by Deb Marlowe
She rolled her eyes but kept her tone light and breathless. “Then let me tempt you with something with a bit more spice.”
There was not a sound from the stairs. They were surrounded by shadows and silence. The dying fire sparked quick highlights in his hair and along the curve of his cheek. It illuminated the shift in his expression.
They were moving fast, thanks to their unseen visitor, but it was still right where she wished to go. Heat washed over her, but didn’t come from the fire. It surged to life inside of her, hovered on her skin and at her fingertips, and tingled at the tips of her breasts. Leaning in she latched her fingers behind his neck. With her heart thumping, she ducked down and kissed him.
Yes. There it was again. Sweet warmth. Firm demand—and yet he gave too—gave her passion and strength and a blunt approval that pricked all along her limbs and set up an ache in her chest.
He deepened the kiss. She parted her lips and he swept in, hot and slick. His hands moved from her waist and began to slide up her spine.
She was in his lap, looming over him, and yet she felt surrounded, protected by dense muscle and tender care. Need rose inside her. She made a sound she didn’t recognize and tightened her grip.
Abruptly he stilled. His mouth pulled away.
“What is it?” She had to strain not to pull him back. “Is Victoire still on the stair?” she whispered.
“She left ages ago.” He shook his head. His hands slid away and that small retreat felt like a great chasm. Running a finger along her cheek, he held her jaw and looked into her eyes. “What are we doing here, Callie?”
Chapter Eleven
I asked why the inn, so far from any shore, had been named The Oyster? She laughed and said the locals jokingly called it that because it contained a Pearl. I knew how right they were.
--from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Tru watched the color bloom at Callie’s neckline and creep up to her face—the exact opposite trail that his hands longed to take.
Calling an erotic encounter to a screeching halt—this was not how he would usually handle the pretty girl sitting in his lap. But Callie Grant was so much more—more complicated, more interesting, more dangerous—than a mere pretty girl. And Stoneacre’s words hung in the back of his mind. You’ll be responsible for maintaining your disguises and new identities.
He was glad enough to put his mouth and hands on her infinitely tempting body, all in the name of their mission. But there was more than that going on here.
She kept her hands locked around his neck. “I thought we might be . . . having fun.” Her fingers began to play with the ends of his hair.
He stiffened in his seat. She had to feel the hard press of his cock against her. “Fun?” The word emerged on a croak. Her incredible bosom hovered right before his eyes. He could think of nothing he’d like better than to bury his face in her lushness. But, fun? Entirely too tame a word for the situation.
“You’ve made it clear that I’ve been lacking fun in my life, and Hestia has urged me to seize something for myself on this adventure. I thought that . . . this might serve both purposes.”
He yanked his brain past the images she called forth and tried hard to concentrate on what she was really saying.
“I’m taking the good advice I’ve been offered. No matter what happens with Letty, I’m taking this chance to set her—and myself—free.” She pressed her lips together and wiggled just a little. “I’d rather like to do the selfish and impractical thing and take you, too.”
His cock surged higher and shifted with her, eager to agree. But Tru hesitated. “Take me?”
She laughed. “Is that what worries you? Are you afraid I’m setting a snare for you?”
“It doesn’t sound like you,” he admitted.
“You may understand my world, but that doesn’t mean you belong in it. No more than I belong in yours.”
He couldn’t stand for that. “Callie Grant, you are beautiful, intelligent and ferocious. You could make yourself at home in any world you choose.”
“Careful, if you keep puffing me up, I might change my mind.” Fondness transformed her face—and struck a blow through his chest. How long had it been since anyone looked at him with such an intimate mix of frank admiration and exasperation?
“I’ve no designs on you past tonight, Tru. I promise.” She closed her eyes a moment and breathed deeply. Her caressing fingers fell still. When she opened again, she wore a naked vulnerability that he’d never seen in her.
“Just this once,” she whispered. “I want something just for myself. As I told you, I’m tired of not knowing. Tired of not having something that is only mine.” She shook her head slightly. “No one needs to know. This is private. Something to fill in the gaps of my knowledge. Something I can think about and look back at later. Something just for me.”
He stared and she met his gaze steadily. Allowed him to look without deflection or resistance. He let the beauty of her strike him, sink into his skin, touch his heart. And he acknowledged her permission as the victory that it was.
He could not help but recall his brother’s wedding, when they’d stood toe to toe, snarling at each other. They’d been adversaries then. And now they were . . . what? Co-conspirators. Friends, perhaps. But he knew that glimpse into the utter truth of her meant that he’d gained her trust—and that left him riding a rising surge of triumph.
Reaching up, he took her face in his hands, gently cradled her jaw. A single curl, auburn in the firelight, brushed his hand. “That’s the thing, Callie. There’s the two of us here. For this to be worth doing, we must share the experience. Completely engaged, the two of us together.”
Was that fear that flashed behind her eyes? His respect for her flared as he watched her struggle, and then cast it away.
“It will always be here, afterwards,” he warned, “hovering between us. Are you willing to put it there, knowing you’ll always have to look past it?”
“For how long?” she asked simply. “If all goes according to plan, we’ve only days left here. You are going back. And I—I think I am going forward. We will not be seeing each other when this is done.”
She was wrong. Their paths would cross again. His brother was married to his best friend. His burning desire to run his hands over her curves and breathe in the sweet, comforting smell of her, warred with that certainty.
He reined himself in, determined to curb his old impetuousness, to slow down and weigh his options.
He’d kept his focus so far and refused to let her beauty and his growing admiration distract him from the job at hand, and it had paid off. Their identities were—mostly—established, their plans were advancing. With Edgar’s help he had the perfect hiding spot in reserve.
And therein lay the rub. They had nothing to do now but wait. What was to stop them from enjoying each other? They both wanted it. He could spend the next hours . . . perhaps days . . . exploring every luscious inch of her, indulging his fantasies and savoring every taste.
If ever it was to happen, the time was now. In the future, when they saw each other at christenings or house parties—well, the future would take care of itself. In all likelihood he would be otherwise entangled, or she would be.
Or neither would be, and they might choose to enjoy each other again.
“Let me be clear in what I’m asking.” She’d used the time to capture her thoughts as well, it seemed. “Just here. Just now. No consequences.” Her color deepened. “I’ve heard the girls talk. There are ways . . .”
He took a deep breath. “Ways and ways.” Want plucked at his nerves as if they were harp strings. His body tightened with need. “If we . . . proceed, we’ll explore every one of them.”
She arched her back the smallest bit. The movement opened her thighs a fraction, settled him more comfortably between them. He bit back a moan, but she cupped his face in her hands, as he’d done to her. “Then by all means, let’s proceed.”
It was as if her
words tore a veneer of civilization and restraint from him. He surged to his feet, swinging her up into his arms. She was still making breathy sounds of surprise when he carried her through their bedroom door.
There it was, that damned big, mocking bed. The one he passed in the morning with his fists clenched and his gaze averted. The one that cradled her at night, where she lay looking soft and tousled and tempting. He saw it through a haze, he was so hot, so impatient.
Slow down.
He must. He’d given her her first kiss not long ago, for God’s sake. She deserved tenderness and care. He set her down at the edge of the bed, let her slide down his inflamed body, then leaned down to kiss her again.
He did a thorough, leisurely job of it, coaxing her passion to rise again—and she responded with enthusiasm. Her eagerness fanned his higher yet. He shifted closer, captured her mouth. Something primitive prowled through him as he penetrated her with his swift, sweeping tongue and ground his hips against her.
He didn’t let up. He teased and demanded until she made a sound in the back of her throat. At once, he pulled back, hoping like hell he hadn’t frightened her. But her gaze was unfocused, her expression dazed and then impatient as she reached to pull him back.
Thank God. He was impatient, too—mad to see more of her at last. On fire to feel her skin next to his.
He did not start tearing at her clothes like a lunatic—a heroic effort for which he awarded himself a dozen accolades. Instead he placed a kiss upon her pert nose. And one on each cheek. And one for that stubborn chin. Soon he was raining small kisses over her face and along the sweet stretch of her neck. And all the while he poured sweetness over her as she poured ganache over a cream cake, he worked the high buttons at the back of her dress. He kissed and kissed her while he made his way to the end, then he stood back and tugged on both of her long, tight sleeves until they came off and her bodice sagged. Without hesitation he knelt to grasp the hem of her gown and lifted the dress over her head, letting it fall unheeded to the floor.
She stood, uncertain. But he suffered no such affliction. He was certainly on fire at the sight of her generous curves still layered with corset, shift, garters and stockings. Definitely suffering the whip hand of greed as he surveyed all of the parts left exposed.
Skin. Alabaster white and soft pink.
Touch her, his passion-fogged brain demanded.
He took a step back instead. Tender, he reminded himself. No hurry. Let her catch up.
“Will you take down your hair?” It came out on a rasp, his voice gone rough with need. “I want to see those curls against your skin.”
Flushing a little, she raised her hands to remove pins. The position did interesting and gratifying things to her bosom behind the corset, things that made his fingers twitch.
Her hair came down and lay softly along her shoulders, gathering at the top of her corset, looking dramatic everywhere it contrasted against her skin.
She stood still a moment, her exhalations audible and just a bit shaky—and then she reached down and began untying the laces of her corset.
He jerked to awareness. “Front laces?” he asked. He must have been randy indeed to have missed that.
“No ladies maids at Half Moon House,” she answered wryly.
He stepped forward to help, but didn’t hurry. Steadily he pulled and slowly the corset loosened. Her scent wafted up and over him. Rosemary and beeswax and something uniquely sweet. The corset loosened enough to fall and suddenly she reached up to catch it, holding it against her.
See? His heart gave a thump. She was stubborn, capable and strong—and innocent.
He stepped forward, tight against her so that the press of his body held the corset in place. Let her keep her armor. He buried his face in her nape, followed the lovely curve of her neck to her jaw, then moved around to take her mouth again. Her hands came away, lifted to his shoulders. The corset stayed in place while he kissed her deep and slow.
Eventually he left her mouth and kissed his way to the sensitive spot behind her ear. She shivered and the corset slid down. She let it go. Even wriggled a little so that it fell completely away. Her hands moved lower to trace a tentative path over his hips and lower back.
Yes. There she was, catching up with him. Thank God, for he burned with need. He put his hands on her waist and slid them up at last—at last!—to cup that wondrous bosom.
Her breath hitched—and he felt entirely sympathetic. Her skin glowed warm right through the fine linen of her shift. Her breasts were a wonder—full and firm and tipped with tantalizing, tiny peaks. He pinched one between his fingers and she gasped.
Such a small sound, but more than enough to push him over the edge into a lust-filled frenzy. He yanked her shift down, pulled the straps out of the way, all the easier to get her bare. He let his eyes feast just a moment, then he knelt and closed his mouth over her.
Callie could not hold back her moan. Tru was pulling strongly at her nipple, flicking it with teeth and tongue. The other he rolled between finger and thumb. The sensations were acute and amazing, a mix of pleasure and pain that set off a throbbing need between her legs and created an elemental shift in her inner landscape.
It had always been about constraint with her. Inherited directly from her mother and reinforced by countless examples of women undone by the excesses of their passions.
Far better to pull back, rein all of that in, stay in control. Safer, too. Remain the calm one in a volatile situation and you were almost guaranteed the helm—and the ability to steer it in the direction you wished.
A fine philosophy. One that she’d held tight to with both hands. And why not? It had proven effective time and again—until now.
Now she found she wanted nothing to do with constraint. Her back was arched. Wordlessly she offered herself and demanded more—and Tru was obliging her. He bit down on a nipple and lightning bolts of pleasure shot through her.
“Yes,” she hissed.
He stood then, and pulled her shift away. “I’ve never seen such skin,” he whispered. “So smooth, it almost doesn’t look real.”
She flushed with pleasure at the compliment—but she was bare and he was still fully clothed.
Now that required action.
“Now you,” she whispered. Her hands were already pulling at his neckcloth.
He unbuttoned his waistcoat and tore off his coat along with it. She ran her hands up under the soft linen of his shirt. Dear heaven, but he was beautiful. She lifted it off and stood a moment in admiration.
Her hands roamed over him. His skin blazed hot. His manhood bulged. Curiosity and a desire for balance between them nudged her. She reached out and touched it, covered him with one hand.
Tru’s groan was low, deep and heartfelt. He thrust toward her and she felt a surge of power. Of need. Of fear.
She closed her eyes. This. She thought again of the gin soaked shells of women she’d seen in the streets. How easy it would be to come to need this. Not only the incredible feelings he raised in her, but the heady knowledge that she could do the same to him. The satisfaction of being in tandem with him, of being wild with need and a little out of her mind with desire—and knowing there was trust and safety in the two of them exploring it together.
Abruptly he backed away from her touch. “No consequences,” he reminded her. “Lay back on the bed.” He grinned suddenly and quoted her own words back to her. “I’m going to show you what it’s all about.”
She froze for a second. But no. There was no room for fear here. Tru was brilliantly balancing both of their needs. He was respecting the limit she’d placed on this—but she suspected he was going to careen recklessly out of control right up to the line. And she found she wanted to go with him.
“It’s what you want, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes. I want it all,” she breathed. “I want laughter and fun and your hands touching me beneath star-lit skies.” She wanted exasperation and growing fondness and wild urges. “But I can’t r
epeat my mother’s mistakes.”
“You won’t.” He said it easily, but she thought he understood all that lay beneath the simple words. “I won’t let you.”
So she did it. She let go.
She dropped the reins, abandoned the helm, let her empty hands reach for him and plunge them both into chaos.
Into heat. Into desire.
She lay back onto the bed.
He kicked off his boots and climbed over her clad only in his trousers. The fire behind him left his face in shadow, but she didn’t need to see. She was feeling now. Utterly absorbed in the weight of his hand and the brush of his fingertips as he traveled to all the sensitive spots on her body. Oddly thrilled as he buried his face against her skin and inhaled as if he could not get enough of her.
The force of his desire ran as wide as a river. She let it carry her along with him.
He touched her breasts once more, tarried there a bit when she made encouraging sounds all over again. Then he slid his hand down and over her belly, to the place that pulsed for him, regular as the tide. For long moments he explored, his fingers roaming through silken, wet folds, until she could only breathe in ragged, little gasps. Over and over he stroked, a slick, continuous caress, until he slid a finger up and over her stiff bud of pleasure—and she cried out.
Before she could think, he’d moved away to stand at the edge of the bed. Her thoughts had gone wild, her body on fire for more. She stared, and then he knelt, pushed her legs wide and put his mouth where his fingers had been.
She was lost. Constraint? Laughable. There was only the feel of his tongue, the arch and twist of her body, the incredible pleasure building inside of her. It grew, pushing her higher. She went willingly, reaching, reaching, until finally she grabbed his head, let out a moan and dug her fingers into his hair, holding tight to keep from losing herself completely, from falling away and fading into pure bliss.
She came back to herself several minutes later, boneless, sated—and with him peering down at her with a smug smile. “That’s what it is all about.”