The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(38)
Damn. The problem was that he was incapable of everything that entailed.
They barely knew each other and yet they were a perfect fit. That knowledge posed a greater risk to both of them because his ultimate desire was to kill her brother, her flesh and blood, before Carnage came for Chloe.
Walsingham instantly stilled. “We can’t do this.”
“Please.” Her voice cracked with desire, crushing his restraint. “Don’t stop.”
No. He couldn’t abandon her now, he thought, as he studied her swollen lips, her flushed face, and the bright flare of desire radiating from her eyes. Only a devil teased and then yanked temptation away.
He’d come to the inn determined to fulfill a promise to his sister. If he’d stayed away, allowing Girard and O’Malley to continue to be his eyes and ears, Oriana wouldn’t be in danger of losing her heart.
He was destined for violence, not the peace a woman like Oriana needed. The unbearable truth was that he couldn’t offer respectability when he had no name to give her.
“John?” Her delicate finger traced a path along his jaw, leaving a trail of heat behind that seared his soul. “Come back to me.”
He could think of nothing better than spending the last of his days with this temptress, but she was worth more than a tryst in the middle of the night. Only honesty could give her what she needed. But he was a dishonest man, by necessity and by choice, and he knew that she’d hate him forever for it.
The muscles in his jaw twitched as he struggled to regain control. “Oriana, I cannot give you all you need, but I can give you this . . .”
He stroked her sensitive nub. Her lips parted as she rose to meet him, rocking against his slick, advancing fingers. “Yes.”
He penetrated her deeper and deeper, luxuriating in the feel of her tight sheath clenching around him. The wind howled against the windowpane, enhancing the sense of isolation the two of them shared in the small, candlelit room.
Her breaths were coming in long, surrendering moans as light flickered over her skin. “John.”
The deep, soul-drenching gasps that followed undid him, and he covered her mouth with his, driving her over the edge until she rode wave after wave of pleasure.
As she bucked and clawed at his back, a connection fused between them, one he’d take to his grave. And as the mantel clock chimed the hour—a solemn, melodic tune—Walsingham held Oriana’s quivering form until she drifted off to sleep.
What had he done? He hadn’t intended for this to happen. And the truth of his feelings endangered them all unless John Hunt found a way to disappear.
Eleven
PREVENTATIVE officers are circulating a report from WITNESSES that the BLACK REGENT sank the TRITON between BEACHY HEAD and SALSEY BILL. Efforts are UNDER WAY at the BOARD OF EXCISE and ADMIRALTY to cypher the TRUTH. Lady O and Lady U are not CONVINCED this is the work of the REGENT.
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 6 October 1809
The cock crowed once, twice, thrice.
Oriana opened her sleepy eyes and released a contented sigh. Shocking, decadent memories flooded her mind, reminding her of the intimacy she’d shared with John only hours before. Or had that merely been another dream? Could she even have imagined a dream so vivid and sinfully divine?
She stretched her tired limbs and immediately knew that what she’d experienced with John had been real. She felt absolutely wicked and wonderful for the first time in her life, happy to lie languidly under the covers instead of rising to face the never-ending swirl of tasks awaiting her attention.
She glanced at the tapestry-covered window. The wall hanging nearly held back the dawn, making her wonder at the time. It wasn’t a perfect solution to protecting the room from drafts, but it was necessary. Fibers in the cloth had thinned in several places, allowing for an orange-golden glow to radiate through the intricate patterns in the needlework. Light escaped through these thinner batches of cobwebbed stitches, shooting sunlight onto the drab, gray cob walls and reminding her that she had much to accomplish before the day was over. And then there was John . . . She was trying not to get her hopes up that anything more could happen between them than what already had.
Oriana covered her eyes and moaned. What would she say to John after surrendering her body to his talented fingers? Had she really been that bold? Had she truly allowed John to touch her in places other men had only dared to attempt?
She wasn’t a fool. She knew John was just passing through. Permanence wasn’t what she was seeking, not when Charles would surely take her life. If not before discovering she’d used his gold to help the poor, he’d certainly do so after. And yet, the very idea of waking up every morning next to a man whom she made love to all night sent fire scorching through her veins.
She lowered her hands until they skimmed the shape of her breasts and moved them lower still to that innermost place between her legs where John’s exploring fingers had filled her with intoxicating liquid fire, then released a weighty moan.
Saints preserve me, I will never forget!
His touch. Her impatience. His kiss. Her release.
Guilt, anger, and a hunger for more inundated her. Was she as wanton a woman as those who made a living selling their bodies?
“Oh, I am undone.” Fighting back a burning heat, she glanced about the room, knowing she could no longer live without the calamitous pleasure John had shown her. Life would never be the same.