Lily (31 page)

She smiled with her eyes closed. “No, no, I feel so …” Rather than search for the word, she hummed her satisfaction in a throaty purr, heartfelt, artlessly sensual.

His hand at her waist tightened. He traced the outline of her mouth with his forefinger, enchanted by her soft, fearless smile. Resting his forehead against hers, their noses touching, he murmured, “I want you so much, Lily. Everything hurts.”

The shaking recommenced. She held his shoulders, pressing against him, feeling the leaping rhythm of her pulse—or maybe it was his. His hands, sliding up her hips and along her sides, pulled her arms up until she wound them around his neck. They kissed again. And inhaled sharply together, muscles tensing, mouths open, ravenous. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said in a tight whisper.

“Below,” he corrected hoarsely. Holding hands, they walked toward the ladder.

It was pitch dark in Clay’s cabin. “Stay here,” Devon said, leaving her at the door. Lily heard a sharp thump and a pained exhalation; she expected a curse next, but instead a laugh came from out of the blackness. The sound of it warmed her to her bones. She heard the scratch of flint and steel; a moment later he lit a candle. He set it in the stationary holder on Clay’s desk, lit another from it, and carried the second to the cabinet beside the bed.

Nerves quivered through her when he came to her. He took her hands clasped at her waist and kissed them, first the backs, then the palms. His thumb caressed the sensitive pad of each fingertip; the sensation was so startling that her breathing changed, began to come quickly.

“Did you like the gown?” he whispered, touching his tongue to the pulse point in her wrist.

She glanced past him and saw it lying on the bed where she’d left it, neatly rewrapped. “Oh, Dev, it’s beautiful.”

“It was part of Clay’s last booty. I told him I wanted something for you, and he sent Mr. Falk to one of their hiding places for it. But do you know, I was wrong to think of it—”

“Oh, no—”

“—because you don’t need it. It doesn’t matter what you wear. In this dress or any other, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

She wanted to weep. She brought her hands up to touch his face, thinking that he was the beautiful one. She ran the backs of her fingers under his chin, along his jaw, his strong throat. The desire in his flushed face made him look vulnerable, for once, and filled her with an unbearable tenderness. She felt him untying her hair in back, and in a moment it fell to her shoulders. Knowing that she would not stop him, that she would give him everything, made her feel weak and uncoordinated. They kissed again; she pressed her body against him, slipping her hands inside his coat to touch his back, his wide shoulders. He shifted the angle of his mouth and kissed her until her knees shook uncontrollably and she could feel her own seduction, the slow dissolution of her common sense.

“On the other hand,” he murmured, then kissed her again.

She must have missed something; what had been on the first hand? She said, “Hmm?” and then opened her mouth so that he could go back to nibbling on her tongue.

Another lengthy silence. “On the other hand,” he tried again. “You’re more beautiful with no clothes on at all. Speaking from experience.”

She sighed and pulled away. Smiling tensely, she held still while he unlaced her dress in front and eased it down over her shoulders. Her shift came next, and soon her breasts were bare. The sweep of his gaze was as efficient as a caress; she felt her nipples stiffen and pucker before he could touch her. Then he touched her. The electric thrill rushed downward and the trembling in her knees started over again. “You, too,” she whispered, unbuttoning his shirt. “Speaking from experience.”

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?”