Delilah Dawson - The Damsel and the Daggerman

One finger slid up and curled inside her with expert precision, and she spread her legs wider to accommodate him, fighting her every instinct to use her hands, her mouth, anything to touch him. But: don’t move . Or he would stop. So her own fingers curled against the wood in imitation of his fingers inside her, her nails raw against the gloves. Marco’s body pressed hard against her as he worked her with both hands, and she wanted nothing more than for him to slide up and enter her with the same damnable slowness. As his finger rubbed up and down, barely dipping in and out, his teeth caught the lobe of her ear, gentle but unyielding.

“You want to let go. You want to drop your hands. You want to turn around and feel my tongue in your mouth, moving in time with my finger. You want to press against me, feel your nipples rubbing against the corset, against my chest. But you can’t. You can’t move.”

But she could, just the tiniest bit, pressing her ass more firmly against him. He responded by gently sliding in a second finger, and she shuddered with the first promising echo of the release to come. He let loose his teeth, and his tongue curled down around the shell of her ear, caressing the tender hollow where it met her jaw and sending shivers that made her shoulders shake. Still, she didn’t move her hands from their place on the door; still, she didn’t open her eyes.

God, this maddening slowness, the pressure building, every drop of her pleasure completely out of her own control. She was accustomed to a passionate frenzy on the outside, to writhing bodies and flashes of teeth by firelight and moving a clumsy but eager hand to right where she wanted it. But the tempest was inside her now, the outside as still as a moonless night, even his clever fingers hidden by layers and layers of skirts. Her heart and her damnable panting were the only things taking on speed, and she began to understand that Marco wasn’t going to be the easy mark she had supposed. She had expected a bad boy, full of himself and easily led into making the mistake of confession, whether under influence of wine or woman. Instead, he had trapped her, and she’d never been so wet, so wanting, so desperate.

“How long will you make me wait?” she whispered.

She felt his chuckle rumble against her back. “Wait for what?”

“For you.” She wiggled suggestively, hips rocking against him. He caught her, pressing firmly against her ass in a way that magnified everything else he was doing and made her whimper. She couldn’t take it a second longer and dropped her hands, spinning around to reach for him.

But he only dropped her skirts and backed away, his smile amused but his eyes rueful. Jacinda felt entirely bereft and immensely frustrated.

“You can’t be serious, Marco.”

He held up his hands as if she had aimed a crossbow for his heart, his fingers gleaming. “I told you not to move.”

Her teeth were clenched, her cheeks as hot as the sun. “We’re adults. This isn’t a game, as much as we might pretend to play. You clearly know exactly what you’re doing. So why not drop the pretense and enjoy our mutual good fortune?”

Hurt flashed in his eyes for some reason she couldn’t fathom. “Get out of my wagon, woman.”

“Marco. Please. Do I have to get on my knees again?” She licked her lips, slowly, her eyes dropping to the part of him that had so recently pressed against her ass. No matter how matter-of-fact he sounded, his own frustration was even more clearly outlined than her own.

“It won’t do any good. I don’t care to be rushed. No matter how tempting it might be.”

She had to resist stomping a foot. “Who said you make the rules? When do I get a say?”

“It’s simple. You want something from me. A couple of things. And that means I make the rules.”

Jacinda groaned and made fists of her hands, her stupid, greedy hands that just couldn’t stay put when they wanted so badly to touch him in turn. Flooded with shame and frustration, she spun on her heel and jerked open the door.

“Not used to being defied, are you, Jacinda?”

In response, she slammed the door, wanting nothing more than to set the damned thing on fire and forget the cool smoothness of the wood under her gloves.

She’d let him get under her skin. And now, damn them both, she needed more.

Sleep was hard to find and harder to keep that night, but she outright refused to seek relief under the darkness of her blankets, because, somehow, that meant that Marco had won. Instead, she formulated her plan. She was more determined than ever to get to the root of Marco’s past . . . and his refusal to bed her. A normal man would have jumped at the chance, would have been more than happy to take pleasure in a pretty woman without shame, without commitments, without damage or shyness. As much as she hated to admit it, his rejection had wounded her confidence.

When she found herself staring into a mirror the next morning, looking for wrinkles or rogue freckles or anything that would make her less than desirable, she shouted, “Bugger you, Marco Taresque!” and went for her notebook.

He said he liked to take his time; let him. Even if he had turned her away, she had seen the evidence of his own desire, and she would let him stew in it. She would ignore him and concentrate on her book, the reason she’d sought the caravan in the first place. Perhaps watching her fawn over his fellow performers while immersing herself in her element would get him as riled up as she currently felt. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was flatter and flirt. And, of course, write.

With Brutus at her heels, she set out across the moor, commanding the metal dog to destroy the bludbunnies that lunged out of the grass and toward her leather-clad ankles. Four bodies dangled from her grasp as she entered the well-trampled grounds of the caravan proper. She made her way to the dining wagon, hanging the rabbits on a hook as she’d seen the others do and using the chalk to write her name and four hatch marks on the chalkboard beside the names of the carnivalleros and their own bludbunny counts. Gathering food brought her one step closer to being one of their own and only six rabbits away from earning a copper for her trouble, if she remembered the gossip correctly.

“Got your first one, my lady?” the strong man called, and she waved with a grin.

“Got my first four, Torno!”

He laughed, his leather top hat wobbling. “But should the dog not receive the credit?”

She grinned. “He can’t be trusted with coppers. Always spends them on drink and loose women.”

He bowed politely as she stepped up the stairs to the dining car ahead of him.

“You are a strange woman, but then, I think perhaps all women are strange in their own ways,” he said.

“My husband used to say something quite similar. Tell me, Torno, have you ever been married?” The hugely muscled man blushed red to the tips of his waxed black mustache, and she held open the door to the dining car with an inviting smile. “Join me for breakfast, and I promise not to ask anything too embarrassing. I’m writing a book, you see . . .”

An hour later, her notebook held pages of frantic scribbles, and she’d enjoyed a riveting tale that could have been a book in itself, considering the adventures that had brought the strong but overly sensitive man from the small island of Sassily to the mainland, through a war, across the channel, and around the icebergs after being skyjacked by pirates. And no, she learned, he had never had a wife, not after his sweetheart had been thrown overboard by the pirate captain. The poor man had squeezed out a few tears, recounting the loss of his one true love.

“What did Tish tell you?” she had asked softly.