Pirate Wolf Trilogy (26 page)

“
You!” he
gasped. “By all that’s holy—
what the devil are you doing out here?
You could have been killed,
sneaking around in the dark like this, you little fool, or have you
forgotten there is an enemy ship anchored beside us with several
hundred angry men just aching to swim across and slit our
throats?”

Beau
looked down and saw the glitter of a knife in his hand. “I …
haven’t forgotten. And I wasn’t sneaking. I came to get my charts
for the morning and—and then I wanted a breath of air,
and—and—it
is
my cabin, you
know. I am not accustomed to having someone else in it, or to
asking someone else’s permission to go inside.”

Dante’s eyes
lost some of their murderous intent and he relaxed enough to put
away the dagger. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you show
yourself right away?”

“I … don’t
know. I just … I don’t know. By the time I realized you were there,
you were already half naked and—and …” She swallowed hard and
raised her hand in an unconsciously sensual gesture, pushing aside
the edges of her shirt to press cooling fingers against the rapid
pulse beating at the base of her throat.

“
If—if
you would step aside now, Captain, and let me pass, I would be more
than happy to give you back your privacy.”
_t

But instead of
stepping aside, he moved forward, keeping her trapped against the
gallery windows, cloaking her in the immense shadow of his own
frame. “Not just yet, mam’selle.”

“Wh-what do you
mean?”

“I mean”—his
hands came up and he brushed his fingers over the rich abundance of
her hair—“not just yet.”

She tensed as
he caressed the back of her neck. She was more aware than ever of
the heavily muscled shoulders, the dark swarm of hair that covered
his chest, the molded bands of hard flesh that flexed along his
arms every time he asked the slightest motion of them.

Her eyes rose,
not enough to have met his, but enough to focus on the halfsmile
that played on his lips.

“I hope you are
not thinking of kissing me,” she whispered, her throat almost too
constricted to squeeze out the words.

He grinned and
studied her through narrowed eyes. “I think it only a fair exchange
for watching me strip naked.”

“You’re … not
naked,” she pointed out.

“
Let us
not split hairs,
ma petite.
You
have already seen all there is of me to see, whereas I … I remain
somewhat in ignorance, relying only on my imagination. Granted, I
have a good one, but I confess I am intrigued to know what you keep
so carefully guarded behind your belts and buckles. Here, for
instance—” His fingers nudged aside the collar of her shirt and
touched on the smooth white slope of her shoulder. “And here,” he
murmured, sending that same impudent finger over the folds of her
shirt, tracing the swell of her breast.

Beau blushed to
the point of numbness. The heat that had all but paralyzed her
earlier was spreading downward, fanning through her body with
unsettling precision, as if he knew just what to touch and how to
touch it to render her immobile. She was also aware of the
negligent power in those hands—hands that could easily take what
they wanted without her cooperation or assent.

At the moment
they were taking the knife out of her belt, another out of the
concealed sheath she wore on her hip; they were traveling lower and
skimming down her leg to the cuff of her boot.

“Wh-what are
you doing?”

“Following your
father’s advice.”

Startled, she
looked up into his face.

“He warned me
to search you ten ways to Sunday, and even then, not to turn my
back on you.”

Beau opened her
mouth to protest, but his lips were on her temple, on her cheek,
they were seeking out the soft pink shell of her ear. His hands had
not stopped moving, stroking and smoothing over her arms, her
waist, her hips. Her heart was pounding, she was certain he could
hear it. Surely he could feel it, for his body was crowded warmly
against her, pressing her back against the gallery ledge. And his
mouth—God save her, his mouth was exploring the crook of her neck,
roving at leisure, his tongue swirling hot, moist patterns on her
skin.

“Christ Jesus,”
she gasped, “if you’re going to kiss me, can you not just do it and
be done?”

The words were
no sooner out of her mouth when his lips covered hers, claiming
them with a rough imperiousness that chastized her for her
impatience. Yet his own was no less compelling and he chased her
gasp inside her mouth, filling it with his tongue, shocking her
with an intrusion that reverberated to the soles of her feet.

His hands raked
into her hair and would not let her move or twist away to avoid the
plundering boldness. His lips were hungry and demanding, moving hot
and sure over hers, ravaging them with a fierce insistence that
left her weak and reeling with confusion. She wasn’t enjoying it.
She wasn’t! Yet she was trembling, quaking everywhere. Her hands,
pinned against his chest, began to feel more restrained than
trapped and longed to be set free to roam the wide expanse of
swarthy muscle.

Dante
lowered a hand to the small of her back and urged her forward
against the growing hardness of his body, introducing her to yet
another shattering sensation. When she offered no objection, when
she met this new boldness with a soft, ragged moan, he angled her
head back and sent his mouth down to plunder the curve of her
throat again, finding and laying siege to the tenderest of nerve
endings.

“Isabeau,
Isabeau,” he murmured, shifting his hands, his body, his
intentions. “I knew there must be a softer side to you. Softer.
Sweeter. Tantalizing.”

Beau’s eyes
shivered open. His hands were creeping up beneath her shirt and the
impossibly long, solid shaft of his phallus was pressing into her
thighs, into flesh that was suddenly alive with raw, liquefying
sensations.

“Stop,” she
gasped weakly. “Please …”

“Why?” His
voice was thick and husky, muffled against her throat. “Why are you
so afraid of admitting you are a woman with a woman’s desires, a
woman’s needs?”

“A woman’s
needs,” she cried, shuddering as his thumbs caressed the round
underside of her breasts. “You mean your needs, don’t you?”

“I was hoping,
for tonight anyway, they might be one and the same thing.”

“I don’t need
you,” she insisted on a broken whisper.

His hands
descended. They shaped themselves to her buttocks and drew her
against him, savagely enough that they both gave a little groan.
“But you
want
me. Almost
… and God damn my soul for admitting it—almost as much as I want
you.”

"
No,” she
gasped. “No.”

Resisting the
urge to call her a liar, he slanted his mouth more forcefully over
hers. He ran his tongue across the velvety smoothness until a soft
cry parted her lips again and he thrust deeply, possessively,
inside. The tension snapped back into her neck but he was ready for
it. He held her firmly, closely, snugly, against his body, letting
her know the games were over, letting her know exactly what effect
the rumbullion, the moonlight, the scent of her skin, was having on
him.

Yet none of
those things was as potentially devastating as the silky warmth of
her mouth. He had not expected anything half as arousing nor a
fraction so seductive as the sound of the tiny, stifled moans that
came on each swirling incursion of his tongue. He had not expected
himself to come half out of his skin, imagining other areas of her
body that would be as smooth and silky, as hot and wet, as lush and
sensitive to his every move. Raw, sexual heat flamed his senses and
made him probe even deeper, made him turn his mouth this way and
that so there was no part of her left unexplored, untouched.

“Please,” she
gasped. “Wait! Stop….”

He surely
hadn’t expected to feel himself respond to her half-whispered
pleas, or to stand away, or to put an arm’s length of distance
between them.

What he
saw caused his jaw to clamp and his body to ache with unbelievable
pressure. Her hair was a tumble of luminous waves trapping the
moonlight—softer, fuller, more luxuriant than his silk-starved
hands could expect to resist. Her shirt was pulled taut over her
breasts, emphasising their proud, upthrust shape and the small,
rounded beads of her arousal. The thought of stripping away that
shirt, of taking those small, firm beads into his mouth and
suckling them until she groaned from the pleasure nearly brought a
flush of sweat across his brow. And her eyes, damn them. Her eyes.
There was a wildness in them that defied him to try his hand at
taming her, yet there was also a soft shimmer of uncertainty, a
vulnerability that almost caused the last of his senses to desert
him.

She was
shaking. But so was he.

“If this isn’t
what you want,” he said hoarsely, “you’d best get the hell out of
here … and you don’t have much time to do so.”

Beau’s lashes
were almost too heavy to lift, but lift them she did, and was not
surprised to find the smoldering argentine eyes waiting for her.
Waiting to tell her how foolish she would be to underestimate his
dark desires. There were no promises there, no hint even of an
obligation that would go beyond the next clear thought. There was
only the moment they were in right now, only an offer of heat and
sin and pleasure beyond her wildest dreams.

She reached out
her hand—it was more of an instinctive gesture than anything else,
intending to do … what? Apologize? Attempt to explain again an
error foolishly made?

Instead, it
turned into a kind of wondrous journey, a shy exploration of
forbidden territory, as her fingertips encountered the oil-slicked
surface of his forearm. When her hand did not instantly erupt in
flame and cinder, it was with some fascination she laid it flat and
skimmed it over the silky furring of dark hairs, sliding upward to
the crease of his elbow, then higher onto the solid bulge of hard
muscle. The residue of oil had left his skin as smooth as satin and
her hand seemed to glide of its own accord to his shoulder and
across the sculpted plateau of his upper chest.

A small
frown bade her explore further, and she combed her fingers lightly
through the wealth of sworling hairs, spreading them wide and
laying them flat again to feel all of him, all the splendor of the
hard-surfaced flesh that had been tormenting her thoughts since she
had first seen him on the deck of the
Virago.

A second,
tentative hand joined the first and she found the dark discs of his
nipples, surprised to feel them roused and pebbled hard on their
surrounding island of soft velvet. She had wanted to touch all this
male heat earlier, to run her fingers through the dark fur, to
explore the vast, uncharted planes of her imagination, but she had
thought it all out of her reach.

It was not out
of reach now, and with an exquisitely shivered breath she lifted
her eyes to his and wondered what other transgressions might be
permitted.

“Whatever you
decide,” he warned her softly, “know that I will not be able to
stop again.”

Fine wisps of
her hair, ruffled by a passing breeze, floated across her cheek and
throat, brushing over her lips, clinging to the faint moisture left
by her breath.

“I will …
likely … not want you to,” she whispered.

Dante felt
every word ripple across the nape of his neck. Her voice was low,
quivering with the effort to sound calm and detached, but laced
with enough tension to send tendrils of shock coursing down his
spine. Desire pooled hot and heavy in his loins, and he reclaimed
some of the distance he had put between them. He sank his fingers
into the tousled pelt of her hair and drew her forward. He tilted
her face up to his and for a long moment just held her that way,
their mouths a breathless gasp apart, waiting until he could count
the heartbeats in her eyes before he kissed her.

It was a
savage, relentless kiss, one that invaded her mouth, filled it, and
molded it to his own with a fierce passion. His lips were
merciless, his tongue ravaging, but instead of frightening her or
shocking her, it brought her crushing into his arms. It sent her
hands curling up and around his broad shoulders, it brought her
body straining eagerly against his, riding the hardness of his
thighs with an urgency that sent one of his hands down to cradle
her bottom and pull her roughly against him.

He lifted her
away from the awkward canting of the gallery windows and propped
her on the oak rail, wedging himself boldly between her thighs,
nearly gasping himself as their two heated centers came together.
Beau’s hands pushed into the thick, shaggy mane of his hair and
kept his mouth fastened to hers even as he began to search out the
bindings of her shirt. Impatience made his efforts clumsy and he
tore the garment down the front seam; tore it and tugged it free of
her belt with a throaty growl as he dispensed with yet another
hidden knife. Belt, shirt, and knife were cast into the inky
blackness of the sea twenty feet below, the splash lost among the
other night sounds.

His eyes,
glowing like pewter in the moonlight, registered their surprise and
their pleasure. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped to fill
the cup of his hand, lush enough to draw a groan of appreciation
from his throat as he bowed his head and drew the puckered flesh
into his mouth. The stunning intimacy was too much to bear in
silence and a strained plea came from her throat, begging him not
to stop but to pull her deeper into the heat and wetness. Partially
supported by the rail, partially supported by the enormous bulge of
his erection, she flung her head back and let the moonlight bathe
her bare shoulders, let it silver the rippling power of his broad
back and show her where his mouth worked so skillfully, so
determinedly to turn her into a shivering, shuddering mass of
pleasure.