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“Mary Greaves,” she said between clenched teeth.
“You know you’re very frustrating, don’t you?” Before she realized what he was doing he’d turned her beneath him once more, and he was covering her, his much larger body stretched over hers. “I don’t like to be frustrated.”
His hips were against hers, and she knew what she felt, knew what that hard ridge of flesh was. “Are you going to rape me?” she demanded in a furious voice. “Are you going to use your fantasy about who I am as an excuse to assault me?”
“No,” he said, and there was a light in his dark eyes. From the tone of his voice it sounded like a ridiculous accusation, but she was still lying pinned beneath him, and he was most definitely aroused.
“Then let me go.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“Mary Greaves.”
“Look at me, Mary Greaves.” His voice didn’t allow for disobed
ience, and she glared up at him. “When we go to bed together it will be because you want it. And it will be when I know your real name. Now if you promise not to try to unman me again I’ll leave you to get a good night’s sleep.”
Ha! she thought. Not bloody likely. Then again, he was a stubborn man, and he wasn’t going to move until she did so. “Just get off me,” she said, and that note in her voice was only tinged with resignation. “I promise I won’t hurt the big bad pirate captain.”
He laughed then, and the vibration in his chest danced against hers, against her breasts, and she couldn’t even begin to understand her treacherous body. She knew she was damp between her legs, embarrassingly so, and Jasper had done nothing but complain about how dry she was. It made no sense.
A moment later she was free. The captain… Luca… was standing above her, looking down at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “I think you need a good night’s sleep. Mrs. Crozier’s been wearing you to the bone. Stay in bed as late as you want—Miss Haviland will be sending some servants over to help until I can replace the Croziers.”
Of course she would. That mean, skinny creature was his fiancée, his beloved, and he had no damned right to kiss her when he was engaged to someone else. To kiss her as if he meant it.
She said nothing, lying perfectly still in the bed, as if she were a corpse in a coffin or a mummy in its case. He reached over and turned down the gaslight, then left, closing the door softly behind him.
A second later she was out of the bed and across the room, reaching for the key to lock it, when the door opened again and he caught her, pushing her up against the wall. “I don’t think I want you locking any doors, my sweet.”
“I don’t care what you…”
He kissed her again. Long and hard and deep, holding her against the firm surface of the wall, taking his time with it. One arm around her waist held her still, the other slid up between them and cupped her breast, the sensitive, hardened nipple sending sparks through her body, all leading down to that place between her legs, and this time she couldn’t fight it. She’d tried, but he’d been too fast, too smart. If he was going to kiss her, touch her, she may as well give in and do what she’d wanted to do all the time.
She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her, and she kissed him back, using her tongue as he had, biting him just a little bit, nibbling on his lower lip, sucking on his upper one, letting herself dissolve into a world of touch and taste and scent. He pushed her fully back against the wall, both hands on her breasts now, and there was only a thin bit of cloth between them, a thin bit of cloth he pulled down, so that she felt the rough texture of his calloused hands on her sensitized skin and she let out a helpless moan of pleasure against his mouth. His knee was between her legs, and somehow she’d ended up straddling it, so that it was pushing up against that damp, most sensitive part of her, and she wanted… she wanted…
His mouth left hers, and she dragged in her breath, not realizing she’d been holding it. “You need something to think about,” he said in a husky voice, moving his mouth down the side of her neck, his teeth nipping slightly against her skin. It was strange, erotic, the feel of his tongue against her skin, until she realized he’d pulled her thin skirt up. She’d left her petticoats behind in the library, and she was acutely aware of how vulnerable she was, and she tried to stop him, but he simply held her wrists in one strong hand as he slid the other beneath her skirt, beneath the thin delicate cotton of her knickers, to… oh, my God, he was touching her there. Even Tarkington had only used his… his thing, not his hands, his fingers…
“You’re wet.” He moved his head to whisper in her ear, and a frisson of desire ran through her. Desire for what? “I knew that you would be. You’re so damned tempting, little liar.”
She could feel his fingers moving against her, sliding between her legs, into her most secret places, and she felt a jolt of pure pleasure that forced a shocked cry from her. “Don’t,” she choked, hoping she sounded like she meant it.
“Don’t what? Don’t do this?” He slid one finger inside her, the invasion shocking, terrible, not enough. “Or don’t do this?” She felt the pad of his thumb brush higher, and a shaft of wicked delight had her closing her eyes, her head falling back against the paneling. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, my sweet?” His voice was no more than a low, carnal whisper. “I could show you so much more. All you have to do is tell me your name.”
She wanted to. She wanted to do everything he asked of her, and more, just for the sweet, drugging pleasure. She opened her mouth to betray all her secrets, only to gasp in shock as he bent down and put his mouth on one hardened nipple. He made a soft growl as his mouth tugged at her, but it was nothing compared to the heat that flashed through her, and her fingers dug into his shoulders, savoring the exquisite sensation. More, she thought. Please, I need more.
It took every ounce of strength, of determination she possessed, to bite her lip, hard, and say, “My name is Mary Greaves.”
He pulled away, his mouth releasing her breast, and it took all her self-control not to cry out in protest as he moved out of her reach. “Bloody hell, woman,” he growled. “There’s only so much a man can stand. Get back in bed and stay there, or damned if I won’t join you to keep you there.”
She didn’t need to be warned twice. She flew across the room and burrowed beneath the cover, belatedly realizing that her breasts had been bared, the loose shift shoved beneath them. “Don’t move,” he said from the doorway. “I’ll hear you if you do, and I don’t think you’re ready for the repercussions.”
She said nothing, pulling the blankets up higher and turning her back on him. And a moment later she heard the door close, and she waited, breathless, expecting to hear the lock in the door.
She didn’t. So he trusted her, at least that far. Even though he somehow knew she’d been lying to him, knew she was no housemaid.
She should leave, now. But he seemed to have almost preternatural hearing, and he moved with such silent grace he could catch her before she even realized he was close. Besides, she was so tired she could barely move. If he came back in the room he’d be able to do anything he wanted to her—she was too exhausted to put up even the faintest protest.
Particularly when she didn’t want to protest. She wanted to take him, to hold him in her arms as she’d held Tarkington, to let him lie spent against her, his golden skin hot against hers. It didn’t matter if it was uncomfortable, undignified, she wanted it anyway.
