“You’ll finish me fast if you keep lookin’ at me like that,” I rasp.
She don’t ease off. Every time she pulls back, it’s only to sink deeper, her lips sliding lower, till I’m damn near buried. Her hand grips the base, stroking the length in time with her mouth, each pass slicker, harder, till I’m cussing under my breath.
“God almighty,” I snarl, my hand shooting to her hair, rough, holding her steady. My hips jerk, driving me deeper, but she takes it, humming low, eyes locked on mine like she wants to see every damn second.
The obscene sound of it, breathy and slick, fills the cabin, drowning out the creak of the timbers. My thighs quake, blood roaring in my ears, every muscle strung tight enough to snap.
“Alice,” I grind out, voice ragged, “I’m close.”
But she don’t stop. She works me harder, faster, and the fire rips through me sudden and violent. A groan tears from my chest, guttural, raw, as I spill into her mouth, pulsing hard against her tongue. My body bucks, shuddering, and I hold her there, rough hand tangled in her hair.
When it’s done, I slump back in the chair, chest heaving, sweat running down my temples. She pulls off slow, lips glistening, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Rising smooth, not a word passes between us, but I reckon this was some kind of apology.
If this is how she says she’s sorry, hell, I hope she keeps finding reasons to cross me.
She dresses for bed in silence, the room warm with lamplight, and we climb in close. The thought of that Pinkerton slips clean out of my head. The law can hunt tomorrow.
Chapter 28
ALICE
“Bear?” I whisper. We’re pressed close in the narrow bunk, my back to his chest, the iron rail keeping us tucked together. The heat of his body envelopes me and soothes every raw nerve that had been frayed between Ohio and this ship. Though, there was that look. Kodiak’s momentary pause of barely contained emotion. I had meant to ask about it before he stormed out, but the question lingered.
“Yes, angel?”
“The Tafts. What they said at breakfast about children growing up without a mother’s love. It seemed to trouble you.”
He exhales deeply, weariness in the sound. “Why’d you have to bring that up now?”
I roll to face him, the lamplight faint against his handsome features, the shadow of his beard making his cheek rough. “Because I wish to know you. Truly.”
He makes a gruff sound. “Ain’t nothin’ to tell. What do you want me to say?”
“What was your life like? As a boy?”
He shrugs and offers a clipped, “I was a boy, now I ain’t.”
“Kodiak, please.” I soften my tone, careful but insistent. “Didn’t you have family? Randolph, that is your true name, is it not?”
The name. I had heard it before: Randolph, an old Virginian family. Tobacco planters and politicians. A dynasty that can be traced back to the founding fathers.
“Yeah, so what?”
“You are from Virginia, then?”
“Yeah, but it ain’t what you think. I’m from a broke line. A line of drunks and gamblers who squandered away their fortunes and good name.” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Funny thing, though. All them years sittin’ at my old man’s table, hearin’ him rant about ‘the Randolph name’ while he pissed it away…I picked up more’n I knew. How to hold a fork. How to smile polite and talk slick.”
It strikes me; the gentleman’s act he sometimes wears is not a disguise at all, but an inheritance he despises.
“And your mother?” I ask gently.
“Died birthin’ me.”
“I am so sorry.”
He shrugs, as though sympathy is wasted on him. “Never met her.” His arm shifts beneath me, restless. “Why you diggin’ up the past?”
“Because I want to understand you,” I answer simply.
