Walking around the perimeter of the caravan, she felt rather the flâneuse, the only person outside of the joy and wonder. She wasn’t surprised when her feet brought her right back to Marco’s trailer. The crowd had thinned as the night grew colder, and the only people left were a trio of troublesome boys conferring about whether or not to nick one of Marco’s knives from the backdrop.
“Shoo, you little creeps.”
They straightened and turned on her, wearing snarls. “Bugger off, lady.”
Jacinda smirked. “Brutus, exsanguinate.”
As soon as the metal dog turned in their direction, the boys scrambled away, and with a roll of her eyes at the foolishness of lads, Jacinda began the work of collecting Marco’s knives. It was always better to have work than to sit around, empty-handed and empty-headed, so far as she knew. She wasn’t tall enough to reach the very highest blades, but she had two handfuls of bristling steel as she rounded the corner of the backdrop.
Strong hands found her waist, swinging her around until her back was against the wood. Brutus lunged forward with a metallic growl.
“Brutus, disengage.”
The dog froze in place, but Marco hadn’t shifted his grip for even a moment. She was on full alert, the wood cold against her back, his hands warm on the narrow waist of her corset. With fingers carefully curled around the blades, she felt helpless. But there was something strangely lovely about it.
“Doing my dirty work for me, sweetness?”
“I like to be useful.”
“I know a good way to use you.”
She lifted her face, her mouth slightly open and waiting. But he held her there, looking down with a teasing sort of smile. “Now’s the part where you kiss me,” she whispered, and he chuckled and bent, ever so slowly, to taste her lips.
Jacinda savored his patience, the warmth of his mouth moving against hers with complete mastery and control. One of his hands left her waist to cup her jaw, just so, and she was surprised to find bare skin where suede should have been. His palm was warm and broad, his thumb stroking her cheekbone possessively as the other hand pressed the corset’s stays into her hip. He opened her mouth with his lips, his tongue darting in, gentle and hot, making shivers run up and down her spine to pool in her belly.
She’d kissed plenty of men since she’d lost Liam, in part to help her forget. Because each man tasted and moved so differently, she’d never had any trouble letting lust overtake her behind closed eyes. She’d never felt anything for any of them, mostly younger men who could appreciate a woman’s body without delving deeper into her heart and mind. But their first kisses had always been fast and sloppy, passionate and rushed, as if she might suddenly change her mind and leave them wanting. Not that she minded—she liked the frantic hunger, liked the distraction of the intoxicating frenzy. Marco, on the other hand, refused to let her set the pace, defied her haste with hands that wouldn’t budge from their places and a tongue determined to enjoy a deep taste before moving on.
With a little whimper, she arched away from the wall, aching for the pressure of his body against hers. His hand tightened on her waist, holding her back, and she murmured, “Come on, Marco,” into his mouth.
He pulled away, leaving her panting. “Hungry little thing, aren’t you?”
“I am. And if I want more?”
He rubbed a thumb over her still-wet lips before releasing her and taking the knives from her clenched hands. As he stepped away, she nearly collapsed, her legs boneless and her hands suddenly empty and aching from making fists around the steel.
“Then you’ll have to beg for it.”
She was off balance for a moment, but she quickly regained her footing, sensing that she needed to keep him interested, that he was the sort of man who got bored easily and would toy with her only as long as he enjoyed the chase. “Do I have to get on my knees?”
That got his attention. He turned back from the crate, where he was slipping his knives one by one into a long leather roll. Their eyes caught, and with her chin held high, she gracefully dropped to her knees and sat back on her haunches as she’d been taught when interviewing geishas in the East. Hands folded just so, she lowered her eyelids to gaze up through her lashes.
“Please?”
He swallowed hard and looked away, turning his head and listening to the sounds beyond the backdrop. She could hear it, too—the caravan was closing for the night. The noise of the crowd had grown faint, wagon doors were slamming closed, and Criminy’s voice shouted unnaturally loudly, thanking everyone and welcoming them back tomorrow if they weren’t eaten by bludbunnies on the way home. She had almost forgotten they weren’t the only people in the dark, that hundreds of people had been lingering and laughing just around the corner. But now they were alone. Almost.
“Fearless and shameless. What a combination,” he finally said, and she laughed.
“I’m a writer. I’ve lived through hell and imagined worse. You don’t scare me.”
“Even though they call me a murderer?”
She stood in one smooth motion. “Thing is, I don’t think you did it. I’d like to prove everyone wrong. I’m one of the only journalists out there hell-bent on the truth.” She shrugged. “Such is my curse.”
It was the wrong thing to say to him, and she felt the same drop in her gut as if moving a chess piece to a square that would lose her the game. His face closed up, his eyes going dark and fathomless, looking straight through her. “I can’t give you what you want.” It came out ragged, his back to her as he finished with his knives.
She was drawn to him, desperate to mend what she’d torn asunder. Her hand found the small of his back, her fingertips spreading to enjoy the play of hard muscles. “Is the truth so impossible?”
He shuddered and shook her off, rolling up his knives and storming to the stairs of his trailer. He slipped inside and slammed the door in her face without a word, and she felt a flare of anger. It was bad enough to kiss her like that and leave her wanting, but to lock her out was a slap in the face. Even if the truth was his possession, his secret, she was unaccustomed to being treated so rudely. And damned if she wasn’t burdened with a temper. But she wasn’t about to knock or yell or beg. The time for that was past.
Forgetting that he had deadly aim and a history of supposed bloodshed and driven only by her cheated body and her angry heart, she reached into her pocket for her lock picks and had his door open in moments. The lights inside were warm, the room glowing with wallpaper in silver and black stripes. Marco sat on a low sofa, his head in his hands and his shirt half unbuttoned. Furious surprise was written clearly on his face.
“Did you just break into my wagon?”
Her mouth quirked up slowly. “Of course not. The door was open.”
She closed the door silently and leaned back against it, suddenly unsure. What was she doing? She’d never thrown herself at a man—at least, not since Liam. The rest had come running like bludrats scenting a bare foot. She’d simply chosen one from the pack and let things run their course. But this was no pack, just a lone wolf, and the only one that would do. She had come to the caravan for an entertaining story, but now she couldn’t think past her own stupid body and swiftly racing heart. She wanted his secrets even more.
It should have been easy. Seduce him. Take what she needed.
But this was more than she had expected, and she had to tread carefully.
Marco didn’t move, sprawled over his couch as he was with one leg up on a steamer trunk. He was surprised, sure, but still dripping with confidence, with a bone-deep certainty that he was the most dangerous thing in the very small, suddenly rather airless room. She realized that she’d left Brutus outside, slammed the door in the metal dog’s face. Even without the knives glinting up his shirt, she still suspected Marco was well-armed.
“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t break in while I was out and r
ifle my drawers.”
“There’s always tomorrow.”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“What’ll you settle for?”
She took a deep breath. “More time to screw it out of you.”
He snorted, his head rocking back against the couch to show a long, muscled neck already shaded with new beard. “What makes you think I’m interested?”
She raised one eyebrow and cast a damning look at his lap.
He just chuckled. “That’s nothing.”
“Prove it.”
He stood, his footsteps creaking across the wood floors, closer and closer. Even though she had invited the situation—well, forced it—she still felt as if her back was always against a door with him, that there was nowhere left to run as soon as his eyes found her. She pressed her hands against the wood, willing the blood out of her cheeks, the slight hitch out of her breath. He was angry with her, but he was amused, too. She had to hope the amusement would win out.
Marco’s expression was sharp and dark and hungry, and she fought the urge to look away, to look down, to cower in any way.
“Woman, do you know what you’re getting into?”
“I’m a big girl. I always know what I’m getting into.”
One finger, curled under her chin, made her tilt her head back to look up at him. Her lips parted, waiting for him to crash into her, to run his hands down her body with the frenzy she felt inside every time they traded barbs. Instead, he spun her around to face the door and pressed close against her back, hotter than the sun and breathing warmly over her neck. One after the other, he took her hands, pinning them against the door over her head. Her heart sped up, pounding against the door loudly enough that she was sure he could hear it, and with animal grace, she arched her back, feeling the hardness of him even through her bustle and the layers of skirts.
His lips brushed her ear, running down her hairline to the high collar of her dress. She’d never hated fashion so much, never resented the way people in Sangland were forced to cover so much skin just to stay alive. As his mouth skimmed down the curve of her neck, she could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric, and when his teeth found her shoulder, she let out a small moan. One hand still pinned both of hers to the wood, his other hand tight on her hip, moving around to the front, to the sensitive crease just under the hipbone. Through layers of skirts, his hand steadily followed the line of her corset to where it came to a point, right at the crux of her.
“Don’t move your hands,” he whispered in her ear. “Or I stop.”
He released them, and they stayed pinned to the wood, flat, one on top of the other. His right hand traveled with careful, cruel slowness, down her wrist, past the sensitive furrow of her elbow, down her shoulder, still wet with the marks of his teeth. All the while, his left hand rubbed through her skirts, back and forth, hard enough that she could feel it but softly enough that it provided no relief. Over the curve of her ribs, the valley of her corset, the swell of her hip, his right hand traveled with leisurely abandon, never pausing, even when she strained for his touch. When his left hand left off its work, she groaned. But she swallowed the sound when she felt him move back and downward, palms gripping her hips as he knelt behind her.
She almost turned around, but he had burned it into her: don’t move. His hands caressed her ass reverently through the bustle and skirts before running down the outsides of her legs, past her knees, all the way down to the tops of her boots, just above her ankles. Damn. If she’d known he’d get this close, she would have worn the elegant boots with the sharp heels, the ones that laced up to her thighs. His fingers were feather-light as he moved them to the insides of her legs and trailed them upward, skimming over her fashionably ripped stockings. When he found the insides of her knees, they nearly buckled. And as he reached the softness of her thighs, he stood back up, dragging her skirts up with him and exposing her legs to the chill air.
Teeth clenched, she closed her eyes and set her forehead against the cool wood, just under her wrists. She felt with exquisite slowness and anticipation the moment when his hands changed courses under her layers of skirts and petticoats, the left one continuing up the tender inside of her thigh while the right one spread wide and caressed her ass briefly, gently, before curving around to her front, just under the edge of her corset. At the exact same moment, his fingers found the crux of her from either side, and she gasped and whimpered.
One finger slid up and curled inside her with expert precision, and she spread her legs wider to accommodate him, fighting her every instinct to use her hands, her mouth, anything to touch him. But: don’t move. Or he would stop. So her own fingers curled against the wood in imitation of his fingers inside her, her nails raw against the gloves. Marco’s body pressed hard against her as he worked her with both hands, and she wanted nothing more than for him to slide up and enter her with the same damnable slowness. As his finger rubbed up and down, barely dipping in and out, his teeth caught the lobe of her ear, gentle but unyielding.
“You want to let go. You want to drop your hands. You want to turn around and feel my tongue in your mouth, moving in time with my finger. You want to press against me, feel your nipples rubbing against the corset, against my chest. But you can’t. You can’t move.”
But she could, just the tiniest bit, pressing her ass more firmly against him. He responded by gently sliding in a second finger, and she shuddered with the first promising echo of the release to come. He let loose his teeth, and his tongue curled down around the shell of her ear, caressing the tender hollow where it met her jaw and sending shivers that made her shoulders shake. Still, she didn’t move her hands from their place on the door; still, she didn’t open her eyes.
God, this maddening slowness, the pressure building, every drop of her pleasure completely out of her own control. She was accustomed to a passionate frenzy on the outside, to writhing bodies and flashes of teeth by firelight and moving a clumsy but eager hand to right where she wanted it. But the tempest was inside her now, the outside as still as a moonless night, even his clever fingers hidden by layers and layers of skirts. Her heart and her damnable panting were the only things taking on speed, and she began to understand that Marco wasn’t going to be the easy mark she had supposed. She had expected a bad boy, full of himself and easily led into making the mistake of confession, whether under influence of wine or woman. Instead, he had trapped her, and she’d never been so wet, so wanting, so desperate.
“How long will you make me wait?” she whispered.
She felt his chuckle rumble against her back. “Wait for what?”
“For you.” She wiggled suggestively, hips rocking against him. He caught her, pressing firmly against her ass in a way that magnified everything else he was doing and made her whimper. She couldn’t take it a second longer and dropped her hands, spinning around to reach for him.
But he only dropped her skirts and backed away, his smile amused but his eyes rueful. Jacinda felt entirely bereft and immensely frustrated.
“You can’t be serious, Marco.”
He held up his hands as if she had aimed a crossbow for his heart, his fingers gleaming. “I told you not to move.”
Her teeth were clenched, her cheeks as hot as the sun. “We’re adults. This isn’t a game, as much as we might pretend to play. You clearly know exactly what you’re doing. So why not drop the pretense and enjoy our mutual good fortune?”
Hurt flashed in his eyes for some reason she couldn’t fathom. “Get out of my wagon, woman.”
“Marco. Please. Do I have to get on my knees again?” She licked her lips, slowly, her eyes dropping to the part of him that had so recently pressed against her ass. No matter how matter-of-fact he sounded, his own frustration was even more clearly outlined than her own.
“It won’t do any good. I don’t care to be rushed. No matter how t
empting it might be.”
She had to resist stomping a foot. “Who said you make the rules? When do I get a say?”
“It’s simple. You want something from me. A couple of things. And that means I make the rules.”
Jacinda groaned and made fists of her hands, her stupid, greedy hands that just couldn’t stay put when they wanted so badly to touch him in turn. Flooded with shame and frustration, she spun on her heel and jerked open the door.
“Not used to being defied, are you, Jacinda?”
In response, she slammed the door, wanting nothing more than to set the damned thing on fire and forget the cool smoothness of the wood under her gloves.
She’d let him get under her skin. And now, damn them both, she needed more.
.9.
Sleep was hard to find and harder to keep that night, but she outright refused to seek relief under the darkness of her blankets, because, somehow, that meant that Marco had won. Instead, she formulated her plan. She was more determined than ever to get to the root of Marco’s past . . . and his refusal to bed her. A normal man would have jumped at the chance, would have been more than happy to take pleasure in a pretty woman without shame, without commitments, without damage or shyness. As much as she hated to admit it, his rejection had wounded her confidence.
When she found herself staring into a mirror the next morning, looking for wrinkles or rogue freckles or anything that would make her less than desirable, she shouted, “Bugger you, Marco Taresque!” and went for her notebook.
He said he liked to take his time; let him. Even if he had turned her away, she had seen the evidence of his own desire, and she would let him stew in it. She would ignore him and concentrate on her book, the reason she’d sought the caravan in the first place. Perhaps watching her fawn over his fellow performers while immersing herself in her element would get him as riled up as she currently felt. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was flatter and flirt. And, of course, write.
The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella Page 6