By Desire Bound Read online

  And whispers: "I want you again . . ."

  Wait. . .

  Unending kisses, no beginning, no end. Hours of

  kisses . . .

  "I can't wait . . ."

  More kisses, were there ever such kisses . . . ?

  "No touching—or I'll explode . . ."

  She had to touch. He was rampantly there, demand­ing her caresses.

  He grabbed her hands and pinned them. "You do enough, just with your tongue."

  "It's not enough—I need your body."

  "Oh, believe me, I know you do ... but I'll say when."

  "I don't want to wait."

  "Shut up, Darcie," and he covered her mouth again.

  She lost track of everything in those lush consuming kisses. He held her hands prisoner so that only her body could move.

  Ineffectual body; he didn't want it: he wanted her kisses.

  She was soaking wet, her nipples pointed and hard, she was hot for him, aching for him, moaning for him, and all he gave her were those hot luscious kisses.

  And a steaming awareness of him. Of his heat, his body, his need. His tension and his power. The mastery of his kisses. His red-hot desire. His granite hard erec­tion. His iron control.

  She writhed her body, seeking him. He was so close, almost there.

  "Please . . ."

  "I want to—but not yet."

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  "I hate you."

  "But you love my kisses." He came at her again, stok ing her mouth with the same fury he took her body.

  She was going to melt from his kisses. She was so hot. she thought she would explode. Or he would. All his delicious essence, all over her. Yes . . . yes, yes—

  He seethed with his lust to possess her. And he loved the waiting. Always he thought he could never get big­ger or harder or crave her more. And every time, wait­ing made everything more explosive.

  And he thought, he could insert himself just at the delicious opening between her legs—just there, just the rigid ridged tip of him . . . into her hot velvet just so she was aware . . . He pearled up just envisioning it.

  He wanted it. Just the tip coated now with the evi­dence of his desire.

  Still pinning her hands, he straddled her, caging her as before, nudging her, seeking her as she parted her legs to welcome him. "Please—yes—"

  Yes—he found her, yes, he put himself there just as he'd envisioned. Just the tip. Just . . . there . . . She caught her breath. "Oh God—Con-n . . ." "You like that."

  Did she like that? She contracted her muscles in a carnal caress. Just there.

  Just breaching her, letting her feel him so intensely she thought she'd scream. Rocking slightly against her, letting her know how much more there was to come. This was enough. If this was all he wanted to give her, she would take just this much. It was all she needed. She undulated against the power of his luscious tip. She was so ripe, so ready; she knew just how to cant her body against him to make the most of him.

  It was so erotic, him holding her like that. She arched her back, bearing down on the tip, and riding it high and hard at her center, rotating her hips violently, and gyrating him in turn.

  It wasn't quite the same as his full-bore possession of her; it was different—a slow sweet shuddering kiss of a climax as she called out his name.

  She slid down into delicious silence. He didn't move. He remained inside her, looking at her with skepticism and disgust.

  Seeing eyes—what was he seeing? This was not in the dark, and he could see her now for what she really was: a woman full of sexual tricks and unlimited guile.

  She should not have done that. What woman would?

  "Well, well, well," he murmured. "You do know some interesting things ..."

  She felt a wave of heat wash over her. "You'd be sur­prised what those London society ladies have up their sleeves. I was with a very fast crowd that first year."

  "But you found me in a brothel, Darcie. It does give me pause."

  "It doesn't change anything."

  "But it explains a lot."

  "Con—don't do this."

  "Oh—I won't. I like the idea that you're a whore. It makes everything—simpler somehow."

  "Don't—" the word stuck in her throat. "I'm not."

  "If you say so." He pulled away from her, still rampant and hard. "I don't have to finish now, Darcie. This time, I'll wait."

  "If you feel that way, you should send me home," she said stringently as they awaited the service of the first course at the English Club.

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  "Let's just say I need a little time to get used to it." She didn't know what to do. Or what to say. He'd never asked one question about her marriage to Roger or the tenor of their relationship. He'd never been cu­rious even about whether they'd had sex. Never spoke again about the baby that wasn't.

  "I loved it," she said finally. "I love it with you." "You say that to all the men who poke you, Darcie." She turned her face away. Con with his eyes was as formidable a man as she'd ever met. You couldn't hide a thing from those eyes. Or that body or that mouth. And there were too many things left unsaid. And secrets she'd kept.

  "Send me back to England then." He shook his head. "No."

  She decided to be bold; what did she have to lose? "I won't go on if I can't have you."

  He sent her a malicious smile. "Oh, you can have me. I wouldn't deny either of us that."

  He paused as the waiter served the soup. Good hot thick pea soup, edible with a fork. He felt like smearing it all over her body and licking it off.

  He didn't know what he was so annoyed about. Noth­ing had changed. She was a sexual temptress with an enormous appetite for sex. It should have given him a clue, but instead, he had let himself become immersed in his unending lust for her.

  And he meant it: he wasn't going to give that up. "I had sex with Roger for the first year of the mar­riage before he went off to the pigs," she said suddenly. "At least he had the decency to wait six months after my father died to publicly rut in the streets. I wanted to know—what did they know that I didn't? What did they do that I couldn't? Why was copulating with a trol­lop more satisfying than with me?"

  "This is a good story, Scheherazade." He motioned to the waiter to remove the soup. "Go on. I'm fasci­nated."

  "We were still living in London. I went to his friends. You know, all those Ladies and Honorables. The ones who, behind their philandering husbands' backs, funded Madame's brothel so that they too could have a place to sport. It was eye-opening. But it didn't answer the question. Because there was nothing I saw there I wouldn't have tried in order to please Roger."

  "Well known there, were you?"

  "I went a half dozen times with several ladies with whom I would assume you're acquainted. You would not want to know who they are. It would be a terrible disappointment for you to know their lecherous vices."

  "And you joined in them, of course."

  Her voice went husky. "I watched." She took a deep breath. "A peculiar sort of morality for someone like me. I just wanted to know. Not that it helped. In any event, I do know Madame recognized me when I came to her door the night I found you."

  He clapped lightly. "That's very good, Sheherazade. Excellent, in fact. The confused and yearning newlywed wife. The horrible husband. The remedy, in fiction, if not life. This is some damned story."

  "Any more insane than your accepting your sight and then babbling about the powers of The Eye of God? "she shot back. "I thought you'd gone crazy."

  "And I have my sight." 'At what cost?" she retorted.

  "We don't know yet," he answered quietly. "That's the gamble I took. But you know all about risks like that, don't you, Darcie?"

  She stared at him, stony-faced. "Yes, I do."

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  "We are a pair. Today was just a little reminder that this is not a journey to heaven, and you're no angel."

  "No," she hissed. "I'm just the woman you have sex with."

  "Then I hope we both get what we deserve," he said mockingly, and he motioned for their hovering waiter to serve.

  She lost her appetite over that, but she managed to eat some meat and drink some tea, while he devoured everything on his plate.

  After, they wandered into the reading room and he struck up a conversation with one of the military men who was looking at her with undisguised interest.

  He was in his early forties, a veteran of this kind of outpost duty; he was well-fed and had a fleshy face and sharp pale blue eyes.

  He introduced himself as Colonel Giles and happy to be of service. And what on earth was a beautiful woman like Madame Boulton doing in Tashkent?

  That was blunt and to the point, and the point with the colonel was women and sex and nothing else.

  "You're looking for what?" he asked finally, disbeliev-ingly after the third brandy. "You're wasting all the time of this trip with this adorable woman chasing after who?"

  "He's a monk I believe. He might have come this way. I'm looking for someone to translate for us so I can find out."

  "Oh hell, you'll always find someone here who wants to earn a few quid. All they have to do is gamble and drink anyway. I'll do it myself, if you don't mind. Can always use a pint and a pound. So tell me about this monk."

  "I just want to know if he passed through."

  "Is he a criminal?" He gave Darcie a long speculative look up and down. "He hurt Madame Boulton here?"

  "No." Con made an instant decision on the basis of his instant dislike of the man and the way he was looking at Darcie. "He's a thief. He took something from my family."

  "A monk, eh?"

  "On the estate," Con lied blandly. "Goole Abbey, in Croxfordshire."

  "I see." Giles stroked his chin and looked at Darcie. "Certainly, I'll help you. You want to ask at the church?"

  "That's where I'd start."

  "All right. These Sarts aren't much for talking any­way. Father Licasi would probably know."

  "Is he available now?"

  "You're sure in a hurry."

  "Tomorrow morning then?"

  "He does a seven o'clock mass."

  "I'll meet you there."

  "Will do," Giles agreed, picking up his snifter and sauntering away. "See you tomorrow. Nice to meet you— both."

  "I've never seen you in action before, Darcie. What a treat." He thrust open their hotel door with the force of a bear.

  "He's a pig. You'd better go see this Father Licasi without him."

  "I appreciate the advice. I know that in your profes­sion you have to be an excellent judge of character."

  "Oh you are something, Con Pengellis," she seethed, balling her fists to keep herself from killing him. "The only thing you can hold against me is my making a very bad error in judgment—namely rescuing you."

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  "Ah, Scheherazade—he was just ogling you."

  "But you're the one who spun him that fairy tale."

  "Nonsense. I told him all of the truth he needed to know."

  "And the rest of it just skirted the edges of being pure fiction. And better than anything I ever made up. Stole something from your family—ha! Diamonds out of a fairy tale ..."

  She swirled around the room furiously because she didn't know what else to do. She felt as if he had left both of them hanging. And he wasn't going to couple with her tonight. She was so annoyed she felt like taking the venal Colonel Giles in his stead.

  Just to see what Con would do if he found someone else in her bed.

  She ruminated on that satisfying little scenario for a moment. But it wasn't worth the trouble. Once they started on the journey again, there would be no time for all that heat and desire.

  But until then—ah! She felt that involuntary sensual twinge. No. No. Not now. But already, she was thinking of the moment he penetrated her earlier that after­noon. All those luscious kisses leading up to that one ravishing crowning of her body.

  She had to stop thinking about it.

  Suspended by it, dependent on it, yearning for it, out of her mind for it... a bare inch of his hard length could make her come. . .

  He was right: she was as dissolute as any whore.

  They should have separate rooms. Separate lives. She should have left him alone.

  "Get undressed, Darcie," he said behind her. "Go to bed."

  She undressed behind a screen. That, along with the

  bed, a washstand, an overstaffed chair and an armoire, was the only furniture in the room.

  And she had very little clothing left; he'd ripped it all to shreds.

  / have to stop this. She did have something to wear to bed: an oversized shirt of she'd appropriated from Con. She slipped it on, at once annoyed and aroused by the need for propriety.

  Sometimes something covering your body was the most sensual thing of all, she thought, as she crawled into bed. But he wouldn't even give her the pleasure of watching him undress. He waited until he'd lowered the lights, and she knew he was done when his side of the bed depressed.

  But he was naked. That was good. And definitely de-liciously hard. That was better.

  Now she'd just have to make him respond. "That Colonel Giles was very interested in me," she murmured. "English women must be few and far be­tween out here. But surely the men have places they can go to spend themselves. There must be women here who are willing to accommodate a man's lust. Maybe a harem full of women who do it for a price."

  Oh yes—this is working. He's steaming already, I just have to pour it on . . .

  "Every man must be different, the way he takes a woman. I wonder how a man like the colonel does it. He's a big man. It makes me wonder how big the best part of his body is. That's always a sign of a man's po­tency, don't you think? How big he gets when he's hav­ing social intercourse with a woman ..."

  She paused coyly, knowing he was seething, knowing she was detonating a bomb. But she wanted it—blasting ferociously deep into her core. And she wasn't averse to lighting the match to send the fire raging out of control.

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  "I'm trying to remember if I noticed. I mean, why speculate? Of course, I've been concentrating so much on only one man lately. But I'm thinking that I must have noticed something..."

  She felt him lever himself up and climb over her. He grasped her hair and pulled her head back. Oh yes . . .

  ". . . since I can't stop talking about his ..."

  He yanked her ham

  "Goddamn you, I'll stuff your mouth if you don't shut up .. ."

  "Good," she whispered. "I can't wait."

  He felt the primitive roar of absolute dominance ex­plode in his body. Her eyes were his—she'd offered them for life. And her orgiastic body—she would never deny him. And that mouth, that wet, wild, succulently sucking mouth, to live in and die, a thousand little deaths—he wanted it now.

  With a guttural sound, he came into her mouth, into the wet, the heat, the avid hungry haven of her sucking mouth, her greedy hands, her worship and adoration of the most male part of himself.

  She took him, inch by inch, laving and loving him, stroking and caressing the strength and length of him. Pulling everything from him with her lips and her tongue, until he could control it no more, and he spent, in her mouth, all his power.

  Nineteen

  In the dark, she owned his power and his passion. In the dark, where he couldn't see.

  She unbuttoned her shirt and lovingly rubbed the resi­due of his essence on her skin.

  He reached out a languid hand to touch her. "Don't ever do that to me again."

  "Do what? Devour you?"

  "Bitch. Talk about another man."

  "I'm not a
whore."

  "That remains to be seen."

  "Then I guess all observations are fair in this game, Con, if that's what you want me to be."

  "At least you don't claim I made you," he murmured, turning on his belly.

  "Oh no—" she pushed him. "You don't hide from me. If you're awake and hard, I get to look at you. And if you're asleep and hard—I get to look at you."

  "And if you 're asleep and I'm hard . . . ?"

  "Wake me up and take me," she said insolently.

  "And if we're having social intercourse, and I'm hard?"

  She looked at him from under hooded eyes with that elusive, knowing smile as he hardened up before her eyes. "I just know you'll find a way to spend yourself in me."

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  "You are a bitch. I told you I'm hard for you all the time. If you want it, beg for it; I'll stuff you to the hilt, but don't ever ever moan and groan about another man's sex to my face."

  "Can I moan and groan about your sex?" It was thun­derously huge now, flexing with all its might, enticing her almost of its own volition.

  "No . . . after what you pulled tonight, you have to get on your knees and plead for it."

  He rolled over onto his back so that he was poking stiffly into the air.

  "At least I can look," she murmured, easing back onto her elbow. "I really lave looking."

  She reached out her hand and stroked him, and he pushed her away.

  "Don't try to stoke me, miss bitch. I'll live with my erections. But if you want the colonel, you can't have me."

  "There's only one man I want."

  He wouldn't be mollified. "You talked about his."

  She put out a finger and rubbed the underside of his erection. "I don't want his."

  He caught her finger in his hand. "But you looked..."

  "Maybe," she temporized. "I said maybe I thought ' might have ..." Knowing it was driving him crazy no and he'd never know if she did or not.

  Good. Maybe it would keep him as off balance as sin-felt.