By Desire Bound Page 7

  She needed a needle and thread, instead of recrimi­nations. It was all of a piece. They would find the dia­mond, Con would reclaim his life, his position, and his mercenary sister-in-law would probably have to find an­other place. Why not take her pleasure where she found it?

  Oh my God—next time . . .

  He was still asleep, doomed to the darkness forever. Poor Con. She leaned over and stroked his face. The plea­sures of the night would always take place in the darkness, she decided. If there were a next time. If she really were that weak. That needy. That bold.

  She threw a cape over her shoulders and went out into the brisk morning air.

  There was nothing like a seacoast town. The smell of fish, the fishmongers already hawking the first catch of the day, the caw of the gulls, the stiff wind off the water, the sun burning hot by contrast.

  She sensed no threat today. She felt awake and alive, and everything she saw touched her awareness as sen­sitively as he had touched her last night.

  She really had to stop dwelling on that. It had been a moment, cut out of many more moments to come where diings like that would never happen. She wouldn't think about it. She wouldn't hold him to a promise he might never keep.

  Next time . . . she could make it happen, she thought, as she hunted up a seamstress from whom she could purchase a sewing kit, and then bought some bread and cheese for their breakfast. Did she want to make it hap­pen?

  The innkeeper had already provided morning tea and a pitcher of lukewarm water for washing, but little else, and he had brought both items to the room, which saved her the exertion of fitting her purchases around the pot and cups, and going back downstairs again for the wash water.

  She set the tray on a table. "Are you awake?"

  "Very," he said dryly, and she understood exactly what he meant. Next time. He wasn 't going to conveniently forget last night.

  "There's tea, and I have bread and cheese."

  He swung his legs over the bed. "That will do. Can I wash?"

  "Yes. On the other side of the bed, there's a stand with a pitcher of water."

  She watched him as he groped his way across the room. He was no less powerful and desirable for his

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  blindness. Perhaps he was more so, because he was vul­nerable.

  But a man like Con Pengellis would hate that. He would trade on his strength and his intelligence. He was a man who had conquered a universe and made a legend real. And he had possessed her last night. He had taken her need and her lust and made it his own. He had given her pleasure and worshipped her like a queen.

  Who wouldn't dream of a next time with one such as he? Her heart constricted just thinking about it, and she wheeled away from him to pour the tea. Useless think­ing like this. He had probably come to his senses, and she was still out of hers.

  "There's tea."

  He inhaled deeply and moved toward the scent, let­ting her guide him to a chair beside the table.

  "Do you take sugar?"

  He shook his head and she placed the cup in his hands. His hands. That hand, an instrument of pleasure. He sipped, and she watched his lips jealously. Those lips, savoring her sex or liquid heat with equal pleasure. Either. Both. Next time.

  Her breath caught, and she poured herself a cup and went to sit on the bed. She couldn't think of a thing to say.

  "The ship sails tomorrow?" he said finally.

  She swallowed hard, and wrenched her mind away from the image of his hands caressing her. "At the tide. The booking is made. The papers are in order. The bracelet bought us time and money."

  He listened to the nuances of her voice. For the first time since they'd begun this journey, she wasn't think­ing about Lavinia, Roger or the diamond. Just what he'd wanted. Just what he'd hoped. She was

  thinking about him, and the explosive demands of her

  body.

  Even he wasn't immune to them. He'd been isolated and removed for so long. He had thought he was dead, dry, dust; he had suppressed every urge and all emo­tions, pushed every thought of a man's desire as deep into the pit as he was.

  But a man never forgot. A man never lost the capacity to rise to the occasion. His ferocious lust to possess her shocked him. And this morning: he wanted her. He hadn't nearly had enough of her. He wanted to explore that passion and that driving need with which he sent her plummeting over the edge. He wanted her to erupt like that always and ever only for him.

  And he was staggered by how deep and hard the feel­ing went.

  This was something he hadn't planned. Something he needed to diink about. He folded his hands around the hot cup and lifted it to his lips to sip. One didn 't sip a woman's body . . .

  Jesus ... he slammed the cup down on the table. "There's bread and cheese?"

  She bit her lip. That was a violent reaction. What was he thinking? What was he sorry he had done? "Right by your elbow."

  He ripped off a piece of bread like it was the neck of his worst enemy and bit into it aggressively.

  "All right," he said finally, after he'd demolished the bread and several chunks of cheese, "so—we sail tomor­row. And what did you plan in the meantime?"

  "I didn't." Uh-oh. Better clarify that. "I thought it would take longer to arrange things," she amplified.

  "I see." Did he? He saw her naked body writhing in his hands. Next time. Now? Never? He had to decide. But he had

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  promised—those very words—next time. "So all we have to do is ... ?"

  "Pack," she said, distracted by the movement of his lips. "Remember."

  The air thickened. "Remember what, Darcie?"

  "You . . ." she started and couldn't quite get out the rest of the sentence. Not when he was looking at her as if he could see her, and as if he wanted her again.

  "/ remember," he said softly, and the decision was made, had been made since the moment he discovered she loved the demon adventurer whose portrait launched a thousand dreams.

  He shook himself. One dream. Darcie's dream.

  The distance between her sex and a legendary dia­mond didn't seem so remote now. He could almost taste the secret yearning in her, so excellent to use to his own advantage.

  And what about all his secret appetites, dredged up from the grave?

  "It was a mistake," she whispered, her heart pound­ing. He remembered. This could be—next time. And more . . . And an even bigger mistake.

  She didn 't care. She wanted him to counter her hesitation, to give her a reason to willingly give herself to him.

  What about your swollen lips, your aching breast, your own dreams and desires? She could subordinate them, she could.

  No, she couldn't.

  She felt the sweet ache between her legs that had nothing to do with reason or respect.

  "Let's see if it was," he said softly, and her whole body twinged at the note in his voice. "Take off your clothes, Darcie."

  Her breath caught. He wouldn't see a thing. He would go crazy imagining it, and she wanted that. She wanted him hot and melting at her feet, where there

  was no mercy for a man who could make her feel like that.

  "Darcie . . . ?" There was a catch in his voice.

  Next time . . . "Come and get me," she breathed, and backed against the bed.

  He came toward her as surely as if he could see her, and she didn't know how. How he knew, how he reached out and unerringly found the torn flap of her dress, and then just ripped it from her trembling body.

  "Now, Darcie."

  She wished it were dark. Even knowing he could see nothing, she wished it were dark and that she were more perfect, that it was a love more perfect — but in absence of all of that, she would willingly take diis much from him, and maybe even more.

  She peeled off her underclothes, unhooked the un­wieldy corset, tossed off her shoe
s, wriggled out of her underslip and stockings, and finally her drawers. God, how long it took to get ready to sin. A man could lose all his heat in the time it took a woman to divest herself of the props of civilization.

  But once they were gone, she felt as primitive as Eve. "Con . . . ?" she murmured, and she knew he heard the excitement in her voice.

  "Come."

  She walked into his arms and lifted her mouth to his and surrendered to the darkness.

  And in the darkness, there was light: he nestled him­self against her hips, so she could feel his length, his pride, his power. He lifted her against him, and she wrapped her legs around him and ground her hips against his driving erection.

  Oh God — she wanted him. All of him buried to the hilt deep within her. All that heat and power contained in her . . . She pulled her mouth from his mesmerizing kiss. "Do

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  it now," she whispered, wriggling her derriere against his questing hands and his thrusting member.

  "Soon." A breath against her swollen lips, and then he claimed them again, while his hands stroked her and probed her from behind.

  Her body jolted against him as his fingers slipped into her slick wet folds and deep into her very core. "How many fingers?" he murmured against her lips. It didn't matter; they felt hard and thick and full sheathed in the heat and velvet of her, and she didn't want him to move, ever.

  "Three? Four?" She licked his lips, seeking his tongue. "I love what you're doing. I love what you did yesterday."

  "I know." He moved to the bed and sat, still holding her wrapped around him. "Don't move. I want to feel you just like this."

  "I want you inside me." "Not yet. Do you feel my fingers?" She drew in a deep breath as he stroked her. "Yessss." She made a sound as he probed deeper. "Oh God— Con . . ."

  "I know you like that. I'm going to find out every­thing you like and I'm going to give it to you, Darcie." She squirmed against his fingers. "I want you to." A groan. A wave of sensation as he pumped his fingers between her legs.

  "You love a man there."

  "He's not there yet," she whispered pointedly, grind­ing down on his fingers.

  "Oh, he's there. Give me your tongue, Darcie. We're not nearly done yet."

  She arched against him and gave him her tongue. Gave over her naked body to his expert fingers as they stroked and felt between her legs, prodding her, prim-

  ing her, teasing her. He never touched her nipples. His free hand explored her buttocks, and found the hidden place at the small of her back that turned her into a wild woman.

  "Oh God, Con—I'm so wet—"

  "Good. I want you wet and hot, Darcie, and only for

  me."

  "Ohhh . . ." she sighed from deep in a haze of swamping pleasure. Those incredible fingers . . . she rode them like a stallion, whipped into a frenzy by his words, his caresses, his desire.

  She felt every spurt of his penis. It was like an un­tamed animal waiting to break free. She wanted to mount it high and hard and deep inside her and keep it there forever.

  But she was losing it, to him. His fingers worked inside her, pulling her inexorably toward the edge.

  "Con . . . !" she cried in anger.

  "Come to me, Darcie, come ..."

  "I can't . . ."

  "You don't have to ... come—"

  "Con ..." She was trying to hold it back.

  "I want you. I want you to come—" His voice was so soft, his fingers were so hard, so coaxing; they wanted her fire. They wanted her draining her juices into his

  hand.

  And she came, climaxing on a long soft sigh into the light. Into glitter and gold. Into a spiking pleasure that attacked her very vitals and drained slowly slowly slowly from between her legs. Just like that. Just there.

  Into silence as he held her tightly against him.

  He had seen everything.

  "Shhhh . . ." he laid her reverently down on the bed and curved his body around her. "Shhhh ..."

  And then she slept.

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  And now he knew her. He knew her luscious mouth, and her responsive nipples, the special place at the small of her back. And in the heat of her woman's flesh, her gorgeous wanton sweet spot.

  He lay with his fingers gently inserted, just there. She spread her legs slightly to ease his way, and from time to time in her rest, she wriggled erotically against him to let him know she was awake and aware.

  There was something so voluptuous about lying with her like this. He had forgotten those small delectable pleasures. His every nerve ending pulsated with the need to possess her. His penis was as stiff and heavy as stone; he wanted to penetrate her, embed himself in her, and drive them both to completion.

  But the waiting . . . the waiting heightened the inten­sity of his need, he liked that. He was accustomed to waiting; there was something very potent about it, when the imagination conjured up pleasures and delights for the taking. And he liked having her waiting, naked, and yearning, naked, just for him.

  He felt her restive movements beside him.

  "Con ..." There was a slight thread of supplication in her tone.

  "Tell me what you want, Darcie."

  "Where do I start?" she murmured, wriggling ur­gently against his fingers.

  He pushed deeper. "I need to hear one thing you want."

  "Don't make me beg."

  "Tell me, Darcie."

  She shimmied desperately on his fingers. "Con . . . you know—"

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  He pushed again, to give her a taste of the pleasure to come.

  "Say it, Darcie. How else can I know?"

  She grit her teeth. "I want you—you know I want you between my legs . . . oh! Don't . . . don't take away your fingers . . . you beast—that's what you wanted to hear . . ."

  He loomed over her. "I needed to know you crave my

  penis."

  She stretched out her hands and grasped him. Oh dear God—he had forgotten this too—what it was like to have a woman take him purposefully with both hands, surrounding him, feeling him, pumping him, lavishing him with caresses and murmurs until he was out of his mind with rocketing need.

  "Oh God, Darcie . . ."

  "No, no—I have you now, and I'm not giving you up. You're mine now, do you hear me? And you'd better not move."

  He couldn't move; he was braced on his hands and knees over her slender body, poised to penetrate and sink himself into hot velvet. And instead, instead, she had brought him to worship before her, with her pure erotic possession of his throbbing member.

  She caressed it, she felt its length and thickness; she played with it, sliding her fingers all over it, tapping the lush slick underside of it, and then finger walking back down to the base of it to entangle her fingers in the crisp hair, and finally to cup the taut scrotum below.

  And then the attention she gave his scrotum—sliding her palm under it, stroking it, stroking him deep be­tween his legs and almost to his crease ... his knees went weak. His arms trembled. He tried to kiss her and she wouldn't let him. She wanted to watch his face as

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  she caressed and pumped every long inch of him until he was ready to explode.

  And then she began feeling around the very tip and sensitive crown.

  "Darcie . . ."

  "I'm going to bring you down, Con . . ."

  "Darcie..." he managed before she began the steady rhythm just at the crown, on and on and on, her relentless hand taking him as no woman had ever taken him before.

  She licked her lips as he began thrusting in concert with the movement of her hand. She held his scrotum with her one hand as she pumped and pulled with the other. She brought him close to her mouth and licked and sucked at the turgid tip of him, and when he reared back for that one l
ast roaring thrust into her circling fingers, she caught some of the cream of his desire on her breasts and tongue.

  And he was gone—spewing himself all over her body in concert with her ecstatic moans.

  And when it was over, he collapsed on top of her and she held him lightly, tightly, possessively as if they had always been lovers, and she would never let him go.

  "Con?" It was dark now; they had slept, but he wouldn't know the dark from the daylight.

  "Ummm."

  The dark was better, she thought, sliding her hand down to cup his quiescent penis. It immediately leaped to attention. She liked that, she liked how things were more explosive in the dark and how she was hungry for him all over again.

  "Are you awake?"

  He grunted.

  She rubbed him with both hands, moving them lightly in opposite directions.

  "Ah, Darcie . . ."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "I am now."

  Her body twinged. Next time. As many next times as she could desire. Anything she wanted, borne of his celibacy and need. As many times as she wanted, as many ways as they could invent.

  "Do you want me?"

  "Don't be coy, Darcie."

  "I'm naked for you, Con. What are you waiting for?"

  "I like the waiting. It makes everything deeper, more powerful."

  She loved this game. She loved him talking rough in counterpoint to her caressing his potent manhood, and she reveled the power of her touch when he couldn't suppress a groan.

  "I think you want me," she murmured, her fingers squeezing and working up and down his quivering length.

  "Spread your legs then."

  "Do you want me?" She twisted the palm of her hand around his shaft.

  "You know what I want, Darcie. You want it too, so spread your legs."

  "How much do you want it?" she asked coquettishly, her hands still working her erotic magic on him.

  "I've had all I can take of your silly game. I don't want to talk, I want to cram myself into you ..." he wrenched himself out of her grasping hands ... "now . . . "and he pushed her legs apart and rammed himself into her, deep, oh so hot and deep and just when she thought he was totally embedded within her, he drove himself deeper still.