were slow and careful. She objected strenuously with her voice and her arms and legs and her strong inner muscles. She wanted hard and fast. She wanted to see his eyes glaze over when he lost control in rapture.

  “Jessamyn,” he groaned
, his neck muscles taut and his eyes closed. His hips pulsed against her.

  She rippled her sheath around him, pulling him back in.

  He snarled again, wordlessly, and plunged deep. She cried out in pleasure and clung to him, aiding him in every way she could. Her dearest, dearest husband.

  He pulled out more slowly and drove in more quickly, grunting with effort. Wet slaps filled the room as their bodies worked together, striving for the pinnacle. Climax was close, so close, yet worth very little if not attained by both of them.

  Morgan reached down between them and began to rub her pearl, using the stroke that always drove her wild. Jessamyn’s vision blurred and her breath caught in her throat. Rapture surged higher and higher. The pulses in her womb built and tightened more and more around his cock until suddenly orgasm swept her over, crashing through her as if she’d fallen over a mountain waterfall.

  Her climax irresistibly demanded Morgan’s. He howled her name as he extravagantly jetted his seed into her over and over again, until it melted onto her thigh with her cream.

  He fondled her pearl again, and to her shock, she climaxed again just as strongly, sobbing his name as stars spun through her head. She collapsed against him afterward, too exhausted to do more than try to catch her breath.

  Morgan gathered her against him and eased them both under the covers. She buried her face against his shoulder as sleep warmed her bones. “Love you, husband.”

  “Love you, wife.” He twined his legs between hers comfortably. “I’ll be underfoot more than you expected in San Francisco.”

  She immediately opened her eyes. Her Southern devil had the most dreadful habit of raising important subjects exactly when anyone else would be asleep. “What do you mean?”

  His eyes twinkled at her wickedly. “William has offered me a partnership. Grainger will be taking over my troubleshooter duties for Donovan & Sons so I won’t be traveling as often.”

  She came up on her elbow to stare at him. “You’ll be home?” Her voice rose to an embarrassing squeak but she ignored it. “Often?”

  “As often as possible, madame wife.” His gray eyes glinted at her. “I want that big family as much as you do.”

  She flung herself across him. “I love you, Morgan!”

  He caught her to his heart. “And I’ll always love you, Jessamyn dearest.”

  Author’s Note

  Beginning in 1867, Memphis, Tennessee, was decimated by a series of cholera and yellow fever epidemics (then known as yellow jack), which killed more than 5,000 residents and caused nearly half its population to flee. The city went bankrupt and surrendered its charter in 1879.

  With the aid of Robert Church, a former slave and the nation’s first African-American millionaire, Memphis was able to prevent future epidemics by drastic and farsighted sanitary reforms, and a new city charter was granted in 1893.

  Today, Memphis thrives once again, highlighted by the status of its international airport as the world’s largest cargo airport. It also still ranks among the nation’s busiest inland river ports.

  THE RIVER DEVIL

  His desires couldn’t be trusted…

  Hal Lindsay is a decorated Union Navy hero and a riverboat captain who has built an empire around his Missouri River steamboats. Yet deep inside him lurks the pain of a dark, vicious past—one that has him determined never to marry and have children. It’s far better to live alone, finding carnal comfort in the arms of women who will do anything as long as the price is right—women with nothing at stake, like the sensual innocent currently masquerading as an experienced gambler aboard his boat, the Cherokee Belle. For once, Hal wants more—much more…and that is a very dangerous thing…

  Her presence was sheer temptation…

  Rosalind Schuyler is appalled to be unmasked by Hal—and frightened as well. The prominent New York railroad heiress is in disguise and on the run to escape marriage to a man who would kill to gain her fortune. Now it seems she’s in danger of a different kind. For Hal Lindsay is like no other man she’s met before. One minute, he’s kind as a brother, hiding her from those searching night and day for her. The next, he’s a pure masculine animal, taking her to his bed and beyond what she thought were the limits of her desire. Everything he does, she wants more of, but what she wants most, she knows he can never give…

  Their passion was beyond control…

  Now, as the Belle makes its way down a treacherously swollen Missouri River, picking up friends and enemies along the way, Rosalind and her River Devil are caught up in a current of passion, desire, and danger with no way back and no way out…

  THE NORTHERN DEVIL

  Every woman needs a devil by her side…

  Rachel Davis would rather risk death than remain a prisoner of the ruthless man intent on gaining her inheritance. Trapped on a private train with the villain, she makes a desperate bid for escape and runs into the arms of an unlikely savior. Aristocratic, arrogant, and deeply cynical about love, Lucas Grainger is her last choice for a husband—even a husband of convenience. But desperate times call for desperate measures: taking Lucas to bed and submitting to his tender, hungry desires may be her only hope…

  Lucas Grainger has sworn never to take a wife, but he’s not about to let anyone else marry Rachel. He has his own reasons for marrying the gentle, quick-witted widow, reasons she need not know. But holding Rachel night after night awakens deeper hungers than he has ever known, and a calculated marriage soon yields to a blissful, blinding—and dangerous passion. For if Rachel knew who Lucas really was—of the dark secrets that haunt him—she’d never choose him as her protector…

  Theirs is a union both erotic and enduring, and any man who tries to part Lucas from the woman he loves will have the devil to pay…

  THE IRISH DEVIL

  He was her only chance for survival…

  Born to wealth and privilege, but now widowed and betrayed on the unforgiving Arizona frontier, Viola Ross must choose between starvation and marriage—to her husband’s killer. Or take a scandalous risk and turn her back on polite society by becoming the mistress of William Donovan. With his reputation for ruthlessness and a piercing stare that can stop any man—or melt any woman—Donovan seems fully capable of defending her with his bullwhip and Bowie knives. Not to mention what else he can do with those big, callused hands…

  As desire flares between Donovan and Viola, a killer’s lust for Viola turns to deadly vengeance. For his allies are the very men who once destroyed Donovan’s family, and this time, they’ll let no Irish Devil stand in their way…

  And turn the page for a sneak peek at Diane’s next book, coming in February 2009…

  A single man stepped out of the station, isolated by a swirl of travelers. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad entirely in black. His broad-brimmed hat readily identified him as an American, a rarity here in Eisengau despite its famous summer musical festival and military maneuvers. His clothes were well made yet neither dandified nor a uniform. Straight black hair brushed his collar and his skin was tanned golden brown from the sun, something seldom seen amid these stone walls. His blade-sharp nose, high cheekbones, and stubborn jaw could have been carved by a master sculptor.

  He paused on the top of the steps to look around, graceful as a hawk scanning a meadow, yet utterly unself-conscious. His brilliant blue eyes flashed over the crowd like light passing through the finest stained glass—and lingered briefly on the old pension, where Meredith stood.

  Her breath caught in her throat. How many newspaper articles about American adventurers had she devoured? How many cheap novels about men like him had she bartered for? And to finally see one in the flesh…

  Morro thrust his muzzle between the banisters and took a long, considering sniff.

  Despite any claim to logic, Meredith opened her mouth to hail the American.

  A British officer, shorter, stockier, and using a cane rushed up to him. The healthier man slapped him warmly on the shoulder, his face lighting up in welcome—and
broke the thread holding her attention.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and jerked herself back to the restless present.

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  Copyright © 2006, 2009 by Diane Whiteside

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  ISBN: 0-7582-4114-3