Kresley Cole - The Captain of All Pleasures

He would just keep walking. Forget about interfering.

But when the boy barreled right past him, Derek spun around to see him get tangled in an old hempen rope coiled on the walk. The lad sailed forward, arms careening uselessly, before plunging to a stop on the slushy ground. Shaking his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d fallen, the boy raised himself on his arms but couldn’t seem to manage his legs.

What was left of Derek’s withered conscience demanded a rescue, but he easily quelled the thought. He wasn’t the man he used to be. Besides, he could already see the sign of the tavern where he’d been heading. So close to a night of mind-numbing vice

Judging by the sounds coming from ahead, the men were closing in.

“Watch yerself, ye bastard!” a flamboyantly dressed woman wailed as she swung her cloth bag against one of the men’s heads. When he turned around to face her, she grew silent, frozen, then loped off into the night. Derek understood why—the man looked as if he were fresh from a nightmare.

Before he could stop himself, Derek turned to catch another look at the kid. Still valiantly trying to pull himself up, to get his little boots to catch a foothold on the grimy walk. Strangely, Derek had to fight the feeling of pity, a feeling increasingly unfamiliar to him.

He stalled for only a second more. The boy was probably a cutpurse and deserved whatever punishment those men handed out. Determined to turn away, he shook his head and walked on.

An affirmation, he knew, of just how big a bastard he had become.

Like a separate thing living in her, Nicole’s fear grew, choking her throat. She strained to scramble up, but in her heart, she didn’t know how much longer she could go on. Every movement shot pain through her exhausted limbs. Every choppy breath made her lungs burn as though she inhaled fire.

This wasn’t how she wanted to go out—not sinking into the filth of a London street waiting to be plucked up by Clive.

I want to go down swinging. She bit back tears of pain and frustration, but before she was even conscious of it, a sob arose and spilled forth on a breath.

“Bloody hell,” a deep-voiced man grated from just behind her. A string of imaginative cursing followed; all at once she was lifted up and tucked into the side of some exasperated, angry giant. As he started toward a forgotten crack between two tea warehouses, shock rose up to claim her again; she couldn’t even tell herself to fight because he wasn’t one of those men.

Had she found a savior from the docks? Not likely, yet the man held her gently.

“Don’t be afraid,” he advised sharply. “I won’t hurt you.”

The man holding her had the clipped, precise speech of a gentleman, and her own instincts weren’t screaming danger in his presence. She was strangely unafraid, especially considering that she’d just been shot at, and barely escaped with her life.Shot at . On her own ship, a bullet whizzing past her ear. Splinters exploding all around her head

That memory crystallized her thoughts. She had little apprehension of this man, but didn’t want to be a sitting duck. No time to explain to him why—she needed to keep herself safe. She twisted in his arm and began kicking, drumming her boots against the backs of his legs.

“I’m trying to help you. Son of a—will you stop?”

Her blows had no effect. Thinking her attack would enrage him, she hunched her head between her shoulders to prepare for a slap or worse.

Yet he calmly redoubled his efforts to restrain her. He was easily twice her weight, huge, with unbudgeable arms. He could subdue her with laughable effort. But even as she fought, she got the strange impression that he tried very hard not to hurt her.

“Calm down! Damn it, you’re like a greased cat,” he uttered in a low, aggravated voice.

As she twisted to get free, she managed a fleeting look at her would-be protector. Recognition hammered past her disbelief. Even as she clawed and squirmed, her foggy mind grasped that the man holding her was none other than Captain Derek Sutherland.

If she weren’t sure she was about to be killed, she might have laughed. Out of the frying pan, and I dive for the fire.

He struggled to rein her in, almost methodically attempting and rejecting hold after hold. It would only be a matter of time before he bested her, but she fought on. Until unexpectedly, he shifted her in his arms, one hand groping for some means of holding her.

And then…the unthinkable.

His hand slipped through her open cloak and up her shirt until…it landed on her breast.

Aside from her heavy breaths, she grew perfectly still. She didn’t know why: Because he had stilled? Or because she couldn’t think of anything but his—hand?

Big, scratchy, ablaze with heat, it left an imprint on her skin. Was that his finger tumbling over her nipple? His hand seemed to move over her, his grip shifting from brusquely covering her breast to gently, curiously…cupping her. No, now it was his thumb.

She should begin kicking again. She should. But he’d rendered her body boneless. Captain Derek Sutherland had his hand on her breast, her mind repeated like a mantra.

His hand on her breast.

Did she hear him mutter a curse? Her skin felt chilled when he tore his hand from her shirt as if he had been burned. He spun her around, and the whole front of her body rubbed against his.

Nicole made a vain attempt to marshal her scattered thoughts. Her father’s worst rival held her in a back alley, alone with him, so why didn’t she fight? Because she was weak. Breathless.

Then he ran his hands down her arms and placed them on her hips. Warmth flooded her body anew and pooled in her belly.

She’d been around men most of her life, had lived in close quarters with them for extended periods of time, but she had never experienced this unexplainable yearning that seized her so suddenly and so forcefully.

Nicole shook her head, wanting to deny the feeling. She’d simply been so frightened, and he held her safely, or rather, safer, in his arms. The man warmed her, she reasoned, like a cocoon in the stinging night air. And his cleanly crisp smell tickled her nose. Male. His scent was…male. Not like the liquor and cheap perfume she expected from a blackguard like him, but so alluring that she wanted to bury her face in his broad, hard chest and breathe him.

Even as her face inched closer to his body, a part of her mind argued that he might not have gotten a good look at her face. Her hood was still on her head. She could run—

As if he could read her mind, Sutherland enclosed her more tightly in his arms. With a gasp signaling part disbelief, part something else she couldn’t begin to name, she felt his hardened arousal pressed high against her belly. Startled, she twisted away, which only caused her to brush more closely against that part of him.

He inhaled sharply in response, and his whole body went rigid around hers. “Easy,” he said. The word rumbled like lingering thunder after a storm.

“Let me go—I have to…go,” she pleaded. She couldn’t manage more than standing there panting, her body a mix of tension and a melting flow. She stared at him, this unyielding man who gave no indication that he would release her. When one of his large hands loosened its hold, she sensed he was about to remove her hood. She didn’t want that, couldn’t have that, but her body was immobile, drawn by the warm strength of his.

Not quite in resignation, she studied his cruel-looking face, saw the skin pulled taut except where it crinkled into a scowl. His eyes found hers and held. She’d known from the night before that his eyes were cold. Now she could see more than that.

Sutherland looked like a man aboard a sinking ship—who suffered no delusions.