Too Sinful to Deny (22 page)

Read Too Sinful to Deny Online

Authors: Erica Ridley

Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Historical Fiction, #Smuggling, #Smugglers, #General, #Romance, #Historical, #Secrecy, #Fiction, #Love Stories

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny
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“Figured you’d ask that next.” The captain blew out another round of smoke rings. “Ollie hasn’t made his choice known. He’s a family man, so he’d have a few loose ends to tie up first. Nonetheless, he’s got the same timeframe as you.” The smoke cleared. The captain’s cold blue gaze hadn’t left Evan’s face. “Be on board in a fortnight, or miss the boat entirely. We won’t be heard from again.”
Sunday night fell as fast and as hard as the rain accompanying the twilight.
Evan had never been so happy to reach dry land. Well, if you could call the briny puddles splattered throughout the cave “dry land.” Not to mention the icy water pouring from the black clouds for miles.
He headed straight home to bathe, devilishly glad to be able to do so. This time, he hadn’t been certain he’d make it back alive.
The skies had turned stormy within moments of the captain’s announcement, and the torrents had continued throughout the weekend. Rough. Cold. Shot through with lightning. Yet it was the atmosphere belowdeck that had kept him uneasy. The men were skittish. Worried. With two dead, they had had every reason to be. The change from occasional smuggling to out-and-out piracy—well, such a turn wouldn’t lengthen anyone’s life expectancy.
After bathing, Evan dressed for warmth. It didn’t work. The thought of never avenging Timothy’s death coated his veins with ice.
The loss of his brother left an ache in Evan’s heart he was beginning to suspect would never subside. He wished for the hundredth time that he could wear a black armband without being asked questions he couldn’t answer. Like whom he was mourning. Nobody knew about Timothy yet. Would perhaps never know, if Evan couldn’t find his brother’s body. But funeral or no, he would find and dispatch the killer or die trying.
He made his way back downstairs. Forced himself to eat a hot supper. Pushed away his empty plate more slowly than usual. He glanced around his house at all the things he enjoyed taking for granted. No home cooking while the crew was at sea. Not that he’d have much of an appetite if he saw the crew killing innocents in the name of piracy. The thought once again turned his stomach.
Oh, Evan knew why he and Ollie had been “given” a choice. They were the only ones
with
choices. The other water dogs had nowhere else to go. Like it or not, they’d been enlisted the moment the captain had reevaluated his plan of operations. For them, free will was an illusion. For Evan . . . He shoved back his chair and strode out the door. There was
nothing
he valued more than free will.
Even if he seemed not to exercise much of it lately. He told himself he was headed to Moonseed Manor out of ennui. Not because of a magnetic pull he was powerless to deny. He told himself he was headed to Moonseed Manor solely to confront a certain debutante about her alleged associations with dead smugglers. Not because he missed her company. He’d never missed any particular female over any other a day in his life. So he obviously hadn’t missed sparring—and trading kisses—with Miss Stanton.
Well . . . not
much.
More like: terribly.
Once at the door, he shouldered past the jaundiced butler and went on the hunt. What had she been doing while Evan was at sea? Had that irritatingly persistent magistrate resumed his pathetic attempts to woo her? Was it possible Forrester had actually succeeded? The little toad was everything Evan was not: polite, respected, boring, pious, interested in escorting marriage-minded young ladies to insipid assemblies. In short, a true gentleman. Whereas Evan . . . Evan . . .
Smelled jasmine. Wafting down from the spiral staircase nearby. He was past the first landing before the thought occurred to him that the only rooms upstairs were bedchambers, which were precisely the sort of illicit location in which a true gentleman would never dream to hunt down a lady.
Thank God he wasn’t a gentleman.
He climbed the last stair and headed into the hall. There she was, peering down one narrow corridor after another, trying the occasional door handle and appearing generally lost.
She heard or saw or somehow sensed it was he who closed in on her, because when she whirled around to face him, her eyes were filled not with fear but pleasure. Which she quickly tried to mask. He did not bother to try and hide his own satisfaction at being alone with her once again. Just seeing her made him want to smile. And devour her in kisses.
“You came back,” she whispered.
“I couldn’t stay away,” was all he said in reply. This was not the time to launch into long explanations of cannon fire and high treason.
She stepped forward, then checked her progress. But her gaze was darkening and her breathing rapid, and Evan could no longer withstand this distance between him.
His lips covered hers, and there was no more talking.
He expected resistance. There was none. Her mouth opened beneath his, kissing, biting, tasting. She seemed as desperate for him as he was for her. So he gave her what she wanted. Took what he wanted. And still he burned for more.
“We can’t be caught kissing,” she breathed against his cheek.
“I know.”
But he didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
Then: “I meant every word. I can’t afford to make another spectacle of myself. I—”
He silenced her with more kisses. Her arms twined around his neck, tightened. Judging by the way she arched into him, Miss Stanton felt about as inclined to stop as he did. He kissed her more deeply, pulling her into his embrace.
His shoulders thumped against something hollow. A door. Vaguely, he realized that they were still in the corridor. Servants might chance upon them. They would be
Ollie’s
servants and therefore well used to keeping their mouths sewn shut, but Miss Stanton was right. They could take no more chances.
So Evan slid his hand from her hair and twisted the doorknob behind him. He caught her soft body to him as they tumbled inside. A bedchamber. Not hers, by the still air and general emptiness, but the room contained a bed, which would serve their purposes just fine.
He swung her into his arms, drowning her protests in more kisses. Well, possibly. She seemed to have forgotten to protest. Or perhaps the click of the door closing behind them gave her the same sense of relief and security, and there were no more protests to be made.
He certainly had no complaints. She was perfect. Warm and soft and sweet and eager and matching him kiss for kiss. He carried her to the bed. There was no elegant way to lay her in the center while still kissing—so he didn’t try.
Besides, no one had ever begged him for elegance. Passion, yes. And that, he was eager to provide. He backed up to the bed, determined not to remove his mouth from hers a single second longer than necessary. He eased down onto the edge of the mattress with her body in his arms, her fingers gripping his hair. He leaned backward until she was sprawled crisscross atop him. Before she could move, he rolled above her, pinning her to the bed with his gaze and mouth and body.
Her arms tightened around his neck and her breathing changed. “I haven’t a clue how that just happened. If you practice that maneuver often, please don’t tell me.”
Something in her tone was heartfelt enough that he tilted his head back to regard her. But although her words may have been serious, her eyes were smiling, and she didn’t tolerate the interrupted kisses for long. She leaned her head up to meet his, her lips parted, her lashes lowering.
He curved his hand beneath her head and kissed her, grateful she didn’t expect a response. It was true; he didn’t feel like a green boy, fumbling his way through his first sexual encounter. But nor did he feel his usual careless self, taking pleasure for pleasure’s sake with this or that wench in a seaside tavern. For one, he wasn’t drunk on whiskey and treason. For two, Miss Stanton was the complete opposite of
anyone
he had ever lain with. And for three, he could scarce treat her or the moment carelessly because, well . . . he did care. Immensely.
The horrifying thought might’ve given him pause had Evan not immediately and forcefully put it from his mind.
The only thought drowning his brain was to keep kissing her. Touching her. He jerked the comb from her hair, ran his fingers through its softness. The blond mass fell to her breasts. Her beautiful, tempting breasts. He ran the palm of his hand along the curve of her neck, her shoulder, her arm, irritated that every inch of her body was covered in layer upon layer of cloth, from her toes to her fingertips.
He could no longer withstand the need to have at least part of her jasmine-scented flesh exposed to his eyes, his mouth, his tongue. He slipped a finger between sleeve and glove and pulled. Neither budged.
She looped her arms around his neck, allowing their desperate kisses to continue as one bit of silk after the other fluttered to the floor beside them. He tugged one of her now-bare hands forward and brought it to his lips. He kissed each fingertip, the lines of her palm, the frantic pulse pounding at her wrist.
He decided he hated long sleeves. Perhaps clothing in general. He wished neither of them were encumbered by winter layers. Particularly those that would require ten minutes unhooking tiny buttons before the bodice would loosen. His heart would expire before he finished.
Assuming she let him try.
Then again, she was returning every kiss, every lick, every nibble. She certainly hadn’t been asleep when they’d tumbled into the room, closed the door, and made their way to the bed. She had been the first to start tossing unwanted articles of clothing overboard. In fact, so far she was the only one to have done so. Evan hoped to rectify that immediately. Now that they were alone and abed, he had no wish to remain properly dressed.
He kissed the hollow in her neck, the line of her jaw. His hand cradled the side of her face as their tongues clashed. Then he slid his palm down to her neck, her collarbone, her bodice. Blood pounded in his ears. He splayed his fingers over one perfect breast. Hidden beneath a thousand maddening layers of cloth.
She gasped beneath his mouth but arched into him as if she, too, resented the obstructions preventing his flesh from touching hers. He imagined he could feel her nipple hardening, rising to greet him through the soft linen of her stays. He stroked the phantom nub gently with the pads of his fingers. No, not imagining. She moaned, arching higher. His cock strained against his breeches.
He dragged his mouth from hers, burning a trail of kisses down the line of her neck, the muslin covering her décolletage, to the round breast cupped in his palm. He opened his mouth over that hard little nipple and laved with his tongue. Damp, the fabric molded to her skin, accentuating the nipple’s arousal.
Her fingers gripped his hair, pressing his face into her breast.
Without removing his mouth—he would die first—he reached lower, gathered a handful of skirt in his fist, and pulled. Inch by inch, the rising hem exposed the tops of her boots, the curve of her ankle, her slender legs. He couldn’t watch, but his bare palm informed him of every detail. The silken smoothness of her stockings, the heat of her skin, the slight shiver as both cool air and his warm fingers touched the exposed flesh of her thigh.
“I—” she gasped.
He returned his mouth to hers and swallowed whatever she’d been about to say with the passion in his kiss. He stroked her hips, the inside of her thighs, just above the apex between, everywhere but the one place he was dying to touch. He needed her to want it, too.
And she did. The scent of her desire drove him half mad. Her body writhed beneath him, her hips trying to coax his fingers to quit teasing, to give her release.
With his mouth still mating with hers, he finally lowered his hand, cupping her. Ran the length of his fingers against her slick flesh. She moaned again, bit his lip. He dipped the tip of one finger inside, loving the hot wetness, the contraction of her muscles. He slid his newly moistened finger barely free, just enough to stroke her, to stoke her fire.
Her gasps came louder, faster. She forgot she’d been kissing him. Her head fell back against the mattress and her eyes fluttered closed. He rubbed, teased, dipped the tip of his finger back inside, stroked her in soft circles. Faster. Slower. Deeper inside. Back for more caresses. She was so hot, so wet, so ready, so—
She bucked beneath him, and he sank a finger inside, rubbing simultaneously with the pad of his thumb. She convulsed, gripped his shoulders, sucked in shallow, shuddering breaths.
He kissed her, caressed her until she collapsed boneless beneath him, then finally, finally, allowed his damp and trembling fingers to fumble at the buttons of his fall. His cock strained, pulled, demanded to sink itself to the hilt in all that sweet wetness. There. At last. His cock was free from its restraints, pulsing hot and hard in Evan’s palm.
He couldn’t wait another moment . . . but he had to do this right. For both of them.
“I want you,” he said between kisses. His voice was raw, hoarse. She nipped at his lips. “I need to feel you beneath me, part of me. Every moment I spent away from you, I was haunted by the scent of your skin and the feel of your tongue against mine.” She licked him, her eyes slumberous and teasing. He smiled back, a man lost. Helpless. “You’ve bewitched me. And I am desperate for more.” His fingers squeezed his overeager cock, which ached to be inside her. “There is nothing I want more than to make love to you. If you’ve even the smallest of doubts . . . tell me now, or I won’t stop until I’m buried inside you and we’re panting in pleasure, again and again.” His cock lurched in approval. “Tell me you want that, too.”

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