Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  In no time at all they were naked. Devon reached behind her to close the door. The working part of her brain was faintly amused, for the silence on board the Spider tonight, broken only by hushed sighs and soft whispers, testified to their absolute aloneness. But when he took her gently by the shoulders and shifted her so that her back was against the door, she realized that its true purpose wasn’t privacy.

  He swept his hands down her body and up again, caressing her belly, pausing to admire her breasts by lifting them and running his tongue across their silky white tops. The soft little sound she made was his reward. He bent lower to press his lips against the sensitive place under her right breast, where the skin was still lightly discolored. “It still hurts here, doesn’t it, Lily?”

  “Oh, no. Oh, hardly at all.” The thought that they might not finish what they’d begun because of that made her go weak with anxiety.

  “But a little,” he insisted, straightening. “So we will have to take special care.”

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed, dazed with relief, “let’s take special care.” She slid her hands from his waist to his bare buttocks, watching his eyes darken and smolder. The hot, hard throbbing against her abdomen told her they were both lost, and consequences no longer had any meaning.

  “Open your legs, Lily,” he chanted, pressing his mouth against her throat, her shoulder, and she obeyed. She gasped at the first skimming touch of his fingers. He pulled her head back by a handful of her hair and covered her open mouth with his. His deep caress made her groan pitifully. He started a slow, alternating rhythm of penetration with his fingers and his tongue. Very soon she was panting, unable to catch her breath. A fierce, uncontainable joy was filling her, rising higher and higher with incredible speed. She abandoned herself to it because she trusted him, and because she had no choice. Whispering his name once, she surrendered.

  He couldn’t get enough of her. Her wet, responsive mouth was delicious, and the strong, throbbing pulse in the hot depths of her beat in time with his intimate stroking. All at once—so quickly it amazed him—she pushed backward, drawing her face away. Her eyes fascinated him. They were glazed with passion, but even at the moment of her release they never left his. He kissed her again, hard, before she was finished, drawing her pleasure out for as long as he could. When it was over she gave a soft cry and dropped her head against his chest, shuddering.

  For a long time they didn’t move. Lily listened to the rhythmic pressure of his heartbeat against her cheek, eyes closed, feeling her impossible love welling up in her heart. I love you, she told him with everything but her tongue; a wispy vestige of self-preservation still prevented her from saying it. Sadness flickered in a far-off corner of her mind. But this was not a time for regrets. The man she loved was holding her, his steady pulse thudding in her ear. She tightened her arms around him and put her lips to his heart.

  A little later she felt his hand, which she had almost forgotten, twitch to life. She stayed still and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Unerringly, he found her secret place, and one of his clever fingers set up an unbearable, butterfly-light fluttering against it. She wanted to laugh at how easily he could arouse her. She said, “Oh, Devon,” in a voice full of wonder.

  The pain of wanting her was more than he could bear. Her skin was magic; every place he touched was enchanted. “Lean back, Lily. Just your shoulders; Hold on to me.” She did everything he said. Her bottom was soft, solid; it fit his hands perfectly. He pulled her hips closer and flexed his knees. Smooth and sleek, he glided into her until their bellies touched.

  Not moving, breathing softly, they watched each other. A little later he took her hands and held them high on either side of her face while he moved into and out of her in the slow, deep rhythm they both wanted. Eyes closed, unaware, Lily whispered, “Please, please, please …”

  He kissed her briefly, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. “Put your arms around my neck, darling.” She did, and then he lifted her hands under her buttocks, still holding her against the door. “Wrap your legs around me.” She did that too, and then he turned her around and walked toward his brother’s heavy desk in the corner of the room. He kicked the ornate Italian chair—smuggled out of France, one of Clay’s prize possessions—out from behind it. “Looks comfortable,” he muttered, and sat down.

  He didn’t have to tell her to fold her legs back and straddle his lap: she figured that out for herself, almost instantly. But she loved his passionate instructions. Were all men so—talkative? she wondered. His volubility gave her courage. To hide her face she kissed him, then murmured against his lips, “I love the way you feel inside me. It’s like everything is melting.”

  He dragged his mouth down her throat, her chest. “Lean back,” he ordered in a guttural murmur; when she did, he took her breast into his mouth and suckled her with greed and thoroughness.

  Gasping, she clutched at his shoulders. “I’ve never done this with anyone but you! Do you believe me?”

  He answered, “Yes,” immediately. Could it be true? He didn’t care, didn’t care.

  He took her hips in a strong grip and moved her on him, over him, reveling in her helplessness, his absolute possession. But she streaked her hands through his hair and brought her mouth to his in the lightest, sweetest kiss, the bare brushing of lips, and her moist breath was perfume. His self-control teetered.

  She pulled back, and they watched each other’s eyes again, spellbound, gauging. He slid lower on his spine until she lay on top of him, her feet just touching the floor. She braced herself with her forearms against his chest and set the new rhythm herself. Nothing had ever felt like this, this wild mix of power and surrender, control and abandon. Finally it was need, raw and burning and urgent, that overpowered her. “Devon, I can’t—I can’t—!”

  Hold back, she meant, but he thought she meant the opposite. He clapped his palms to her buttocks and thrust into her again and again, grunting, breath rasping, and suddenly her whole body convulsed. She shouted out something loud and incomprehensible, and he felt her helpless, uncontrollable quivering for a long, long moment before she softened and finally sank against him. He held her tightly—too tightly, he knew, but God! he couldn’t help it—while he unleashed himself and plunged inside her over and over and over. He thought it would never end. When it did, they were both as limp as rags, and he was incapable of moving.

  “Lily,” he got out. Strands of her hair were stuck to his wet cheek. “Are you all right?” He moved one hand enough to touch her shoulder, but it was a tremendous effort. She was still trembling. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

  She tried to straighten up, to look him in the face, but she was much too weak. She moved her lips far enough away from his damp throat to make herself understood. “I don’t know if I’m all right or not. Frankly, I don’t care.”

  A deep, relieved laugh rumbled in his chest. He peered down through her hair at the lovely, erotic sight of her splayed thighs on either side of his, her saucy buttocks gleaming white above his bent knees. Shifting a little, he used his legs to push hers together. She understood immediately and squeezed her thighs around him. But the sensation was too much; he uttered a hoarse cry of combined agony and ecstasy and she stopped, laughing softly. They both sighed deeply, stroking each other, nuzzling. “We should get in bed,” he said after a while.

  “Yes, I suppose. I like this chair, though. I’ll miss it.”

  “We’ll come back to visit.”

  She looked up at that. “Will we?”

  “Mm, soon. And often.”

  She shivered delicately.

  “How are you, Lily? Seriously.” He stroked the bruised skin over her ribs tenderly, watching her face.

  She answered with the simple truth. “I’ve never felt so well in my life. I love what we do, Devon. You make me feel…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know the words. Lovely.”

  “You are lovely.”

  “Perfect.”

 
“You are perfect.”

  She began to laugh again. “Delightful! Irresistible, beautiful—”

  “You’re all of them.”

  She kissed him exuberantly. She didn’t believe any of it, but she felt intensely happy.

  When they finally found the strength to move to the bed, they lay quiet in each other’s arms, listening to the gentle lap of water close by. Time passed unnoticed, could have stopped for all they knew. Lily wanted to talk, to describe all the new things he could make her feel. She wanted to tell him who she was, and most of all she wanted to tell him that she loved him. But Devon’s trust was fragile and brand new; if she spoke, it could disappear. She would not be able to bear that. Silence, even deception—they were a cheap price to pay for happiness like this. The future was out of her control; if nothing else in the last few months, at least she had learned that lesson. For now, for this night, she was content. What else mattered?

  In the morning she awoke gradually, coming out of a dream she couldn’t quite recapture; she only knew that it was beautiful. She moved her knee toward the center of the bed, then her hand, searching for him. She knew he was gone before she opened her eyes because the place where he’d lain was cold. The last of the dream fragmented. She sat up.

  She saw him immediately. Facing the porthole, staring out. Tall and straight and stiff. Fully dressed.

  Nausea rose in the back of her throat. The dreadful memory of their only other morning together made her heart hammer, her hands go clammy with perspiration. “Dev?” she whispered. He turned, and the sight of his face confirmed every fear. She couldn’t utter another sound.

  So, finally, she was awake. He fisted his hands in his coat pockets and leaned against the wall, resisting an urge to go closer. The sun streamed in a golden shaft across her bare shoulders, gilding them, lighting a fire in the wild tumble of her dark red hair. While he watched, she crossed her breasts with her wrists, and a dull rose stain crept into her pale cheeks. Her unspeakable loveliness caused him pain he couldn’t endure. He looked away and said, “It’s late. Get dressed.” His voice came out too harsh. “Clay will be here soon,” he added, softening it but still not looking at her.

  Everything hurt. She tried not breathing, but her blood still pumped, still carried the deep, pitiless ache to every part of her. Her throat was swollen, but somehow she asked the question. “What has happened? To you?”

  “Nothing, what do you mean? It’s late—”

  “No, don’t.”

  He looked at her then. Past the glitter of her unshed tears he could see all her pain. He recoiled. Bitterness rushed through his veins like acid; contempt for his own cowardice brought a dark flush to his face. He had to turn away from her again.

  “Was it too good, Devon? Did you feel too much?”

  He couldn’t answer. He could only wait, hoping that anger would come soon and rescue him.

  What was the point of taunting him? He was what he was; she could never change him. She stared at the stiff, bleak line of his shoulders until she couldn’t bear it. Then she dropped her head. How easy it would be to weep. But a second later, she discovered that her love was even stronger than her pride.

  He heard the rustle of covers, the creak of the bed ropes. When he turned and saw her, her nakedness drove all the words he’d thought to say from his mind. “Oh, Lily,” he murmured with a grim smile. “Not fair.”

  Ignoring that, ignoring all the voices in her head that were shouting, You’re a fool, she went to him. She drew one of his clenched hands from his pocket and held it between both of hers. “Don’t do this, Dev. I know why you’re afraid, but I would never, ever hurt you. I swear it.”

  He swore foully.

  She held tighter and told him. “I’m in love with you.”

  He heard, but he kept it out. “Then I feel sorry for you.” Her nostrils thinned; she was holding herself very carefully. Heat rushed through him. “Don’t say that,” he told her, without the snarl this time. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  She yanked at his hand. “Don’t tell me not to love you! And don’t you dare leave me again, Devon, I will not allow it.”

  He saw that every muscle was tense; even her skin looked tender, vulnerable. “My dear, I never meant to hurt you. But what you want is not inside me. If you like, we can—make an arrangement, an agreement we both—”

  “Stop it, stop! I told you last night, I want no ‘arrangement.’”

  “Then—”

  “We can make each other happy, Dev. For just a little while. Don’t you feel it? Don’t you know?” He put his hands on her face, cupping the sides, holding so tightly her bones hurt. But she didn’t move, and she didn’t drop her urgent gaze. “I love you. You’re everything to me. You’re in my heart, there won’t ever be anyone else.” She saw the anger and fright and shock in his eyes, and faced it down. “I would never deliberately hurt you. I’m me, Lily, I’m not like anyone but myself. And I love you so much.”

  “But I don’t want your love.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want. It’s free, I give it to you.”

  He wanted to push her away, her and her unwanted gift, but he couldn’t make his hands let go of her. Something tore inside, and it felt like the tender, jagged edges of a wound that had never healed. “I don’t want you,” he whispered, shaking his head over and over. “I don’t want you, Lily.”

  “Too bad.” She shook her head right back. How confident she sounded! Whatever happened, she must not cry.

  “You’re a fool.”

  “Doubtless. I love you.”

  He cursed again—not her, but life in general—and then his brain shut down and he pulled her into a rough, angry embrace. “You’ll regret this,” he said into her tousled, sweet-smelling hair.

  Oh, yes, she knew that. But she was so in love that she even appreciated the warning. She was standing stiffly, holding her breath, because the grip he had on her hurt her ribs. He noticed, and instantly lightened his hold. She felt his lips on her temple and sighed deeply. “I have to tell you about myself,” she said, moving her hands up and down his back in slow, ardent strokes. “I have so much to tell you.”

  He swore again.

  She went rigid, thinking he didn’t want to know. Then she heard it: a thump, and the soft scrape of wood against wood. Clay was back. “Judas,” she swore softly.

  He pulled back to look at her. She was dry-eyed, but her face was full of emotion. How could he let her go? How could he not? Love and relief glowed in her serious gray-green eyes, and strength, and pain, and a dark, stoic knowledge. Whatever happened, and for as long as he lived, he would never forget the way she looked right now. He kissed her lips with a sweet, weary promise that said, I will try. God help him. For once he meant it.

  The clatter of footsteps on the companionway ladder jolted them apart. Five fast knocks. Devon stepped between Lily and the door instinctively—and not a minute too soon. Before either could speak, the door opened and Clay loomed in the threshold. Lily watched him over Devon’s shoulder in speechless disbelief.

  “God damn it, Clay—!”

  “Oops,” he exclaimed, but he didn’t leave. In fact, he grinned at them cheerfully, eyes alight with curiosity. He even stood on his toes a bit, trying to see over his brother’s shoulder. “Too early, am I? It’s almost ten, I was sure you’d be up.”

  “Would you get the hell out of here?”

  Devon sounded more exasperated than angry, and it amazed Lily that she felt the same. She wasn’t half as embarrassed as she knew she ought to be.

  “I’m going, I’m going. I just wanted to tell you, Dev, that Trayer Howe’s been seen in the neighborhood. He’s limping around on a crutch, but he’s been making some interesting threats against you. And Lily, and me. Which is pretty stupid since I didn’t do anything,” he added to himself. “Lily either, of course. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. In case you wanted to arrest him or something. Shall I go on deck now and wait for you?”

&nbs
p; “Good idea.”

  “Right you are. Morning, Lily. You’re looking lovely. At least, what I can see of you is certainly—”

  “Out!”

  “Right. On my way.” He winked broadly and pulled the door closed. Devon turned to Lily, then spun back around when it shot open again. “Shall we have breakfast in the village? Wiley’s a little under the weather this morning and wasn’t able to supply us with—”

  “Out! Damn it! Get out!”

  “Testy in the morning, aren’t we?” He chuckled and shut the door again, and presently they heard his ascending footsteps.

  Devon turned back. “Idiot,” he muttered, but he couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eyes behind the scowl. “What’s wrong?” She was as white as a sheet. “He didn’t really see you, Lily, it’s—”

  “No, not that.” She knew she was being foolish, but she couldn’t help it. When his arms went around her, she clung to him.

  “What, then?” She wouldn’t answer. The warmth of her skin fired him, but he kept his touch comforting. “What is it? Tell me, love.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  He would keep at her, she knew, until she admitted it. “Trayer.”

  “Oh, no.” He encircled her with his arms, backed her against the wall and pressed gently against her, all to tell her she was safe. “He won’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”

  “Clay said you could arrest him?”

  “Certainly. If he stays in the neighborhood, he’ll be caught and I’ll have him sent to prison.”

  “But not if—how can you?”

  “It’s easy, I’m the magistrate. The parish constable’s already been notified to watch for him. If he comes anywhere near you, he’ll be captured. I’ll have him bound over for the Bodmin assizes. I swear to God, Lily, I’ll see him hang.”