She suddenly looked at him, the gaze sidelong and lingering.
His heart slammed, because it was the gaze of a courtesan, not an eighteen-year-old orphan.
Then she pulled Gus’s shirt off.
She wore her chemise beneath it, but she might as well have worn nothing, and she was half-turned toward him, so he had everything to view that he wished to. Then his heart stopped as she removed the sodden chemise as well.
He was still.
Facing him was a perfect profile with a tiny nose and full lips, small, upthrust breasts, a slim rib cage and soft, flat tummy.
Fully aware that he was staring, she slowly lifted the nightshirt over her head. For one moment her slender bare arms were upstretched, her small breasts thrust tautly forward, her back arched, her naval visible as Gus’s pants rode lower. His resolve vanished. His clean, soft cotton gown slithered over her head and down her bosom. Then she reached under it and slid off Gus’s pants and her pantalettes, all in one motion.
Blood pounded in his groin, in his brain.
She faced him, smiling softly. “Thank you for the clean gown, Captain.” And she was walking toward him.
He was in a stupor, one of sheer lust. But even so, he wondered if he were in the midst of a dream, as this had become far too surreal. She was a seductress now, smiling softly, pausing to stand before him, naked beneath his shirt, and in spite of the terrible urgency consuming him, he knew she was up to no good.
“Did you like kissing her?” she asked. “The woman on the docks?”
“What?” he asked, giving in. He closed his hands on her waist, pulling her up against his arousal, precisely where she belonged.
She gasped, eyes flying wide.
He smiled then, savagely, and slid his hands down to her buttocks. He gripped her there, hard and possessive, pulling her snugly over him, so she rode him.
She held on to his shoulders, eyes closing, moaning deeply.
He looked at her. She had the face of an angel and he could no more deny it than he could that he was close to a terrible climax. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld, and he had thought so from the moment he had seen her standing on the deck of theAmericana,pointing a silly and useless pistol at him. Her hair had been loose, flying in the wind, and she had been both avenger and angel. Now she was nothing but soft, succulent woman, warm and wet and ripe, waiting for him to master her.
He dug his hand into her nape, wishing her hair was free, and he did what he wanted to do more than anything, other than to thrust inside her. He took her mouth with his.
She moaned again as he covered her, as he opened her, not waiting, all patience disintegrating, as he thrust huge and deep. She moaned as he rocked her back, until she was on the bed and he was on top of her, still deeply inside her mouth, trying to touch and taste every possible place. Her hands fisted in his wet hair, her thighs wrapped around his legs. He began to rub the long edge of his arousal over her sex.
She tried to tear her lips away from his mouth desperately.
Amazed, he realized she was on the verge of her climax. He released her lips and looked down at her. She gazed up at him with wild, unfocused eyes. “Oh, please,” she gasped, squirming against his shaft.
“With pleasure,” he said, and he held himself up and moved more precisely against her, once, twice, stroking her swollen flesh three times, while she clawed and scratched his back and shoulders. He stared, incapable of doing anything other than watch her every expression now, and when he saw her eyes fly open, when he saw the heat erupt in the violet depths, when she arched up, crying helplessly, the pressure became impossible to resist. The dam broke. She clung to him, sobbing unabashedly, as he spasmed as uncontrollably, as suddenly.
Her cries eased.
He lay on top of her, breathing hard, absolutely shocked. He had just committed a terrible faux pas, like the greenest of schoolboys, and his little captive had climaxed—loudly, vocally—with hardly any effort on his part.
Still stunned, but now acutely aware of the soft, limp woman beneath him, he rolled off of her, abruptly sitting up. He did not dare look at her now.
And he did not dare think.
Action.He needed action. He leapt to his feet, grabbed clean, dry clothes from the closet, and quickly stripped. His mind wanted to function, urging him desperately to do so, but with iron resolve, he refused.
Ruthlessly he blocked out every single possible thought.
Instead, he carefully focused on the task at hand. He fastened his trousers, but damn it, he could feel her gaze on him. He became even more grim, almost furious, knowing he must not look at her. But one thought finally crept in.If only he had resisted, if only he hadn’t kissed her—and helped her achieve what was probably her very first climax.
He whirled, shirtless, and their gazes collided. “Was that your first time?”
She was sitting up against the pillows, tendrils of dark hair curling about her fragile face, her eyes huge and riveted upon him. In his large nightshirt, she looked impossibly innocent. She looked like a goddamned virgin. “Wh-what?” Her cheeks were turning pink.
