Midnight Pleasures With a Scoundrel (13 page)

“Christ!” he growled as he took her mouth with an urgency that surprised her. Swindler had waited as long as possible to actually touch her, knowing that once he did so, this slow waltz would end. He would no longer be able to restrain himself. He wanted her too badly.

Her arms came around his sides, caressed his back, the touch so light, but fleeting. He would feel her touch and then he wouldn’t. It was a strange sensation of touch, then absence. He’d never let any other woman glide her hands over his back. He always distracted them one way or another, often simply holding their hands away from his body. But with her, he wanted to experience everything, was willing to risk losing it all, because he didn’t want her in half measures. He couldn’t explain it, but he wanted to know everything about her, down to her tiniest secret and her smallest imperfection. For some reason, it was important that she know his. Stiffening, she broke away from the kiss, her face set into a frown. “What’s happened here?”

“It’s nothing.”

He didn’t stop her when she peered around him.

“Oh, dear God.” Looking at the crisscross of scars on his back, she felt the tears well in her eyes. “Who did this to you?”

“The law.”

Straightening back up, she studied him, truly looked at him, past the handsome exterior to the wounded man.

“I wasn’t very skilled at thievery,” he explained. “Usually I got the whip rather than time in prison.”

“How old were you?” she whispered, not certain why that particular fact was important. What he’d endured shouldn’t have been inflicted on anyone.

“Eight the first time, nine the second. Feagan warned me that if I got caught once more, I’d see myself on a ship bound for New Zealand.”

“Transported.” She’d never before given any thought to the punishment criminals received. Oh, she’d heard about it, but it was like listening to someone explaining the plot in a story that she had no interest in reading. It was simply words, without soul, without heart. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. They don’t hurt. The thickest of them don’t feel anything anymore.” He touched her cheek. “I’ve never shared them with anyone else. I’ve never let any woman touch them. You’re different. What I feel for you is different. I don’t want any secrets between us.”

She almost wept from the sincerity in his voice. If he hadn’t pulled her into his arms and kissed her, she might have told him everything about Elisabeth, but she knew if she did that, the kiss would cease, and she wanted it more than she wanted to draw in breath, more than she wanted revenge.

They tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of arms and legs, the action breaking them apart, ending the kiss.

“You still have your trousers on,” she told him, as though he wasn’t aware of the fact that she was completely unclothed and bared to him while he still retained a modicum of modesty.

“I fear if I remove my trousers that any control I’m presently exhibiting will go with them.”

She pressed her hands to either side of his face, her thumbs against his lips. “Remove them.”

“Eleanor…” He gave her a sardonic twist of his lips. “I’m not sure you know exactly what it is I’m controlling.”

“You want to make love to me desperately, and without your trousers there’s nothing to stop you.”

“Exactly.”

“I want to make love to you desperately as well. Remove them.”

Before she’d finished taking her next breath they were gone, leaving her to worry if she’d ever be able to breathe again. He was large in all things, her James. His bare body covered hers as he slid between her thighs, and she thought she’d never felt anything as wonderful. His skin was slick and velvety in places, coarse and hairy in others, but she adored every inch, every texture.

Once more he joined his mouth to hers. She thought she’d never tire of his kisses. Each one was different, yet the same. Each one caused desire to build inside her. His weight bore down on her, but there was no discomfort. In spite of their sizes, her delicacy and his large muscled body, it was as though they fit together perfectly. With his touches, he was much more daring than she. He trailed his mouth down her body until he reached her breast. He kissed the inside of one and then the other. Her body reacted strongly, straining for more. He lathed his tongue around her nipple, teasing, teasing, teasing…

She scraped her nails over his shoulders while her body curled into itself.

“What do you want, Eleanor?” he rasped.

“Don’t talk, please don’t talk.”

“What do you want?” he persisted.

She wanted to weep, as his breath wafted over her nipple until it tightened into a pebble. “I don’t know. Something.”

“This,” he growled, before his mouth closed over her breast and he began to suckle. She thought she was going to come off the bed, like a hot air balloon breaking free of its moorings. She twisted into him, bucked against him.

His hand skimmed along her stomach until it reached her nest of curls. She felt his finger slip inside her, deep inside her.

“You’re so wet, so hot, so ready,” he whispered.

And she was. Almost as ready as he. Every muscle in his body was tense and vibrating. His heart pounded so hard that he thought it might actually burst. He loved having her beneath him, the silkiness of her skin, the velvetiness of her womanhood. He wanted her so badly that it was a testament to his control that he’d not yet taken possession. As his finger glided into her, he felt the tightness.

“I may hurt you after all,” he murmured with regret.

“I don’t care.” She skimmed her hands over his chest and back, as though she couldn’t get enough of touching him.

Every place she touched mourned when she moved on to give her attentions elsewhere. His body was screaming at him, screaming for him to have her now. To take her. She was wet, so very wet. Hot, so very hot.

He wished he’d considered this moment, but he’d never before taken a virgin. He should have plied her with whiskey.

Too late now. He shifted up so he was hovering above her.

She thought she should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Whatever discomfort she felt, she knew it was nature’s doing, not his. He’d prepared her with his hands and his mouth, his fingers and his tongue.

She felt him probing gently. Fighting not to tense, she concentrated on the feel of his shoulders beneath her hands, the dew that had gathered as he denied his satisfaction, the bunching of his muscles as he prepared to join them together.

As he entered her, there was pain. She couldn’t deny it, and she could tell by the sorrow that touched his eyes that she’d done a poor job of masking it. His arms trembling, he stilled when she knew he wanted to break free of the moorings and fly.

“I’m all right,” she assured him.

“I’m in no rush.” He lowered his head and kissed one corner of her mouth—

“Liar.”

—and then the other.

“We have time,” he assured her.

Not as much as he might think.

She wiggled beneath him. Kissing her chin, he slowly began rocking against her. The pain began to ease as though her body, after stretching to accommodate him, was adjusting to his welcomed arrival. Other sensations began to replace the ache. She began to concentrate on those as they began to drown out all others.

He was like the sea, so strong as it crashed against the shore, so calm as it retreated with a promise to return. A promise he kept, returning over and over, slamming forcefully into her, carrying her up toward the highest crest of the waves. It was glorious, riding out the storm of pleasures with him. Sensations swirled and spiraled.

When they crested, she dug her fingers into his buttocks and arched her back to meet him. She’d never known anything so powerful, so arousing, so incredibly wonderful. Until he began to move faster, jerkily, his groans echoing around her. She hung onto him, watching the muscles in his face contort.

“Eleanor!” he ground out through clenched teeth as his body spasmed and one last thrust, if at all possible, struck more deeply than any of the others. Collapsing on top of her, his breathing harsh, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder before rolling over and drawing her against his side.

It had been the most meaningful experience of her life, yet all she wanted to do was weep.

Chapter 9

A
bsently, Swindler glided his hand up and down Eleanor’s arm. Never in his life had he experienced anything as intensely satisfying. Eleanor had touched him more intimately than any other woman. Pleasure had rocked her with a force that astounded him—and if he were honest, stroked his masculine pride.

She was so easily aroused and not at all afraid to share what she was feeling, experiencing, thinking. While he’d enjoyed the company of many ladies, with Eleanor he sensed there was no guile between them. Her reactions were all honest, her cries all heartfelt. She was unlike any woman he’d ever known. He didn’t want her to leave his bed.

She would have to in a few more hours, before the sun rose, before anyone was up to see her leave his lodgings and arrive at her own. They’d had an illicit night, but nothing about it had seemed forbidden. If anything, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. They belonged together, she and he. After what they’d shared, he no longer had any doubts. For several minutes now she’d been slowly skimming her finger down the center of his chest and back up again. Occasionally she would trace a figure eight around his nipples. She might be recovering, not truly trying to arouse him, but his body was reacting just the same.

“What are you thinking?” he finally asked.

“About Elisabeth. I’m wondering if this was what Rockberry had promised her, or at the very least what she’d expected.”

“Did he get her with babe?”

“No, I don’t think so. If he did, it wasn’t obvious from looking at her. She arrived home in July and fell from the cliffs in September. Surely she would have shown by then.”

He didn’t want to talk of her sister, as it would dampen the mood or her memories of this night. Once he talked with Sir David and confirmed a plan of action, he’d pay her a visit and explain not only what he’d been doing the night he met her but how he planned to take the situation in hand to gain satisfaction for her regarding Rockberry. But until then he wanted nothing to sour what they’d shared, and had little doubt that her initial reaction to the fact that he’d been following her was not going to be well received.

He didn’t want her to throw what he was certain would be a horrendous tantrum in his lodgings. Nor in hers. Finding an appropriate place was going to be a bit of a bother. And he was certain a tantrum would be forthcoming. Ladies tended to look unfavorably on gentlemen who’d not been honest in their dealings with them—even when the dishonesty wasn’t their choice.

“Do you remember Cremorne Gardens when you confessed that you didn’t want the night ruined by—”

“By talk of the past?”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t let it ruin this night either.” She pressed a kiss to his chest, and he immediately hardened.

They lay in silence for several moments, simply absorbing the nearness of each other. He wondered how he was going to manage without her in his bed—in his life, for that matter. She was still aristocratic by birth. Surely she’d realized at the ball that she could find a good match in London. He’d been selfish to so willingly pounce on her words when she indicated that she wanted to spend the night in his arms.

“I hate the scars on your back,” she said softly.

His gut clenched and tightened. He’d kept them from everyone except her—and Frannie, who’d tended them. “I know they’re hideous.”

“No. No, they’re not.” She rose up on her elbows and held his gaze. “They’re a testament to your…ability to survive. You could have ended up like your father—hanged.”

He didn’t think his gut could clench any tighter. He was wrong. “If we’re not going to talk about your past, I’d rather not talk about mine.”

With a nod of acquiescence, she laid her head in the center of his chest. “I can hear your heart beat. I like the sound of it.”

“It always beats faster when you’re near.”

She dug her chin into his breastbone.

“Ouch!”

“Don’t feed me false flattery, Mr. Swindler.”

“I never would, Miss Watkins.”

She reached up and nipped his chin. He liked this playful side of her. Her character possessed so many different facets that he thought he needed a lifetime to study them all.

“Your rooms surprised me,” she said. “Especially your bedchamber. I was expecting something a bit more…decadent from a self-professed scoundrel.”

“What did you have in mind? Perhaps I can accommodate.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. Something a bit more…red.”

“Brown suits me.”

“It doesn’t stand out.”

“I’m not one for wanting to stand out. Besides, I have the one thing in my bedchamber that every disreputable scoundrel must have.”

Her brow furrowed in concentration, she glanced around the room: at the bureau, at the chair, at the pile of clothes. “I can’t imagine what it might be.”

He gave her a teasing grin. “A lovely woman he can’t keep his hands off of.”

She released a tiny screech as he rolled her over until she was beneath him.

“Besides, Miss Watkins, what I have in my bedchamber isn’t nearly as important as what I
do
in it.”

Then he proceeded to take them both to paradise.

The sun was only just beginning to chase away the fog when he slipped her out of his lodgings. Thankfully, the carriage was still waiting for them. How wonderful it was that he had friends with the means to demand of their servants inconvenience. As he assisted her inside and she settled on the bench, she fought not to have regrets. When his arm came around her, she buried her face in the nook of his shoulder, inhaling the wondrous fragrance that was him. And then she remembered his gift.

“Oh, I forgot the necklace. Will you help me remove it?”

“Take it. It’s yours.”

She jerked around to face him. “But you said it was on loan.”

“I lied. I didn’t think you would accept it otherwise.”

“It’s too grand a gift. It would be improper.”