Authors: Laura Kinsale
Olympia stared at him, at his shoulders and hands, at his dark hair and Satan's brows and the strong line of his jaw and throat. She pressed her hands over her face. "Oh, why?" she moaned. "Why
you?
I hate you."
"Thank you. I'm flattered. I suppose I can assume it's my fashionable air and speaking eyes that are so irresistible."
"I
hate
you," she wailed, hugging her knees and burying her face in the fur to escape his knowing look and the truth—which was that she could not see him, or think of him, without watching the masculine power and grace of his movements or imagining the weight and feel of him against her. She'd been months with Captain Fitzhugh and never experienced the slightest desire to be nearer to him than a respectable teatime distance. With Sheridan, she burned with it—worse now than before. "Why did you have to bring this up?" she demanded miserably. "Why couldn't we have gone on as we were?"
He sat up, turning on her fiercely. "Oh, forgive me, Miss Innocence, but it wasn't me who started fondling you in your sleep! You've been making your naive sheep's eyes at me since the day we met, and I've about reached the end of my rope." He jerked his head. "You've had me living on top of this particular volcano long enough, damn you. You touch me like that again and I'll show you how to deal with the problem—and there won't be any babe, either, because I can manage that well enough, too."
Olympia held the fur over her mouth. She met his intense gaze, feeling her heart pound until her ears were full of the sound, until faintness hovered at the edge of her vision. Her body ached for him.
"Can you?" she whispered through the dimness.
His face changed. The violence faded away into a sudden, silent watchfulness. He looked into her eyes and said, "Yes."
She couldn't seem to get her breath. "Then…"
The word trailed off. The tussock grass above rustled, casting dancing dots of sunlight.
"What do you want?" he said very softly.
She closed her eyes. She could feel him next to her, even blind. Her hand slid from her knees. She looked down and spread her palm on the ground between them, a bare inch from his fist.
He was utterly still. "You give me the right to touch you."
It was a statement and a question. Olympia bit her lip. She thought of the dream, the dragon in the night, beautiful and terrible and strange,
I'm a man,
it said.
I want you
.
"Yes," she whispered, and reached for his hand. "Yes."
Good God," Sheridan muttered, seized with a sudden doubt.
It had been a joke, this teasing: petty revenge for her cutting remarks and low opinion of him. The last thing he'd expected was acquiescence. Not in this.
From the start of their sojourn, he'd resigned himself to endless tantalizing torture because there was no other rational choice. And well he'd known that she was struggling with her own demons; he'd seen the way she looked at him in the firelight. But he'd kept the barriers in place, tolerating her hatred because it was the strongest.
Now, suddenly, it wasn't there.
He should have seen what he was meddling with. Damn his sense of mischief. One push, and the walls crumbled. She was looking at him in wary fascination, like a wild bird brought to hand. The sealskin flowed around her, revealing a glimpse of white shoulder here, a dimpled elbow there.
His chest felt tight. She was delicious, all tousled and plump. Her fingers rested over his hand. He closed his fist on nothing and turned his head.
Winter was closing in. He wasn't fooled by this one crystalline day. They'd be lucky to live through the season. He ought to get up now and go out and build himself his own shelter. He was crazy if he stayed with her; insane to think that once he touched her, he could remember caution.
But he was going to. He knew he was going to. Already he'd gone too far.
"Lie down," he mumbled without looking at her.
She obeyed him, silent and solemn. She was such a wide-eyed, serious mouse, taking everything that ever happened as if it were the God-given Judgment Day. He pushed his hand through his hair, rested on his palm and gazed down at her.
He found himself at a loss. He had no idea how to start—never mind the days of his corrupt youth, when he'd lectured ridiculous, randy middies on the facts of life and then, for a lark and an outrageous fee, conducted them in a giggling flock to some dockside brothel. He thought of the words he'd used then, the blunt warnings and casual jokes, the gaudy rooms and nonchalant bawds all painted and dressed and smelling of sweat beneath their perfume.
He could not use those words with her. But the thought of them made him draw a profound, shaky breath and close his eyes for mental balance.
He was going to regret this. It would kill him. To feel like this and not have her would be absolute annihilation.
"You want to touch me," he said into her palm. "And I want it." He kissed the curves between her fingers, one after another. "I want it." He looked into her eyes. "I'm going to show you where…and find the places that give you pleasure."
She wet her lips. Sheridan stared at the tip of her tongue and felt heat curl in his belly.
He hesitated and then said, "I might—it's possible I might—uh—forget myself. If I do something you don't like, you only have to say so, and I'll…stop." He drew a breath. "I'll stop."
A moment of silence passed. In a small, wistful voice, she said, "I think you could have been a nice hero."
"I doubt it." He sat up and shrugged off his coat, pulling the single-sleeved shirt over his head. The air in the hut was cool against his hot skin as he stretched out beside her. He pressed her palm against his chest, splaying his own hand over it. With his eyes on her face, he pulled her open hand down his bare torso in a slow, sensuous slide. "Being the villain is a deal more fun," he murmured. "Particularly for a man with a beautiful female in his clutches."
She moved restlessly beneath the fur. "I'm not beautiful."
He tightened his fingers over hers. "I'm sorry to say you've got no idea what you're talking about. Which comes as no surprise to me. You generally don't."
"I'm too plump," she said breathlessly, bracing against his slow pull downward.
He would not let her free. He rested on his elbow, exerting a steady force. Their hands reached the band of his trousers. Sheridan swallowed and closed his eyes. "There," he said, not breathing very evenly himself.
"Oh!" she said.
"That's all right. That's—all right. Don't…pull away."
"I'm hurting you."
"No." He shook his head. "Oh, no." Slowly, he moved his hand from hers and tugged at the trouser laces. As the fabric fell, he had to grab her wrist when she tried to snatch her hand away. With gentle stubbornness, he made her touch, holding her hand on him, wrapped in his own, while he brushed his cheek against her hair and bit his lower lip until he drew blood.
"You're shaking," she said timidly.
"An excess of enjoyment." His voice was strained. "It feels good. It feels so good."
"I'm embarrassed."
He brushed her pink cheek with his lips. "Why?"
"Because…" She made a sound of agitation. Her fingers tightened and relaxed in little convulsive movements that made the world go dim around him. "I don't think I…" She licked her lips and looked up with plaintive eyes. "I'm sure I shouldn't like to do this!"
"Do you like it?"
She didn't answer, but color burned in her cheeks. He opened his hand, and hers stayed. After a moment, she turned her head a little into the curve of his shoulder, hiding her face. Her fingers began a hesitant butterfly exploration, up and down, finding his shape and dimensions, while Sheridan crushed his mouth against her hair and pressed her head into his chest.
"Oh, God." The words exploded from him at last. "I think—that's—enough."
She pulled away instantly. Sheridan relaxed his convulsive hold.
"You see…" he said, making an attempt to steady his breathing, "…how you can…torment me."
Her eyes widened. She looked down at the place she'd been touching, her burnished lashes lying for a moment on her cheek. Then, with a slight tilt of her chin, she glanced up—a sidelong skim of his body and a speculative lift of her lashes. She stared at him like a cat watching a canary. Her hand slid back toward the place he'd shown her.
Sheridan groaned. "I've done it now, haven't I?" He caught her wrist and held it away. "Perhaps we'll go on to the next step."
She bit her lower lip. "I like this one."
"I can see that, you little tart. But I've been lying here letting you look at me, and touch me, while you're covered up to the chin. Now…" He lowered his head and nuzzled her temple. "I want to look at you."
He felt her stiffen.
"Will you let me?" he murmured.
She didn't answer.
He said nothing more, just kept caressing her hot skin, pressing light, whispery kisses over her forehead and temples. Sun through the roof burned a warm patch on his back and shoulder. He slid his fingers into her tangled hair, outlining the curve of her ear.
"All right," she whispered, so quickly and softly that he almost missed it.
Sheridan smiled into her hair. He pushed himself up onto one hand. She had her eyes squeezed shut, martyr-like, her body rigid. With a private grin, he sat up and straddled her on hands and knees. Still she wouldn't move.
"Open you eyes, Princess," he said softly. "Look at me."
Her lashes lifted, but she continued staring at the wall.
"Princess."
"I can't," she said tensely.
He waited a moment. Her lips worked; her eyes squeezed shut again. "I can't! I just can't."
"Why not?"
"I'm too—fat!"
"You're enchanting," he said.
She shook her head vigorously. "You won't like me. My figure—I'm not at all pleasing."
"You're splendid," he said. She shook her head again and started to speak. "Yes," he interrupted, "you are. What makes you such a bloody expert on the female form, anyway? If this is any example of your judgment, then you'd better stick to radical revolutions, that's my advice."
"But—"
He took hold of the sealskin and sat back, pulling it with him in one smooth motion until he was kneeling upright across her, the satin warmth of the fur draped across her calves beneath him. He spread his hands on his taut trousers, his fingers pressing into his thighs as he gazed at her.
She was beautiful. He'd known she would be: blame that vicious old cat Julia for convincing her she was fat and unattractive. A hot, protective anger surged in him as he watched the way she bit her lips and shook with more than the cool air; the way she pressed her arms to her sides and balled her hands into tight little fists.
"Listen." His voice was hoarse. "Listen to me, Princess. There ain't a man alive who wouldn't sell his soul for a glimpse of you." He took a deep breath. "And I'm going to tell you exactly why, d'you see? I'm going to start at your hair, which I see all the time, and which always makes me think of sunrise—and of waking up naked in bed with you. Especially now, when it's all tumbled around your face like a halo." He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the fur and her shape beneath his legs, recalling a thousand erotic fantasies of this moment. "And then," he went on huskily, "I'm going to tell you how lovely and green your eyes are, and how your eyelashes are gold at the tips, and how your eyebrows are dark and sultry—and have character, too—which isn't an easy feat for eyebrows."
"You're making fun," she whispered, but her voice was hesitant.
"I'd think you'd know me by now," he said. "I'd think you'd guess. Sometimes it's not so easy to say something, so I tease a little."
She turned her head and stared at him. He smiled crookedly. The tip of her tongue touched her upper lip again, sparking a wave of heat that made his smile fade.
"You have an adorable chin," he said. "Perfect to kiss. And your shoulders are straight and wide, just right, not gaunt or bony at the collar like some underbred shopgirl's, but smooth and flat and white. So, so white…" He leaned forward on his hands over the tender pale crevice between her arm and the upward swell of her breast. "Like pearls. Like alabaster." He kissed the plump cleft, brushing his lips over skin as delicate as porcelain, but warm and yielding and soft, so seductively soft, with a sweet, salty female scent that he savored in deep breaths. "Oh, my," she said faintly.
He sat back, letting his hand slide over her skin and shape the curve of her breast. "And here…" He had to swallow and close his eyes for an instant before he could go on. "This is beautiful. Perfect and round"—he cupped her other breast, gazing down, his mouth going dry—"with the most exquisite rosy nipples, oh, God, they're luscious—cream and pink and arousing. I've dreamed about them…about kissing them…"
She watched him, her eyes wide and dazzled, while the tip of her tongue played nervously over her upper lip. Sheridan returned her look with his eyelashes lowered, his body burning.
He drew his fingers beneath her breasts and down her torso. "An ideal waist." His hands slid and shaped her. "The finest proportions, with these magnificent curves above and below…the lovely way your hips swell, and this—" He traced a path downward, his breath coming faster. "This is my favorite, this charming satiny belly…" His knees pressed against her hips. "Exciting—oh, Lord, so pretty and plump, undulating down to such a beautiful rich crop of curls." He tangled his hand in them, looking down. "Like sunlight. Like…silk." His voice cracked. "Christ, I'll make myself insane."
She was staring at him in wonder, as if he'd already lost his mind. "Pretty?" she whispered.
He moaned. "Glorious." He spread his fingers across her and pulled them lower. "Delicious. You're magnificent. And I was going to…go on…" His blood was pounding. "But I don't think I…"
The sentence trailed off into a wordless sound of fervor as he touched the tender curve of her upper thighs. Olympia sucked in her breath. She felt his weight, the pressure of his legs against her bare skin, hard and hot. He was looking down at her, his thumbs skimming that place he had touched before, creating a sensation that made her want to writhe and whimper.