The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (37 page)

The heat that had been pooling in her was stirred up into a maelstrom. His fingers, his palm, stroking her, circling her through incredible sensations. Despite the darkness around them, she seemed to see streaks and sparkles of light. She seemed to be lifting, floating—lost to herself, lost and whirling in a space far vaster than the room could possibly be.

And she could feel him joining her, as though neither of them were tethered to their bodies any longer. His touch went in and through her, tearing her apart, and yet somehow sealing the two of them together.

Sebastian shifted again, rolling his body partway over hers, and she felt the bare flesh of his chest pressing hers. He must have had the presence of mind somewhere in what he was doing to her to remove his shirt. Thank heaven. The touch of his uncovered skin directly to hers was wondrous and new, steely hard and silken all at once, the crisp hair of his chest biting deliciously against her breasts. Those textures called her momentarily back to earth, to consciousness of the separate contours of his form.

He had his weight on one elbow, hovering over her.

Would he claim her again now? Finally?

She wanted him to, she wanted
h
im. Desperately. Heedlessly.

But still he didn’t, except with his long fingers. They dipped inside her, teased, explored—they plunged and plundered, drawing the slick heat from deep inside her; his thumb was working over the sensitive nub throbbing in the midst of her nest of curls.

His breathing roughened; his chest rose and fell like a bellows. What was he thinking? What was he feeling?

But the sensations arcing through her were overwhelming, building in a wave and dashing away all other thought.

She lifted her hips, wanton. She just craved sensation—which was building madly into that wonderful state he’d unleashed in her that first night in his coach.

She clutched at his arms, at his back, at his shoulders. She couldn’t seem to breathe in enough air. Her head was whipping back and forth like a madwoman’s. Every muscle in her legs and belly was clenching with tension; even her toes were curling. She bit at her lips.

But he didn’t stop the fierce, relentless stroking. His mouth pressed again to her ear, hot and whispering, “Come for me, sweetheart, come for me. Cry out for me.”

Her eyes now opened in the darkness, straining for any glimpse of him. Deeply buried energies in her were unlocking, roaring forth, racing together towards the place where his hands touched her. All at once, everything that been restrained for so long in her was breaking free.

And then his mouth came down again, fierce and hot and suckling, on her breast, and everything ignited.

She felt light ignite explode everywhere. Felt it, not saw it. Stronger than it had ever been. Eruptions of hot brightness all through her, from the core of her through the every part of her body—great, white bursts, licking her, shooting through her. The room became almost radiant with the warm, glowing energy.

She felt herself soaring, screaming.

His palm stayed firm against the center of her pleasure, and waves of it rolled through her, over and over, leaving her shuddering.

Heat rippled for long moments afterward, softening all her muscles again, making her feel as though she could sink straight through the floor.

At last, Sebastian rolled them both onto their sides and gathered her back into his arms, hugging her to him, making a sound deep in his chest that sounded almost like laughter.

Under other circumstances, she might have felt insulted by the sound, but she didn’t have that in her at the moment. She was pure surrender. She put her arms around him too, nuzzled her face into his neck, let the scent of him become a part of the bliss that filled her.

He was still hard against her belly—he hadn’t found satisfaction yet, she understood that.

He was being noble again.

But damn it all, this was not the time for nobility. There was no right or wrong at all tonight. Just the two of them, together.

She slid her hand down between his legs, gripping the hard length that jutted out from the front of his trousers, all but ripping through the buttons.

“Rachel, stop,” he said, but she wouldn’t stop, not this time. They had tonight, but maybe nothing more. He would be hers
now
, no matter what else happened in the real world, no matter what happened tomorrow.

She caressed him through the fabric, and brought her face to his chest and found one of his nipples with her own mouth. She laved him, bit at him, licked him, and he moaned like he was about to die.

In a moment, they were both fumbling for the buttons of his trousers—his hands were quicker at it, and soon the blasted things were finally being pulled down away from his hips, baring him to her touch, though she couldn’t see him in the lightless room. Under her hand, though, his shaft sprung up, firm and hot and eager.

She stroked her palm over it, exploring with her fingers—it seemed to jump at her touch, and Sebastian groaned. Rigid and straining as it was, the flesh was still smooth as satin, and the surface of it yielded just slightly to the pressure of her touch, with a core of steel beneath. She felt a powerful urge to put her mouth to it.

But Sebastian pulled away suddenly. She almost screamed with frustration, but it soon became clear he only meant to lift her in his arms. “To the bed,” he murmured. “We’ll do this as it should be done.”

She pressed her lips into the curve of his neck as he carried her, flicking her tongue against the sensitive skin, and he groaned again. She couldn’t bear to wait.

He eased her down into the blankets, into the welcoming softness of the mattress, and after a frenetic moment in which he kicked off his trousers, the far more welcome hardness of his body settled over hers.

Her hand bumped an object on the bed—dear Lord, the notebook.

For the briefest moment, a chill went through her as though the thing were a block of ice.
Treachery
.

But whose treachery was it really, Sebastian’s or Sarah’s? She couldn’t let Sebastian know about the book until that was clear.

And she shouldn’t be letting this happen between them. But his hands and mouth were exploring her again—her senses reeled, and the thread of rational thought slipped from her grasp.

Some deep instinct said,
This man. This man
. Something powerful bound them, and she couldn’t summon the will to remember why she should push him away. He was so gentle with her, so tender. How could he hurt her, touching her the way he was, summoning heat and pleasure and joy from the very core of her?

She gave the book a push so it slid between the bed and the wall, and then all thought of it was gone.

Sebastian’s mouth came over hers. His shaft pressed urgently against her belly, and she wrapped her legs around his back to bring its hardness against the place she wanted it.

He slid his length along her folds, inflaming her, and then—thank heaven—he brought the wide, blunt tip of it against her cleft.

She clutched at his shoulders, straining upward, needing him, begging him. The side of his hand brushed against her as he took hold of his shaft and guided it against her, into her—stretching her, impossibly big, impossibly hard—only the head at first. But wildness came over him, over them both. She felt the rush of it strike him as much as she felt it in herself

He thrust home, and she took him in. There was a shock of pain, but then a melting, wild pleasure.

His scent was everywhere around her. He thrust again and again, stretching her farther, filling her utterly, and she clamped her legs tight around his rocking hips and thought yes, yes. This is what she needed, everything she needed.

She was his, entirely his, for that moment at least, and he was hers.

They were one body, one creature, seeking one hot center, lost in warmth and pleasure and need. Waves of pleasure were building, rocking. Like the ocean as they’d seen it from the prow of the
Calliope
—moving everywhere at once, powerful, heaving, uncontrollable. An ocean was rocking through them. An ocean of weight and light and heat.

The light kept pouring, undulating, making her muscles clench at his hard, hot shaft inside her.

And then the wave seemed to carry them for one last crest, drawing desperate cries from their lips—everything solid in her burst apart, but ecstatically, pulled out to sea, lost and mindless beneath the waves.

It seemed to go on forever, until, at last, she fell back towards the earth in one long, floating, billowing ebb. It let her down gently, and she sprawled across the mattress, spent, limp, and boneless, as if she’d been tossed by a storm onto a quiet beach.

But Sebastian was with her, just as spent, his arms still gripping her, his face pressed against her shoulder.

Where their bodies joined, there was still a hot pulsing. And somewhere deeper inside, more heat, something fusing, something melding—a joining that could not be undone.

Oh, dear God.

Fear seeped in around the edges of that warmth. What was she going to do now, in the light of day, if it turned out Lord Henry’s warning was one she should heed?

And yet this powerful sense of connection could not be denied. She wrapped her arms more tightly around Sebastian’s back, pulling him harder against her. He let out a shuddering sigh in response, and pressed his lips to her temple.

“Rachel,” he breathed, his voice almost reverent. “My Rachel.”

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

Oh, Lord. What if she had to tear apart this joining?

She would bleed, she knew that.

The wound would be enough to kill her.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Victoire.” Will growled the name, stabbing a sausage on his plate as if it offended him personally. “Her creatures have been spreading word all over town—in the disreputable parts of town, anyway—that a fortune’s available to any man who accomplishes the capture of Salomé Mirabeau. Four thousand escudos.”

“Hell! Where are they getting the money for that?” Sebastian raked his fingers through his hair. His head had not cleared yet this morning, not since he’d woken up in Rachel’s bed, tangled naked in the sheets with her.

Thank God she’d stayed asleep while he disentangled himself and came downstairs.

He’d gone mad again last night, and even now felt as if he’d been blasted into a hundred pieces. He’d be struggling to pull the fragments together for the rest of the day. For the rest of his life, maybe.

God knew the piece that was his heart ached.

Will impaled a roasted potato with his fork. “Bonaparte himself must be worried about that book Sal found.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” said Sebastian. His head rang, though he’d already gulped two cups of Rosa’s strong coffee. “Where is the damned thing? What on earth does it say?”

Will’s face hardened even more, to something approaching obsidian. “We’ll find it. In the meantime, I’ve got everything arranged to move Eva and Rosa to her sister’s. They’re packing now. We must all stay on our guards. The agents of the French are growing bolder every hour.”

Sebastian nodded miserably.

Will’s black eyes scanned Sebastian with sharper perception than was comfortable. “Don’t worry,” he said in his deep, dark rumble. “She’s stronger than you seem to think. More like the actual Sal than you may realize.”

“No.” He thought, unbidden, of having Rachel naked and writhing beneath him. She was capable of losing herself, losing her self-control, and now so was he. “No, she’s not like Sal. There you are wrong.”

When he’d heard that noise in her room last night—a noise so near her bed—he’d been so bloody terrified. When he burst in, he feared he was already too late. He was afraid it was all happening again.

And then to find her there, alone and safe in the darkness, crouched on the floor in only her nightgown. Relief and protectiveness had flooded him in sharp waves, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from reaching out and touching her.

Just to be sure she was really safe. Just to feel her solid and whole and warm.

Even in total darkness, she’d been the most beautiful thing he’d ever known. It was if he
had
seen her, knew the shape and color and detail of her, with his eyes and not just his hands and mouth.

So beautiful—and so vulnerable.

And now half of Vigo would be hunting her.

She was in terrible danger, and he’d let his head get muddled. He couldn’t protect Rachel if his mind didn’t stay sharp, detached.

At least, Victoire’s reward was being offered for Salomé’s
capture
, not her immediate death. They wanted her to yield up the notebook, of course. Though if they got their hands on her, death would almost certainly be preferable.

Well, he just had to make sure they didn’t get their hands on her.

Which meant he had to keep his own hands off her, so he could concentrate on keeping her safe.

With orders to Emilio to keep Salom
é
in the house for the day, he went out in workman’s clothes to see what he could learn for himself among the local laborers, the poor and desperate men who’d be most eager to take advantage of Victoire’s generous offer.