She drew off her chemise as she listened, and he abruptly stopped talking. Nude, she walked toward him and laid her hands on his back. His muscles were rock-hard, as if he’d turned to granite.
“And the battles?”
“Like being in hell,” he whispered.
She smoothed her hands down his broad back, feeling the valley of his spine, the muscles on either side. Like being in hell. She ached for the part of him that had been in hell. “Were you in many battles?”
“A few.” He sighed and lowered his head as she dug her thumbs into the muscles above his hips.
She tapped his shoulder. “Take this off.”
He shrugged out of his banyan and shirt, but when he made to turn around, she firmly pushed him back. She pressed her thumbs in hard, small circles on either side of his spine. He groaned and his head fell forward again as he braced his hands on either side of the windowsill.
“You were at Quebec,” she said softly.
“That was the only real battle. The rest were skirmishes. Some lasted only minutes.”
“And Spinner’s Falls?”
His shoulders hunched as if she’d hit him, but he didn’t say a word. She knew that Spinner’s Falls had been a massacre. She’d comforted Emeline when word finally came back that Reynaud had not survived his capture there. She should push—this was obviously his weak point. But she couldn’t be so ruthless. She hated the thought of hurting him anew.
Instead, she took his hand and led him to her bed. He stood silently, passively, as she stripped him of his remaining clothes—although his cock was far from passive. Then she pushed him onto the bed and climbed in beside him. She propped herself up on an elbow next to him and drew her free hand down over his chest. She felt grateful that she had this man, at least for this time, for herself. Here, now, she could do with him as she wished.
It was a gift. A glorious gift.
So she leaned down and trailed soft, wet kisses along his side, licking the ridge of his ribs, nipping at the jut of his hip bone. Above her, he rumbled something, a warning perhaps, or maybe encouragement. She wasn’t sure, and she didn’t care. In front of her was her goal: his penis, bold and thick and hard. She touched it with just a fingertip, running along its length. Then she leaned down and softly, gently, kissed him on the weeping eye.
His hips arched, and he grabbed her hair, pulling her face up. “Don’t. You don’t have to. I don’t deserve it.”
There were beads of sweat on his upper lip, and his eyes were wild and sorrowful.
Deserve was an interesting choice of word, and she stored it away so that she could bring it out and examine it later.
so "3">Right now, though, she deliberately licked her lips, tasting his seed, and said, “I want to.” She wanted to bring him peace if she could.
His grip relaxed, perhaps in surprise, but she took advantage by dipping her head and taking his cock into her mouth. Then his hands tightened again, but she hardly thought it was to stop her now.
She sucked on the tip, a salty plum in her mouth, and ran her hand dreamily down the length. She hadn’t a lot of practice at this, and if there was a proper way of doing it, she wasn’t aware, but he didn’t seem to mind. He muttered something unintelligible and bucked his hips. She smiled secretly and let his cock pull out of her mouth with a soft pop. She tested her teeth against the meaty head, stroking faster below. There was no give in his shaft. He was hard and ready and—
He jackknifed up and flipped her beneath him. And then he was looming large and menacing over her, his face dark as he growled, “Do you think me a plaything, my lady?”
She opened her legs wide, planted her feet, and arched her hips off the bed. She rubbed her sex against his length, watching as his eyelids fell in reaction.
“Perhaps I do,” she whispered. “Perhaps your cock is my favorite toy. Perhaps I want my toy in my—”
But he thrust fast and hard, making her lose her words on a gasp of pleasure.
“Wanton,” he gritted. “My wanton.”
And she could only laugh in sheer erotic frenzy. She bucked her hips up, making him thrust harder just to stay on top. She laughed aloud as she rotated and ground against him, the sweat from his exertions dripping onto her bare breasts. He gripped her hips and held her firmly still as he thudded into her, galloping at an impossible pace. Stars lit behind her open eyes, and she threw her head back and gasped in ecstasy. She held on to his slippery shoulders, feeling the heat spread from her center, conscious dimly that she still laughed aloud even as she crested in glory.
It wasn’t until he shuddered in her arms, swearing steadily under his breath, that her vision cleared and she saw that above her his face was a mask of tragedy.
Chapter Eleven
All of the suitors set off after the ring of bronze, and Princess Surcease sighed and went back into the castle. But Jack found a quiet corner and opened his little tin snuffbox. And what should be inside but exactly what he needed: a suit of armor made of night and wind and the sharpest sword in the world. Jack put the suit on his stumpy body and grasped the sword. Then whoosh! Whist! he stood before a lake. Jack was just wondering if this was the right lake, when an enormous serpent rose up out of the water. What a mighty battle commenced! The serpent was very large and Jack very small, but he did have the sharpest sword in the world, and that suit certainly helped. In the end, the serpent lay dead and the ring lay in Jack’s hand. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
He’d apparently married a wanton, Ja ^CK
Of course, all that wonderfulness didn’t quite explain why he was riding away from his town house this morning, having once again eaten breakfast without his wife. This came perilously close to cowardice. But while his body was enthralled by her sensuality, his intellect coldly wondered where she’d gained her knowledge. She must’ve had at least one lover—possibly more—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine that thought too closely. The image of another man teaching her. Showing her how to take a cock into her sweet, warm mouth . . .
He growled. A passing chimney sweep shot him a startled glance and shied away.
Jasper pushed the thought from his mind. He hunched his shoulders and drew up his collar against the misty drizzle. The good weather had finally broken, and London was a gray, gloomy world this morning. His mind drifted back to last night. He remembered his wife reflected in the black window as she drew her chemise from her tall, slender body. She’d looked pale and otherworldly, her light brown hair swirling about her hips.