OCEAN. That vast collection of salt and navigable waters in which the two continents are enclosed like islands.
—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine
T
avy clung to Ben’s shoulders. Her whole body tingled, encompassed in his warm embrace, swimming in murky near-pleasure as she focused on the spot where he pressed inside her. It hurt a bit, but then she shifted her hips some and it started to feel good too, strange and stretched, and astounding and wonderful.
Then—abruptly—wrenchingly painful.
Ben’s palm trapped her scream.
“Dear God,” he uttered. His body went still as stone. But Tavy’s was softening already, heat gathering around his presence within her, the delicious throbbing beginning again, but even deeper and hotter than before. She dropped her head and shoulders back, and his hand fell away from her mouth. He felt good inside her. Not strange any longer. Instead, perfect.
Then there seemed to be much less of him there.
“No! Don’t go. Stop!” she exclaimed, locking her legs about his hips and gripping his shoulders.
The sinews in his neck stood out, his arms and chest muscles taut as he held himself immobile atop her.
“I could not stop now if I wished it,” he replied quite convincingly, his jaw gorgeously tight and eyes entirely black.
“Then why aren’t you moving?”
“Because, Octavia,” his deep voice sounded strained, “your exquisite thighs have me in a death grip.”
“Oh.” She loosened her knees.
“Ohhh.”
He sank into her, full and deep, and she moaned and at the same moment a sound of pleasure so profound came from his chest that she knew he told the truth about not being able to stop. He drew out almost completely then stroked in again, slowly. Then he did it again. And again, until she sighed with the sheer brilliance of it, understanding the rhythm and creating it with him.
Then, quite suddenly, there was no understanding. No thought. No intentionality. Only pleasure and intense need and a coiling ache so profound it seized her whole, lifting her and wrapping around her, them, so that they seemed one. She gripped him with her hands and, deliciously, inside. He took her hard and deep, deeper each time, caressing so far within it tickled and hurt and filled her up until she was thoroughly open, drowning in his driving thrusts. With her voice she begged him for more, words without shape, their skin sliding smooth and slick as they made passion. She sought him and he gave her his powerful body, kissing her mouth, caressing her breasts, blinding her with the frenzy of their intertwined need.
Desperate, she rose to him and he grabbed her hips, trapping her against the mattress, uttering urgently against her neck an oath in Hindi, then astoundingly tender,
“Madhuraa.”
Sweet one.
She came in a chaos of completion, repeating his name. It was an ecstasy so brilliant, so thorough and continuous, that as she took his release deep within her, she wept.
But only for a very brief moment.
Dragging air into her lungs, Tavy let her hands and knees slide away from him and turned her cheek to the mattress. She was ruined. A maiden no longer. Unfit to wed now. Ravished by the very man who had broken her heart.
Her lips split into an enormous smile. Never in her life of chasing adventures had she enjoyed one so utterly superb.
The co-architect of her ruination moved from between her legs to sit upon the edge of the bed. He rubbed a hand across his face, his head bent. His skin glistened with moisture, his tawny strength magnificent in the firelight. Tavy stared, and her breathing puttered.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said quietly.
She shifted onto her side and pulled her knees up to her chest, languorous warmth curling through her.
“I didn’t think you would do it if you knew. And you did not ask.”
He turned to face her, his brow serious. His gaze scanned her whole body, lingering on her lips then rising to her eyes.
“Thank you for giving me that honor.”
It was not what she expected him to say. And she could not respond with the truth, that she might very well have gone to the grave a virgin if he had not taken the honor.
For a long moment he continued watching her. Then he touched her ankle, smoothed his palm along her leg and leaned in to kiss her. His mouth was gentle, not like before but like the very first time he had ever kissed her. She wove her fingers through the short locks at the back of his neck. But she needed to touch him more, always, and she slipped her hand along his shoulders and back, and discovered again the scars.
She sat up and curled around him, her fingers going ahead. He remained still, allowing her exploration. Her breath stole out in rivulets. Across the center of his back, three rough, umber welts stretched, each a foot in length, two crisscrossing, the third dipping lower. They looked like the whip-marks one sometimes saw upon slaves in India. But Benjirou Doreé had always been a prince in that land.
“How did you come by these?”
He drew away and lay back onto the mattress.
“English schoolboys can occasionally be astounding brutes,” he murmured.
Tavy’s nostrils flared, her heartbeat suddenly fast again.
“What did your brothers do to the boys, to punish them?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes widened.
“Nothing?”
“They never knew.”
“You never—” She needn’t finish. Clearly he had never told them.
She stared at him—at the handsome man who must have been a beautiful boy, at his graceful hands that played so lyrically surmounted by the fearsome fanged tiger, at his sensitive mouth and fathomless eyes like the deepest secrets of the continent where he had been born—and awe and sorrow crept into her heart so steadily she ceased breathing to allow them room.
She laid her cheek upon his chest, her hand on his waist. Soon, it seemed, he slept. But Tavy, her heart stalled, remained awake for a long time, feeling his breathing and the even rhythm of his heart and suspecting that she had just made the greatest mistake of her life.
S
he awoke alone in his big bed, on her side, linens tucked about her. Embers in the hearth touched the darkness with the faintest glow. Her gown and underclothes hung on the back of a chair.
She drew her hands from beneath her cheek and pushed up to sit, scanning the chamber. But he was behind her. She could feel his gaze upon her like a touch.
She looked over her shoulder. He sat by the curtained window, garbed in a dark dressing gown. Locks of satiny black hair fell over his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks defined by the dim light. As always, he was watching her.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Her throat was dry and her voice sounded scratchy.
“I am engaged in a much more satisfying activity.”
“Watching me sleep? That is ridiculous.”
His delicious lips curved into a half smile. He stood and the dressing gown parted, the silk sliding over his glorious physique as he moved to the bed. Tavy drew in a quick, silent breath as he sat down beside her. The bedsheet had fallen to her waist. She knew it made her a goosecap at this point, but she felt exposed. He took her hand and stroked her palm with the pad of his thumb, and her nerves dissolved, replaced by another sensation entirely.
“It is nearly dawn.” His voice remained quiet, enveloped in the dark.
“I do not see a clock.”
“I do not require a clock.”
“Why? Are you one of Lord Byron’s vampyres?”
“Merchant ships depart early. I am often at the docks by this hour.” His eyes glinted. “But if you prefer creatures of the night, I could look into it.”
“Thank you, but that will not be necessary.” She smiled, tingles besetting her belly, then—as his warm gaze dipped to her mouth—somewhat lower.
“The servants will soon be abroad.” He did not move, nor did his gaze shift.
“Then I should dress and go.” She threaded her fingers through his, bringing them palm-to-palm.
“Yes.” His voice sounded quite low.
“But perhaps,” she whispered, “you could kiss me first.”
“I think that would be unwise. There isn’t time.”
“For a kiss?”
He lifted his gaze to hers. “Octavia, you are naked in my bed. I cannot simply kiss you and leave it at that.”
For a moment she struggled for air.
She threw her arms about his neck, pressed her open mouth to his and let him bear her back into the mattress. Their mouths locked, Ben pushed the linens away and dragged her hips beneath his while she tore the dressing gown from his shoulders. Arms free, he banded them about her and his tongue swept between her lips. She twined her legs about him and reached between them, a wanton since the moment he first kissed her, for his touch alone. Her fingers wrapped around his spectacularly firm and silky man part.
He groaned, broke the kiss, and grabbed her hand.
“No.” His voice was husky. “We cannot do this.”
She shifted her needy flesh against his knuckles. “We can be quick. In fact I rather think I cannot be otherwise.” The hot tension was already coiling inside her from his hand brushing the place where she was wonderfully sore.
His perfect lips hovered over hers for an instant. Then he released her and pulled away, off the bed. He drew on his dressing gown, tying the sash about his waist.
“Discovery is not the only consequence of concern here.” He moved to the chair by the fireplace and withdrew her garments.
Tavy stared, uncovered and cold, her stomach sinking and pleasure dying to ash.
“What other consequence could there be?” She managed a credibly even tone.
“Come now.” He laid her clothing upon the bed beside her. “Do not tell me that Imene Stack failed to educate her niece in all matters pertaining to adulthood.”
Tavy fought to clear the hard lump from her throat. He sounded unlike him. She’d heard desire, laughter, anger, and scorn in his rich voice before. But never bitterness.
“Forgive me for stating the obvious,” she did not touch her clothes, “but isn’t it a bit late to be anxious on that particular account?”
His eyes were unreadable. “It is never too late for caution, and I should have taken greater care last night.”
He could not have spoken words more surely calculated to devastate her. And she had been a much greater fool than she even anticipated. Tavy pressed down on the pain, years of practice at damping her unruly emotions coming to her aid. She reached for her shift.
“I will need assistance with my corset and gown, if you will.” He had made short work of removing them the night before. She had no doubt he possessed sufficient experience with the opposite.
She tugged the chemise over her head and stood to don the rest. Settling the stays about her ribs, she turned her back to him. His fingers brushed hers as he laced. Before she could reach for the gown, he took it up and helped her into it as handily as any lady’s maid, except that his height made it a great deal easier. Tavy’s stomach hurt. Everything inside her hurt.
His hands stilled upon the fasteners, moved to her shoulders, and he drew her back against his chest. He inhaled deeply and she steeled herself against the swell of warmth within her. It was not real.
Gently he gathered her hair and pulled it aside, his breath tender upon her neck.
“Why did you ask me about Constance last night?”
“She is my friend. I did not wish to betray her.”
He was silent a moment. “And yet—before—you had no qualms about your fiancée.”
Tavy held her breath. He needn’t know about the sham quality of the betrothal. It would only shame Marcus, and it would make no difference to Ben. He wanted her, but he would not have her for more than temporary enjoyment. Just as before. He had now made that perfectly clear once more.
He stepped back, leaving her cold again.
“Tell Crispin that you will marry him.”
She pivoted around.
“What?”
“Tell him your acceptance is conditional upon him divulging to you the blackmailer’s name and purpose. Then, when he gives you that information, tell me.”
She choked down her rising gorge. This could not be happening.
“You are who I thought. You are your uncle’s heir.”
He did not respond, his sober regard never wavering. Gone entirely was the tender man who had watched her while she slept.
“You would do anything to accomplish what you must, wouldn’t you?”
For a moment he did not reply. Then he nodded. They stared at each other, Tavy’s heartbeat labored.
Ben moved close again, lifted her chin with his fingertips and placed a soft, perfect kiss upon her lips. Then another, this time lingering. Perhaps a last kiss, but when he drew away his eyes were warm, gentle once more. Another of his pretenses, or truth, she had no idea.