A Certain Latitude (9 page)

“I miss my family,” she admitted. “I would do anything—anything—to be on good terms with them again. When Lord Thelling died, I wrote to my family, suspecting I should soon be without a position. I begged them to forgive me. They would not.”

“It’s ridiculously illogical,” he grumbled. He reached for her breasts, thumbs rubbing her nipples erect. “As though your seducer bore no part in the matter.”

“So many things are ridiculously illogical.”

Meanwhile, the man who had pledged to show her the pleasures of the flesh so she could honor an agreement with a future lover, showed distinct signs of carnal interest. She ran her hand through his bush of dark, curly hair and grasped his cock.

“Push back my foreskin and lick the top,” he murmured, hands in her hair, pushing her head down.

“I thought this was for my pleasure.”

“It will be.”

As his cock in her hand firmed and quickened, she bent her head to touch it with her tongue, inhaling the dark, earthy scent of him, their mingled fluids still beaded on the curling dark hair.

He gave a long sigh of satisfaction. “I’ll teach you how to take me in your mouth tomorrow night. But, at the moment, I’m feeling rather lazy. Kneel over my face and I’ll tongue you.”

She looked at him with some doubt. That sounded—well, vulgar. Arousing, too. But… “Would you like me to wash, first?”

“Whatever for? I know what I’ll taste. Come on, Clarissa, don’t be a silly prude.”

“I am not a silly prude!” She scrambled astride him, grabbing one of the berths for support.

His hands clamped onto her bottom, his tongue snaked right inside her—she wondered how she tasted, with the wine she had used as a preventative, and his seed and her own moisture—and then didn’t care. His lips and mouth caressed her exposed clitoris, his chin scraped rough against her thighs, one hand tweaked her nipple, and the other…oh, my God, the other stroked and caressed her buttocks, spreading them apart, with one finger playing…

“I’m sure that’s unnatural,” she managed to say.

“I should stop?” His voice was muffled.

“I didn’t say that. I…”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Don’t stop.” She couldn’t help moving then, inviting more of that forbidden penetration, rubbing herself against his mouth and tongue as she tightened in anticipation. He showed no mercy, urging her onward, kept her hanging on the brink for an endless, breathless moment, and then brought her to release.

“Oh,” she said as the long shudders subsided. “That was wicked, Allen.”

“And you are an eager sinner.” He helped her shuffle down his chest, his hands on her hips. “I’m at your disposal, Miss Onslowe, if you’d care to take advantage of me.”

She moved further down to kiss him, and something hard bumped against her buttocks. A moment before she would have required no more, believing herself thoroughly pleasured, but his eagerness aroused her. She raised herself up, positioned herself, and slid as slowly as she could onto his cock, watching his face.

His eyes narrowed as he sucked in breath. “You’re so sweet, Clarissa.”

“I thought I was an insatiable slut.”

“You’re a sweet, insatiable slut. Come down here, I want to kiss your breasts.”

She lowered her breasts to his mouth that had just given her such astonishing pleasure, and let him suckle and caress her as she moved, slow and with care, easing herself on that familiar journey into a place of heat and splendor.

Beneath her Allen moaned, flexed and gripped her hips.

She had power over him; he was at her mercy and she could and would make him come when it pleased her, subject him to sweet agony as she brought him close, checked him, took him to the brink again, and then allowed him his release. He was, for the moment, hers.

“We missed breakfast,” she said after they’d slept.

“We could miss dinner, too, if you like,” he offered.

She shook her head. “We should eat. We need to keep our strength up.”

Beneath her he chuckled. They had retired to a berth, after finding the floor too hard.  He had pulled her on top of him and ridiculed her fear that she might crush him.

“There’s only one part of me you’re afraid of crushing, Clarissa, and I assure you, you will not. Stay here.”

So she had, lulled to sleep by the beat of his heart and the sway of the ship.

Beneath her, his cock quickened and firmed, growing against her belly.

His hands spanned her buttocks. “Such a sweet arse. Would you like my cock inside it, Clarissa?”

“Not now, I think,” she said, hearing herself hopelessly prim, the housekeeper deciding when the silver should be polished.

He rumbled with laughter and nuzzled her neck. “Take me into that pretty cunt again, then.”

“How?” She wriggled, tried to put a foot on the floor, and lost the angle.

“Stay where you are.” He grasped her hips, slid her forward, tilted, and entered her.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, raising herself as much as she could to watch him. His eyes were half-closed; he looked, she imagined, much as she did: greedy and sleepy and aroused all at once. “Tell me about your mistress.”

“Which one?”

“How many have there been? To start with, the one whose husband chased you to the dock.”

“Ah. Lady Ann. A dreadful woman.”

“Then, why on earth—”

“This part of me—” he thrust upward—“did the thinking. And if her husband had sued for divorce, I would have been named and then obliged to marry her.”

“But it doesn’t seem fair. What will her husband do to her?”

Allen ran his hand over her neck, pushing hair aside. “Expect her to be more discreet next time. It’s the way of the world.”

His breathing became faster. Already she knew the signs; she had learned the lessons of his body.

“Who else?”

“Who else what?”

“Who else have you bedded?”

“Hmm. You wish for the whole list?”

“List?” She put her lips to his ear and sang,
“Ma in Ispagna son già mille e tre … mille e tre.”

Beneath her, he rumbled with laugher. “Not in Spain, but in Bristol maybe.”

“A thousand and three in one city? You mean you outdid Don Giovanni himself?”

He shrugged. Inside her was a softening slide, the looseness that occurred after his orgasm; but she knew he hadn’t yet come.

“Is my singing so dreadful?”

He muttered, “I shouldn’t—I had this bad habit of seducing merchants’ wives. Silly, bored, rich women, for whom I was a consolation, an entertainment. I didn’t like any of them particularly. I don’t think they liked me much, either. Each one at first presented a challenge, a mystery, but afterward I found I was

lonelier—” He stopped and turned his head away.

“Allen—”

“Except,” he added as his cock slid from her, “this never happened with them.” He laughed, a dry, ironic chuckle. “You may tell me it doesn’t matter. I believe that’s the acceptable, sympathetic thing for a woman to say under the circumstances. God knows it’s never happened before, so I’m not quite sure of the etiquette the situation demands. But, by all means coo something sweet while pitying me—even though you suspect this happens all the time.”

“A moment.” Clarissa eased herself onto her elbows. “May I borrow your writing slope? I must make note of this for any future encounters.”

He laughed and gripped her arms, turning his face to hers. “Don’t move. Do you know, Clarissa, I think you may be the only woman I’ve fucked that I actually liked?”

“How appalling.” She rubbed her nose against his. “Have you ever been in love?”

He shrugged. “Quite frequently, but it faded. I proposed to a couple of women, but fortunately they turned me down. I suspect I’m a little in love with you, Miss Onslowe, but have no fear. The condition will pass.”

“I rejoice to hear it.” Was it disappointment or relief she felt? “Love might well be a complication for us both. You are quite right.” She ran a finger over his lips. “Tell me about your family.”

He groaned. “You won’t stiffen my prick this way, Clarissa. Very well. I have many relatives, mostly annoying. There’s a great uncle who collects useless items and never throws anything away, and there’s an aunt who can drink anyone under the table—the usual assortment of embarrassments. I have a dozen or so nieces and nephews whom I quite like. I don’t think my brothers and sisters approve of me. I’m the youngest and regarded as the feckless, irresponsible one. However, they decided I should be the one to travel to the plantation to break the news to my father that my mother has died, and I’m an obedient brother.”

“Your mother has died recently? How sad.”

He grunted. His fingers played over her back. “I don’t usually tell women about this sort of thing.”

“I’m honored. Do you like practicing the law?”

“It’s my duty. It’s a perfectly respectable profession for a younger son with a little wit, who likes arguments.” He ran his fingers through her hair.

“You have the capacity to do good.”

He laughed. “There are too many injustices crying out for my time, Miss Onslowe, and none of them have any money for lawyers’ fees.”

She put her lips to his neck, tasting salt. His skin was harsh with stubble. She moved her mouth to the silky hollow above his collarbone and bit. He sighed. Between them his cock shifted and firmed. She rubbed her belly against him. “What shall I do?”

“Kiss me.”

And this time it worked. She positioned herself so that his cock grew into her, as sweet an invasion as his tongue into her mouth. Soon they both groaned and sighed, straining against each other. The ship rocked and tugged them apart and together again.

“Don’t come yet,” she whispered. “I want you to think of me when you come, not one of your one thousand and three.”

“I am thinking of you.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Sweet, like my cock is in a silk-lined glove. Warm, plump.” His voice caught. He tensed beneath her. “Wet, so that I glide in you; it’s like swimming in something warm and delicious. When you tighten on me—oh, yes, you’re a quick learner, you know how to do that—I want you to suck the life from me, tumble me into oblivion, throw my soul to the stars.”

“Pretty words, Allen Pendale. Pretty words for my pretty cunt.”

He shuddered as she hoped he would.

“Did you know I was awake our first night? I think you did. You flaunted yourself at me. When you undressed for me I lay here and I squeezed my thighs together—like this.”

He groaned.

“I was so wet for you. I could smell myself. I wondered if you could smell me too. And I put my hand, here, between my thighs as you took off your clothes, so very slowly for me, and I put my finger here.”

“Go on.”

“I wondered if you’d know. But I had to do it.” Her arm was pressed between their bodies, her finger laid against the ridge of her clitoris, letting his tremors and the dip and sway of the ship dictate her orgasm.

“And then—”

“Yes. Like this.” Heat burst and rippled.

Beneath her, inside her, he tensed, raising her, and pulsed in his own rhythmic release.

His taste was on her fingers and tongue. Her chin and her thighs were rubbed raw by his stubble. All through dinner, neither she nor Allen could produce a coherent sentence. Their feet tangled beneath the table; their fingers brushed at any opportunity.

She reminded herself that this was not love—it was lust. A small, vague part of her mind reminded her that, in a fatigued sort of way, this was unseemly. Then she thought once again of Allen’s hands and mouth, the feel of his cock, and stared at him across the dishes. Another indistinct voice noted that the fresh food was ended now, and the ship’s biscuit and salt pork were uninteresting to say the least. But it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all. The only thing that mattered was getting Allen back into that dim, cramped space where they could be alone and she could...

Mrs. Blight said something to her. Poor Mrs. Blight, pale and diminished, picking at the food—it really was unpleasant, but food was unimportant—and waiting for her to reply.

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

“I said, Miss Onslowe, we are most grateful to you for looking after us. I thought we were going to die. And that boy, Peter, was kind, too.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Clarissa said. “And it is Captain Trent you have to thank for Peter’s help.”

“Indeed, not, Miss Onslowe, Mrs. Blight,” the captain said. “You should thank Mr. Pendale, for it was he who offered to pay.”

Blight looked at Allen with unconcealed dislike and muttered a phrase of grudging thanks. Men were such very odd creatures. Why shouldn’t Allen pay? She was fairly sure, from the condition of Allen’s battered coats and boots, that he was not wealthy but he probably had more money than anyone else aboard. She watched Allen’s fingers close around the stem of his wineglass, listened to the buzz of voices around the table and longed for dinner to be finished.

When they went back onto the deck, neither of them paused to look at the stars or bid the others more than a cursory goodnight. Under the cover of her cloak he grabbed her hand and placed it against his groin.

“I want to fuck you,” he growled.

He certainly did.

“Get below. And hurry.” He pushed her toward the hatch, one hand loosening his neck-cloth.

“Mr. Pendale, if the arrangement—” Blight stepped into their path.

“What arrangement?”

“Of the cabins, sir.”

Clarissa noticed the flush of embarrassment on Blight’s face.

“Don’t be a fool, Blight.” Alan pulled the neck-cloth off and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’ll wish you a good night.”

He followed Clarissa down the steps so fast he almost trod on her fingers, and pushed her into the cabin. “Get your skirts up.”

“How—”
how do you intend to do this?
She wanted to ask, but her unspoken question was answered as Allen shoved her into the corner created by the wall and the end of the berths.

Cursing, he unbuttoned, hoisting one of her legs around his waist, and drove into her. She anticipated his urgency—what she didn’t expect was her own readiness—the long, delicious wet slide of penetration, her cry of pleasure and alarm. She grabbed at his shoulder, his hair, to steady herself before gripping the edge of the berth with the nearest hand. The wall scraped her back; Allen panted, thudding into her like a battering ram, groaned, and then laughed.