Scoundrel - The Blades Of The Rose Part 20

"No touching," she breathed. "Not until I say."

She thought she heard Bennett's teeth grind against each other. But he did not try to touch her again. Instead, he nearly set her aflame with his gaze as he panted like a man who'd run up a mountain. His hands gripped the woolen blanket, knuckles whitening.

Power, the likes of which London never knew, filled her. She felt mighty and female. Eve and Lilith and Isis and Aphrodite and Lakshmi. All her.

Confident that he would do as she commanded, London resumed her exploration of her body. Just under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her skin was tight and sensitive, and she felt the narrowing of her waist, then the flare of her hips. She had not Athena's abundant curves, but that didn't trouble her, because she was herself and she was enough. Her belly was soft and feminine, a woman's belly. And when she touched herself through the chemise, touched her p.u.s.s.y, as Bennett called it, ripples of pleasure cascaded through her, ever widening. She gasped.

"I can't-" he growled. "Have to-"

Instead of trying to touch her, Bennett ripped open his trousers. His erection was straight, full and gorgeous. He stroked himself, his large hand on his own flesh. For a few moments, their eyes were locked as they each touched themselves. Seeing how aroused he was, that she she had done that, worn away at this man's control until he was forced to pleasure himself, made London lose the fragile hold on her own desire. She tugged off her chemise. had done that, worn away at this man's control until he was forced to pleasure himself, made London lose the fragile hold on her own desire. She tugged off her chemise.

She stood before him, naked. The only man to ever see her thus.

"Touch me now," she gasped. "Touch me everywhere."

His trousers disappeared in moments. Now as nude as she, he swept her up in his arms and lay her down upon the bunk. He stretched out beside her, lean and hard, and they kissed with open mouths, breathing each other in, eating each other up. Against her thigh, she felt the rigid thickness of his p.e.n.i.s, nudging her, leaving small slick trails of fluid on her skin. She'd touched him before through his clothing, but now she took him in her hand and reveled in the feel of him, the energy and life in him, and how, as she stroked him, he groaned into her mouth with the sounds of a man in ultimate rapture.

"You feel so good on my c.o.c.k," he growled.

"p.u.s.s.y, c.o.c.k," she whispered with a laugh. "You will ruin my vocabulary."

"That's not all I'll ruin. Say it again."

"What?" she asked, feigning coyness. "c.o.c.k?" As she said this, she stroked him, hard, giving her hand a little twist. "p.u.s.s.y?" She did it again. His hips surged.

"What a delightful strumpet you are," he said, though his words were guttural, hardly words at all.

"I learn from the master."

"Oh, no," he said with a wolfish grin. "This is all you, my love. So is this." His fingers dipped into her p.u.s.s.y, and she writhed. "Mm. Very small, very tight."

A frisson of worry. "Too tight?"

"No such thing." He moved over her, positioning himself between her legs, his c.o.c.k at her entrance. He circled her, coating himself in her wetness, then, with her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, her whole body vibrating with need, he sank into her.

She arched up with a cry. He stretched her, filled her, almost to bursting, but it felt so good.

"See?" he panted. "Perfect fit."

London couldn't have answered him if she tried. Words were gone. Self was gone. Everything was pleasure. And when he started to move, sliding in deeper, then pulling back with an exquisite drag, London felt her body dissolve, while at the same time she was all body, all sensation.

They moved together, learning angles and rhythm. She raised to meet his thrusts, pressing her heels into the small of his back, locking her ankles together so she clasped him to her, as if he might get up and leave. The only place he seemed to want to be was inside her, as far within her as possible.

Soon, they rocked together, hardly drawing apart. Even those seconds when he slid back for another thrust were too long to bear. His skin was sweat-slick, the cords of his neck tight, ecstasy carving his face into hollows. She loved to watch him feel his pleasure, for he gave himself to it utterly. As she did.

He s.h.i.+fted his position, so that, with each plunge into her, his hips rubbed her swollen, pulsing flesh. And all at once, she was lost. The o.r.g.a.s.m hit her with the force of tempest. Everything contracted, then exploded with release, and a sound came from her she'd never heard before, a primitive cry issuing from the depths of herself, low and throaty.

Then he was gone, stiffening, groaning. On and on. London, in the after haze of her own climax, could only dimly marvel at the duration of his o.r.g.a.s.m. He, too, seemed surprised, for when it was finally over, he collapsed on top of her with a startled laugh.

"I was very naughty," she said when at last she could form words. "I broke the rules."

He raised a questioning brow.

"I didn't wait for you to say I could come," London said.

He laughed once more. It was something he did easily. "Then we'll just have to do it all over again, bad girl."

She kissed him, then said with a smile, "Oh, I like being bad."

Bennett spent most of his life avoiding expectations. They only led to disappointment, bitterness. Whenever he traveled, he kept his mind open to all possibilities, expecting nothing, glad for every and all eventuality. The same with people. He kept his expectations to a minimum, especially when it came to women. He made no demands on his lovers-other than what he exacted of them in bed, and they were eager to comply-and was happy to receive whatever was given. Everything was a gift.

But he was human, after all, and a man, so expectations were inevitable, despite his precautions. He did have certain preconceived ideas about certain paramours, and sometimes those ideas fell short while other times, he felt himself generously rewarded. A wonderful, unexpected treasure.

Yet, in his over sixteen years of s.e.xual experience, he'd never, not once, had every single one of his expectations completely and utterly decimated as they had been this night with London Harcourt.

As they lay in the narrow bunk, twined together, suspended in the honey of afterglow, Bennett marveled. He'd had his suspicions, of course. He'd known, even in the marketplace at Monastiraki, that a pa.s.sionate woman dwelt beneath the precise tailoring of her exterior. He'd seen the barely banked fires in her dark chocolate eyes. The kisses they had shared told him much the same. Here was a woman who, when given the chance, would burn down the world with the heat of herself. Taking her to bed would be an extraordinary privilege, a peerless, carnal delight.

Even that was nothing compared to the reality. Bennett was struck, awed by her. Her fearlessness. Her hunger. To see her grow and evolve before his very eyes into a woman who commanded the universe, itself.

This is what it's like to see a galaxy born, he thought. Stars and planets and life, life everywhere, filling the sky with brilliance. What could anyone do but marvel.

An unaccustomed humbleness settled over him, that he, of all men, should be witness to her evolution, that he may have even had a hand in it. h.e.l.l. If he'd known that a lifetime of dubious behavior would net him such honor, he would have started his transgressions a good deal sooner. Say, shortly after birth. He could have crawled to the neighbor's place and seduced their teenaged daughters, clad only in a nappy and a smile.

"What are you laughing about?" London asked drowsily.

"Childhood memory."

"Something scandalous, no doubt."

She snuggled closer, and he tightened his hold on her. She felt so d.a.m.ned good in his arms. Then he realized something.

"You didn't bite me," he said.

She laughed, and he felt the thrum of her laughter throughout his body. "Last night, I was trying to be quiet. Tonight, I forgot to be quiet. I'm sure everyone heard me." Yet she didn't sound particularly upset by the idea.

"I like that I can make you forget yourself." Made him feel like a t.i.tan, actually.

"I am entirely forgotten." She leaned closer and nipped his shoulder. "There. That should satisfy you."

"Never satisfied."

He kissed her, first her mouth, then along her jaw and onto the tender column of her neck. Under his lips, her pulse throbbed like music.

She asked, "Have you ever been in love?"

His kisses stopped. "All the time."

She pulled back a little to look him in the eyes. "I mean really really in love." in love."

"The answer's still yes."

"What happened? Did things not work out between you two?"

"More than two, sweetheart," he said, smiling. When she frowned in puzzlement, he explained, "I love every woman I'm with. Some of them I don't even take to bed."

"But that isn't real real love," she protested. love," she protested.

"Why not? There's no book that contains the one true definition of love, or, if there is, I sure as h.e.l.l haven't read it." He started to kiss her again, both as a distraction and because he needed to.

Yet she was not readily distracted. "Can it be love if you feel that way for more than one woman? Love is for just one person, someone special. Or, at least," she said quickly, as if correcting herself, "that's what I have heard."

Resigned now to the conversation, he said, "Every woman is special." She snorted in disbelief, so he continued, "That's not some scoundrel's patter. It's true. There's something to love in each woman. So I do."

"You love me, too?" she said, dry.

"Oh, most definitely," he said readily, without hesitation. "I do love you, London."

She gave a faint, melancholy smile. "I thought that when I finally heard those words, it would mean something."

A hot rush of anger struck him, surprising him with its speed and intensity. "It does does mean something, d.a.m.n it. Or you think so low of me that you'd just toss away my words like tin trinkets." mean something, d.a.m.n it. Or you think so low of me that you'd just toss away my words like tin trinkets."

She looked down, contrite. "I'm sorry, Bennett." She ran her hands across his shoulders, down his arms, to link their fingers together. "That is not what I meant. I do value what you say, what you feel. Yet, there's a part of me that still believes love can only exist between two people. Maybe three, if they are exceptionally broad-minded," she added with a smile.

His anger ebbed, but he still felt its effect, or, more specifically, his shock that her dismissal of him could cause such a quick and painful wound. To distract himself, he ran his lips back and forth across the silk of her hair. The scent of the ocean clung to her, fresh and cool.

"I've never been in love," London said on a sigh. "I thought I would grow to love Lawrence, but it never happened."

Bennett, who usually did not mind his lovers talking of past affairs, found himself knotted up with a strange emotion to hear London speak of her dead husband. A tight clenching throughout his body. More anger. It took a moment for him to recognize what it was. Jealousy.

Good Christ, what was happening to him?

"There are so many words for love," she said quietly. "Liefde, amour, die Liebe. Greek has so many words. Greek has so many words. Agape, philia, eros. Agape, philia, eros. They all mean something different. So perhaps there is no one definition of love. But I know what I want it to be for myself." They all mean something different. So perhaps there is no one definition of love. But I know what I want it to be for myself."

It was dangerous territory, the land of expectations that Bennett so scrupulously avoided-if a man such as himself could possess scruples. Yet he needed to know, for reasons he couldn't figure, everything that was inside of her. "How'd you come by this concept?"

"I didn't learn it at home," she said. "Not between my parents. They were business partners, or rather, my father ran the company and my mother was a fairly valued employee, but nothing more than that. Certainly, there wasn't love between Lawrence and me. And what the girls I knew spoke of when they talked of sweethearts seemed to be childish infatuation. Not real real love. In the world in which I lived, it didn't seem to exist." love. In the world in which I lived, it didn't seem to exist."

"So you invented something, an idea."

"I suppose I did," she murmured, trailing her fingers up and down his chest. Her touch lit tiny fires, like a signal from one camp to another, pa.s.sing along the message of desire. "Based it on all the ancient love poems and epic tales that I'd been reading ever since I was a child. I would read of heroes and G.o.ddesses, or even ordinary people, falling in love, how it was described, how they felt. And I wanted that."

She grew pensive, far off. "I thought, 'When I am with the man I love," she said, her voice thoughtful and low, "'everything else' will disappear. I'll see only him. He will be the person I want to share everything with. If I am walking alone and I see something beautiful, like a wildflower poking up from the pavement, or something ridiculous, like a monkey in a hat, I will rush to tell him these things. And in the dark of night, he alone is who I will want beside me, and I'll listen to him breathe in sleep and I shall put my hand upon him and hope he dreams of me, for I couldn't bear even a moment apart from him.'"

She turned sparkling eyes to Bennett. "Even now, after my marriage, after everything, I want these things. Foolish of me."

When he tried to speak, a hoa.r.s.e rasp came out. He turned away to clear his throat. "I think," he said when he could trust himself not to croak like a bullfrog, "that nothing's foolish where the heart's concerned. You want what you want, and n.o.body can slight you for it. But, London," and here he tipped up her chin so their eyes met and there could be no mistaking what he was about to say, "I can't love you the way that you want."

"You don't know that," she said at once.

He kept his voice level. "I do know. I've known it my whole life. I can give affection, desire, pleasure. These things are, to me, love. But the kind of love you're asking for, it's not possible, not from me. I can't bind myself forever to one woman, and I don't want her binding herself to me." He placed a kiss, one after the other, upon her temples, the softest of touches of mouth to flesh. "And to think otherwise is only going to hurt us both."

"Should we stop this, then? This...whatever it is between us."

The idea caused a twist, low in his gut, as though a knife slid into him. They'd both crawled through fire to reach each other, to bring their bodies and hearts together. He felt as though he had died and been reborn many times just to experience the ecstasy of London as his lover. And now, he was to give her up? Impossible. "I won't stop." He couldn't.

"Me, either." She nestled close to him as he let go of the breath he'd been holding. "So, there will be no demands for something that cannot be given. I'd rather have now, in whatever form it takes."

He stroked her hair, feeling its softness between his fingers. "We'll have our now."

"Maybe, one day, it will happen for me with someone," London mused aloud. "I would like that. I want to experience my kind of love at least once before I die."

He thought about that man, the unnamed, faceless man who would, someday, receive beautiful, pa.s.sionate, and brave London's love and would be able to reciprocate it as she needed. Who would be everything in her eyes. Who would hear her stories of sidewalk wildflowers and monkeys in haberdashery. Who slept beside her and dreamt of her because she touched him to be near him always. Bennett hated that man.

Chapter 12.

A Dangerous Strait Tacitly, everyone agreed not to examine the mirror until the morning. Before dawn, Stathis and his sons had loosened the lines between the two caiques, then, with promises of a future reunion, sailed off to make their catch.

London heard Athena and Kallas arguing below deck. Something about her resting more, which the witch refused to do.

"It never seems to stop with them," London murmured, "the arguments."

"Surely that doesn't surprise you," said Bennett.

She rolled her eyes. "I do do know how anger and l.u.s.t fuel one another." When he raised a brow at her, she explained, "It was like that, sometimes, with Lawrence and me. We'd fight about something I did to the house or an aspect of my behavior that he disliked, and I would get angry that he'd make demands but was hardly around, so why should it matter if I went riding by myself or expanded the library." She waved away the memories of those rows. know how anger and l.u.s.t fuel one another." When he raised a brow at her, she explained, "It was like that, sometimes, with Lawrence and me. We'd fight about something I did to the house or an aspect of my behavior that he disliked, and I would get angry that he'd make demands but was hardly around, so why should it matter if I went riding by myself or expanded the library." She waved away the memories of those rows.

"The best part of those arguments," she continued, "was what happened afterward. The lights were off, of course," she added with a blush, "but things became a good deal less...routine." That pa.s.sion between them never lasted, though. Only in the heat of wrath did London and her late husband find any form of desire between them. And the pleasure they'd achieved had been selfish, each clawing toward gratification, using the other's body as a means of attaining climax. She never felt truly fulfilled after such encounters. Only more alone.

"So you understand what goes on between Kallas and Athena," Bennett said with a scowl. Interesting. He did not strike London as the sort of man who even comprehended jealousy, let alone felt it. Surely, London had to be mistaken in her interpretation.

"It seems that there is more to what is happening between our captain and our witch than mere desire," London said. "Affection, perhaps."

"Our witch has got a new fancy," Bennett allowed. He watched the wind in the sails, noting its direction. "But nothing lasts. She moves on."

"Like you," London said softly.

He gazed at her steadily. "Like me."

"There's freedom in that." She would not frustrate herself, grasping at what could not be. "To unloose the pa.s.sions and let them run where they will with no fear of tomorrow."