Elizabeth Hoyt - Scandalous Desires

Someone coughed and she was suddenly aware that only a door separated them from a roomful of soldiers. He swirled the head of his cock in her moisture even as she had the thought.

She bit her lip and he began to push his way into her. It had only been a matter of a month, but she seemed to have forgotten how large he was. She held her breath as he shoved again. The sensation was so lovely, so perfect, that she was afraid she’d make some betraying sound.

He paused, half in her, and adjusted her position, burrowing his arms under her legs, prying them wider.

He withdrew a tiny bit and then very deliberately pushed again with constant, relentless pressure. He breached the muscles at the entrance to her sheath and, suddenly, he was all the way inside. She felt his breath against her cheek. Felt as his chest expanded as he inhaled. She wanted this moment to stop so she could live it forever. Here, now, there was only the two of them, occupying a wonderful island apart from the rest of the world.

Then he was withdrawing, slowly, steadily. Without a sound.

She gripped his shoulders and his mouth came down on hers. His tongue swept in and he kissed her so gently she wanted to cry. How would she live without him? Without ever again feeling this intense closeness to another human being?

She’d found paradise only to lose it.

Well, then she’d enjoy it while she could. She wrapped her arms around him, wishing they could both be nude, but glad of what contact they had. She tasted salt tears, seeping into both their mouths, and wondered if they were hers or his. Had she brought the great Michael O’Connor to tears? She bit down gently on his tongue, suckling it, holding it within herself. Perhaps if she held him hard enough he would stay with her forever.

Perhaps with this act they created eternity.

She could feel his shoulders bunch as he controlled himself, each thrust exquisitely slow and even. It was as if she’d been primed just for him. Only for him. Each inch of his hard flesh burrowing into hers, each drag against her folds as he withdrew oh, so slowly, built a fire within her, burning, burning, ever hotter.

But more, he was forging a bond between them, an unbreakable iron chain that would link them together forever. This was their true marriage ceremony, more solemn, more holy than the words said over them by an old man.

She held him and breathed with him and waited for the flames to climb higher, to burn white hot. And when he reached between them and thumbed her little nub they did. They flared together. She arched into him as her core melted. The flames seemed to sear her with ecstasy, bonding them together as if they were fired within a crucible. He thrust hard, burying himself and at the same time he covered her mouth and inhaled her moan and his own.

And as her crisis took her, she saw a rainbow form from the ashes of their combined heat. A rainbow so fragile, so fine that she thought it must be real. That their lovemaking had shattered the prisons of mortal men and that they were free.

Together and free.

But all things must end eventually and so, too, did the rainbow. Silence opened her eyes, her husband still atop her, his beloved weight heavy and comforting in the dim cell.

The dawn was coming soon.

They came for him at dawn, just as promised, a new set of soldiers to replace the dragoons that had guarded him all night.

Mick kept his eyes on Silence even as the soldiers opened his cell door and tied his wrists in front of him. He’d dressed in his best with Silence’s loving help—blue velvet coat and breeches, gold brocade waistcoat, and lace-trimmed shirt. He wore the stockings that Silence had knit for him—crooked and sagging in places—and they were the most important things on him. His fingers were barren of rings—he’d given them all away to spend an hour with Silence, but he’d not regret that in this life.

Or the next.

The soldiers hustled him from the cell and along long, dank corridors until he emerged, squinting, into the morning sun.

Silence stepped from Newgate Prison behind him, trailed by Harry and Bert.

“Go now,” he said gently to her and nodded at Harry. Both Bert and Harry were forlorn, but from Harry’s look he knew what Mick wanted.

A public hanging was a nasty thing and she didn’t need to see him kicking his heels in the air. With any luck it’d not come to that. His men should rescue him in time—but he wasn’t about to tell Silence that. There was still the chance that his plan would fail, and he didn’t want to get Silence’s hopes up for naught.

She looked at him, her eyes red, but dry, and said nothing. The expression on her lovely face was enough. Not many men were so fortunate as to have the love of a woman like Silence.

He expected to see her again in another couple of hours, but if the escape attempt failed, he’d die content.

Mick nodded to her as they led him toward the cart, already laden with his coffin and a chaplain. “Be well.”

“How romantic,” a terrible voice said.

The Vicar and a half dozen of his men emerged from the prison behind Silence and her two guards.

Harry began to look, but was knocked to the ground before he could fully turn. Bert backed away as two pistols aimed at his heart. In the wink of an eye Charlie had Silence, holding her by the throat as if she were a dog. She scrabbled at the fingers holding her, her eyes desperate as they met Mick’s.

“Is this your lady fair, Mickey?” the Vicar asked, his mangled face tilted grotesquely.

No. No.

Harry was on the ground, his head bleeding, but struggling to sit, so he was still conscious at least. Bert had skipped out of the way of the Vicar’s henchmen, but he couldn’t get near Silence with their pistols trained on him.

“She’s nothin’ to ye,” Mick said, trying to control his voice. Not now. Not now when he was trussed like a goose and helpless. “Let her go, Charlie.”

“Oh, I might,” the Vicar replied. “After I’ve taught her how to properly serve me. After all, your mother’s dead, Mick. I need a replacement. And I’ve waited patiently since your arrest so that you might fully enjoy this moment.”

Bile roiled in his stomach. Mick met Silence’s eyes.

They were wide and frightened, but calmer now. “I love you, Michael.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them to glare at the Vicar. “Anythin’. Just name yer price.”

Silence threw her weight suddenly against the Vicar’s grip. He stumbled under her force, but righted himself too soon, yanking her back into his terrible embrace.

Charlie smiled, a horrible lop-sided parody of a smile. “I already have my price, boy. Your death and your woman. I might get my granddaughter, as well, but she’ll just be a sweet bon bon. This”—he shook Silence by the neck—“this is the meat on my table.”

Mick bellowed, lunging at Charlie, but he was knocked to his knees by the soldiers surrounding him.

“Will ye allow the kidnappin’ o’ a lady?” Mick demanded of the soldiers. They’d been simply standing there as if blind and deaf to the outrage being played out in front of them.