He drew the tip of his finger along the outer curve of her breast and watched her tremble. And then the slow roll of the waves lifted the deck beneath them—canted his body into hers, pressing the head of his cock a bare half inch inside her.
And then the ship fell again, pulling him free.
She made a soft sound. Desperate.
His brain had gone white with need. Every muscle in his body felt clenched and aching, and bloody Christ, it was nearly impossible not to thrust into her.
But he wanted to wait more than he wanted to plunge ahead. He wanted to be certain, to besure. He wanted forever, and he wanted it to begin like this: a slow, patient tide that came for them both.
He put his fingers to his mouth, wetting them, then slid them between her body and the table. She went up on her toes to give him room, and he moved his fingers to her clitoris, listening to the sounds she made because he could not see her face. He stroked her in little circles as the next wave came, and then the next, pressing him deeper, slow and slippery and searing, bare half inches at a time.
Oh God—it was bliss and agony to hold himself still. To fight the impulse of his body.
“Malcolm,” she gasped. “I want—” She whimpered, hips lifting as she sought to take him in. “I want—”
“I know,” he said thickly. “Oh fuck. Sweetheart. I know.”
It took a dozen waves before he was fully seated inside her. Another two before he felt her thighs tremble and knew she was lost. Her body seemed to clutch at him, to hold him inside, clenching down again and again with her culmination. He heard himself groan, and he might not have moved even then, except she turned her head to where his hand had come to rest beside her cheek and sucked the tip of his finger into her mouth.
His head spun. His pulse was pounding in his ears, in his prick, and he caught her hip in his free hand, clutched her tight, and thrust hard.
“Is that what you want?” he said raggedly.
“Yes,” she gasped. Her hips lifted higher as he slammed into her again. “Oh God. Yes.”
He took her harder—because she wanted it, and because there was nothing he would not do for her. Nothing he would fail to give. He drove himself into her again and again, and only when he knew himself a heartbeat from his own climax did he withdraw. He pressed her thighs together and emptied himself there, in the slick channel made by her arousal and his seed.
And when they both were spent, he brushed her sweat-darkened hair off her face. He leaned down across her so that he might press his mouth to the nape of her neck.
“I’m yours now,” he said quietly. “Body and soul.”
Please, he thought.Don’t regret it.
Chapter 28
Two days later, outside the Earl of Hangleton’s townhouse with most of his crew behind him, Archer held Ruby’s hand and perseverated briefly on shrubbery.
The home was surrounded by hedges, clipped in neat, precise rows. The leaves shone in the sun, as though they’d been polished individually by some gardener’s gloved hand. Perhaps they had. The brick exterior was spotless; the windows gleamed; not even a pebble had dared to roll out of place as their carriage trundled up in front of the house.
And in front of all that perfect greenery stood Captain Malcolm Archer: dressed in his one unstained shirt, smelling of tar from theDelphinium, and holding for dear life onto the hand of Hangleton’s elder daughter.
Whom he had made his wife.
There had been considerable wrangling over their plan of action as they’d made for the London Docks. Ruby had proposed to take Signor Neri to meet with her father, but Neri had had some alternative scheme in mind. He had insisted upon making his way to his own residence once they arrived in the city.
Archer had worried over that for some time. He suspected—he feared—that Neri did not trust the ambassador. And he did not know how to say such a thing to Ruby.
Lamentation had gone with the signore. He’d done his duty aboard the ship with a rigid, unfamiliar expression on his face, and when the opportunity to break from the rest of the crew had come, he’d taken it. Gerry had been speechless with distress, and Archer could scarcely recall ever in his life having felt so torn apart.
He looked at the tiny neat lines where the shrubs had been clipped—recently, he could still smell the grassy scent—and felt lightheaded.
This was a mistake. He should have forced the issue—should have gone to Penney instead. Penney knew where he’d come from. And standing here, in front of the fine glazed windows and the pristine shrubs, it had never seemed so clear to Archer that Ruby did not. He was a convict. Brig trash. He was as out of place here as a fly crushed bloody against stained glass.
Perhaps he could persuade her to lie to Hangleton a little longer. Perhaps he could leave this fancy square and try to find the princess some other way, let Ruby tackle the problem from the high-society end while he came at it from the bottom. Perhaps—
Ruby squeezed his hand and looked up into his face. Her lips had gone pale, and as he gripped her hand, he realized he was not the only one holding on a little too hard.
“Are you ready?” she asked. “It might be... unpleasant, at first.”
