by Lara Archer
It seemed for a moment this was all he wanted, all she wanted, just to hold one another in the darkness. But then more urgent sensations began to swirl through her, and a new tension rose through him, his muscles tightening and bunching at every point where his body touched hers.
A rush of heat filled her. Her body wanted more—it urged her to lay down again, to feel what it had felt lying with him in the cabin of the Calliope and in his bedroom in this house, the pleasurable weight of his body stretched over hers. The memories pulled on her like an addiction, frantic and needy, as though the touch of his flesh and his mouth were the only source of breathable air.
A tremendous restlessness overcame her, a need to move. Instinctively, she shifted closer, the edge of her hip coming up against his, and she angled her head so her mouth nudged closer to his lips.
He seemed to need no further invitation.
His mouth came down on hers at once, urgent, possessive, demanding, the heat of it almost searing. His arms came around her again, and his strength crushed her once more, pulling her against him, her breasts against the rock-hard wall of his chest, her spine arching under the pressure of his steely arms. It was heady, thrilling, frightening—and not nearly enough.
Perhaps if there had been light, even the thinness of moonlight, neither one of them would have allowed this to happen. But in the dreamlike darkness, there could be no consequences, no explanations demanded.
She gave herself over to the kiss, reveling in the taste of him—a heated spice with a flashing hint of whiskey, mixed with the warm, musky scent of him.
His tongue nudged between her lips, slipped through to stroke against the slick places inside; unthinking, she drew it further inside, and he groaned.
Her hands roamed over his shoulders, his back, kneading at the powerful lines of his muscles. Pleasure raced and simmered through her, pooling and pulsing down through her belly, between her thighs. It was molten, fluid, wonderful, intolerable—and exactly what she needed. She might scream from it; she wanted more of it, now, always.
Then somehow, without either of them speaking, it seemed of one accord they settled towards the floor. He eased her under him, his long, powerful form stretching over hers. Without a soft bed beneath them, he felt heavier and harder and broader than before.
Need and desire and a wild excitement spiked through her.
“Rachel,” he said against her mouth, low and urgent.
The gruff need lacing his voice sent fire through her veins. Almost since the moment she’d first seen him, something in her body, deep in her flesh, had wanted exactly this from him. Had yearned for it. Had needed it. And would never stop needing it.
Between her nightgown and his weight, she couldn’t move the way she wanted to. She wriggled beneath him, shifting her hips so her gown began to ride up her legs. He groaned again. In a moment, Sebastian’s hands were helping as they had that morning, but more roughly, taking fistfuls of the cloth and pulling it higher, his knuckles raking against her bared skin as he exposed her knees, then her thighs, and dragged the hem straight up to her hips. There was no slowness now.
She bent her knees, ran her feet up along the backs of his trouser legs, wrapped her bare legs shamelessly around the muscled range of his buttocks, resenting the material that was still between them.
In response, he ground his hips against hers. The sound he made deep in the back of his throat was primitive. Demanding. Demanding and promising more. Much more.
It seemed the darkness affected him too. She felt no hesitancy in him this time, no restraint. He wasn’t going to pull back from her this time, she could feel that—he wasn’t going to abandon her again, and leave her desperate and unsatisfied. There was a wild abandon in him now, too intense to pull back again. And she reveled in the thought.
She speared her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his mouth down harder against hers, and followed his lead in sliding her tongue into his mouth. So strange, so intimate to do that—before he’d ever kissed her, she’d read descriptions of such kisses, but had never understood why any sane person would wish to do that. But now—after the kisses they’d shared, after the way their bodies had responded to one another over and over again—it made perfect sense to share such intimacy with him, to plunge herself into him, even as his tongue pulsed its way into her.
His hips moved in rhythm with his tongue, pressing that remarkable hardness that bulged there against the soft, sensitive place at the junction of her legs. Her nightgown still pooled there, and his trousers still covered him as they always had, but the heat of it seemed to burn into her nonetheless.
His strong hands were everywhere. He caressed her sides, her hips, reached up behind him to stroke her bare legs, sending shuddering pleasure through her.
Then he rolled her slightly so that his side was partially touching the floor, taking most of his weight off of her, and his hands were freed to roam their way along the front of her, whisking along her ribcage, coming up to cup her breasts.
Lightning seemed to crackle through her, and burst, and build again, as he brushed his palms again and again over the hard peaks.
Having him kiss her mouth at the same time made the sensation even sweeter. She felt—joined to him. Every instinct told her they belonged together, that this was inevitable, natural, necessary.
How could she not trust him? How could she not give herself to him completely?
And then his fingers were working the small buttons that held the neckline of her nightgown closed, moving with great deliberation and patience, making her want to scream at him to rip them away.
His tongue skimmed the whorl of her ear, and then returned to her mouth.
After what seemed like an eternity, he eased the neckline of her nightgown down, baring first her left shoulder, then her right. And then—she nearly screamed again—his mouth left hers to trail down her throat to the valley between her breasts, and then take one of those peaks between his burning lips. The hot wetness against her bare flesh sent fresh shock waves through her. And then he drew his lips together, drew the peak into his mouth, and suckled hard.
She did cry out then, the rush of pleasure forcing its way through her lips.
His mouth moved to torture her other breast.
She was writhing beneath him, gripping at his hair, making noises no lady was ever supposed to make. Some wild, liquid heat was building in the core of her. Instinctively, she hooked her right leg over his thigh, and like a flash, his hand moved to her bottom, pulling her hard against him. He dragged the hem of her nightgown up a few last inches, so the bare flesh of her buttocks was exposed, and then stroked along the curve, up to the base of her spine and down again.
He grasped the hem again and pulled harder upwards, bringing it up over her belly, over her breasts. She wriggled to let the cloth escape from beneath her, and soon he was pulling it up and over her head. He tossed it aside—it whispered as it slid to the ground a few inches away.
She was naked with him, at long, long last. Naked in his arms.
She wanted him naked too, finally naked, so she could run her hands across his skin without stopping, but she was too afraid, somehow, to speak.
Speaking might break the spell. Speaking might make all this real, too real.
Then, before she could even become accustomed to the sensation of laying so exposed before him, he slid his hand between her legs.
His voice rippled through her like a drug, the headiest of drugs. “Let me. Please let me,” he murmured. “Let me give you pleasure.”
Oh, yes, she wanted that, wanted it now. And pleasure was already warming every inch of her body. It seemed she could still feel his mouth on hers, and on her breasts, though he was merely pressing it against her cheek at the moment.
He hooked his leg over hers, the one closest to him, pinning it to the floor, opening her more fully to his touch. Even in the darkness, she shut her eyes tight. She wouldn’t think, she wouldn’t worry; there was no futur
e, only now.
And then his fingers slid further into her cleft, and, expertly, they parted her, pressed her—he always seemed to know exactly where to touch, and how to touch. She found her hips rising to meet him; her breathing went ragged, and she couldn’t quiet it. Had no real desire to quiet it.
The heat that had been pooling in her was stirred up into a maelstrom. His fingers, his palm, stroking her, circling her through incredible sensations. Despite the darkness around them, she seemed to see streaks and sparkles of light. She seemed to be lifting, floating—lost to herself, lost and whirling in a space far vaster than the room could possibly be.
And she could feel him joining her, as though neither of them were tethered to their bodies any longer. His touch went in and through her, tearing her apart, and yet somehow sealing the two of them together.
Sebastian shifted again, rolling his body partway over hers, and she felt the bare flesh of his chest pressing hers. He must have had the presence of mind somewhere in what he was doing to her to remove his shirt. Thank heaven. The touch of his uncovered skin directly to hers was wondrous and new, steely hard and silken all at once, the crisp hair of his chest biting deliciously against her breasts. Those textures called her momentarily back to earth, to consciousness of the separate contours of his form.
He had his weight on one elbow, hovering over her.
Would he claim her again now? Finally?
She wanted him to, she wanted him. Desperately. Heedlessly.
But still he didn’t, except with his long fingers. They dipped inside her, teased, explored—they plunged and plundered, drawing the slick heat from deep inside her; his thumb was working over the sensitive nub throbbing in the midst of her nest of curls.
His breathing roughened; his chest rose and fell like a bellows. What was he thinking? What was he feeling?
But the sensations arcing through her were overwhelming, building in a wave and dashing away all other thought.
She lifted her hips, wanton. She just craved sensation—which was building madly into that wonderful state he’d unleashed in her that first night in his coach.
She clutched at his arms, at his back, at his shoulders. She couldn’t seem to breathe in enough air. Her head was whipping back and forth like a madwoman’s. Every muscle in her legs and belly was clenching with tension; even her toes were curling. She bit at her lips.
But he didn’t stop the fierce, relentless stroking. His mouth pressed again to her ear, hot and whispering, “Come for me, sweetheart, come for me. Cry out for me.”
Her eyes now opened in the darkness, straining for any glimpse of him. Deeply buried energies in her were unlocking, roaring forth, racing together towards the place where his hands touched her. All at once, everything that been restrained for so long in her was breaking free.
And then his mouth came down again, fierce and hot and suckling, on her breast, and everything ignited.
She felt light ignite explode everywhere. Felt it, not saw it. Stronger than it had ever been. Eruptions of hot brightness all through her, from the core of her through the every part of her body—great, white bursts, licking her, shooting through her. The room became almost radiant with the warm, glowing energy.
She felt herself soaring, screaming.
His palm stayed firm against the center of her pleasure, and waves of it rolled through her, over and over, leaving her shuddering.
Heat rippled for long moments afterward, softening all her muscles again, making her feel as though she could sink straight through the floor.
At last, Sebastian rolled them both onto their sides and gathered her back into his arms, hugging her to him, making a sound deep in his chest that sounded almost like laughter.
Under other circumstances, she might have felt insulted by the sound, but she didn’t have that in her at the moment. She was pure surrender. She put her arms around him too, nuzzled her face into his neck, let the scent of him become a part of the bliss that filled her.
He was still hard against her belly—he hadn’t found satisfaction yet, she understood that.
He was being noble again.
But damn it all, this was not the time for nobility. There was no right or wrong at all tonight. Just the two of them, together.
She slid her hand down between his legs, gripping the hard length that jutted out from the front of his trousers, all but ripping through the buttons.
“Rachel, stop,” he said, but she wouldn’t stop, not this time. They had tonight, but maybe nothing more. He would be hers now, no matter what else happened in the real world, no matter what happened tomorrow.
She caressed him through the fabric, and brought her face to his chest and found one of his nipples with her own mouth. She laved him, bit at him, licked him, and he moaned like he was about to die.
In a moment, they were both fumbling for the buttons of his trousers—his hands were quicker at it, and soon the blasted things were finally being pulled down away from his hips, baring him to her touch, though she couldn’t see him in the lightless room. Under her hand, though, his shaft sprung up, firm and hot and eager.
She stroked her palm over it, exploring with her fingers—it seemed to jump at her touch, and Sebastian groaned. Rigid and straining as it was, the flesh was still smooth as satin, and the surface of it yielded just slightly to the pressure of her touch, with a core of steel beneath. She felt a powerful urge to put her mouth to it.
But Sebastian pulled away suddenly. She almost screamed with frustration, but it soon became clear he only meant to lift her in his arms. “To the bed,” he murmured. “We’ll do this as it should be done.”
She pressed her lips into the curve of his neck as he carried her, flicking her tongue against the sensitive skin, and he groaned again. She couldn’t bear to wait.
He eased her down into the blankets, into the welcoming softness of the mattress, and after a frenetic moment in which he kicked off his trousers, the far more welcome hardness of his body settled over hers.
Her hand bumped an object on the bed—dear Lord, the notebook.
For the briefest moment, a chill went through her as though the thing were a block of ice. Treachery.
But whose treachery was it really, Sebastian’s or Sarah’s? She couldn’t let Sebastian know about the book until that was clear.
And she shouldn’t be letting this happen between them. But his hands and mouth were exploring her again—her senses reeled, and the thread of rational thought slipped from her grasp.
Some deep instinct said, This man. This man. Something powerful bound them, and she couldn’t summon the will to remember why she should push him away. He was so gentle with her, so tender. How could he hurt her, touching her the way he was, summoning heat and pleasure and joy from the very core of her?
She gave the book a push so it slid between the bed and the wall, and then all thought of it was gone.
Sebastian’s mouth came over hers. His shaft pressed urgently against her belly, and she wrapped her legs around his back to bring its hardness against the place she wanted it.
He slid his length along her folds, inflaming her, and then—thank heaven—he brought the wide, blunt tip of it against her cleft.
She clutched at his shoulders, straining upward, needing him, begging him. The side of his hand brushed against her as he took hold of his shaft and guided it against her, into her—stretching her, impossibly big, impossibly hard—only the head at first. But wildness came over him, over them both. She felt the rush of it strike him as much as she felt it in herself
He thrust home, and she took him in. There was a shock of pain, but then a melting, wild pleasure.
His scent was everywhere around her. He thrust again and again, stretching her farther, filling her utterly, and she clamped her legs tight around his rocking hips and thought yes, yes. This is what she needed, everything she needed.
She was his, entirely his, for that moment at least, and he was hers.
They were one body, on
e creature, seeking one hot center, lost in warmth and pleasure and need. Waves of pleasure were building, rocking. Like the ocean as they’d seen it from the prow of the Calliope—moving everywhere at once, powerful, heaving, uncontrollable. An ocean was rocking through them. An ocean of weight and light and heat.
The light kept pouring, undulating, making her muscles clench at his hard, hot shaft inside her.
And then the wave seemed to carry them for one last crest, drawing desperate cries from their lips—everything solid in her burst apart, but ecstatically, pulled out to sea, lost and mindless beneath the waves.
It seemed to go on forever, until, at last, she fell back towards the earth in one long, floating, billowing ebb. It let her down gently, and she sprawled across the mattress, spent, limp, and boneless, as if she’d been tossed by a storm onto a quiet beach.
But Sebastian was with her, just as spent, his arms still gripping her, his face pressed against her shoulder.
Where their bodies joined, there was still a hot pulsing. And somewhere deeper inside, more heat, something fusing, something melding—a joining that could not be undone.
Oh, dear God.
Fear seeped in around the edges of that warmth. What was she going to do now, in the light of day, if it turned out Lord Henry’s warning was one she should heed?
And yet this powerful sense of connection could not be denied. She wrapped her arms more tightly around Sebastian’s back, pulling him harder against her. He let out a shuddering sigh in response, and pressed his lips to her temple.
“Rachel,” he breathed, his voice almost reverent. “My Rachel.”
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
Oh, Lord. What if she had to tear apart this joining?
She would bleed, she knew that.
The wound would be enough to kill her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Victoire.” Will growled the name, stabbing a sausage on his plate as if it offended him personally. “Her creatures have been spreading word all over town—in the disreputable parts of town, anyway—that a fortune’s available to any man who accomplishes the capture of Salomé Mirabeau. Four thousand escudos.”