Lorraine Heath - Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel

He’d deceived himself when he began this journey believing that he sought justice. All along all he’d sought was her. Now that he’d found her again, it would kill him to give her up. He would find a way to save her if it was the last thing he ever did.

But for now all he wanted was to taste the sweetness of her mouth and flesh. All he wanted was to bring her unbridled pleasure. All he wanted was to possess her and journey with her into the realm of passion.

She moaned and sighed with every glide of his hand, every stroke of his tongue, every press of his lips. Hovering over her delicate form, he should have felt like a great oaf, but she had the ability to make him feel powerful without the usual accompanying intimidation, because as petite as she was, she possessed her own strength, her own determination. By God, she’d traveled to a strange city teeming with strangers in order to seek satisfaction for her sister’s death, and asked help of no one other than a sister who shared the same purpose. She shared his belief in justice. On many levels she was his equal, in some ways she was his better, in no way was she less.

But here, beneath the sheets, was where they were the most well-matched. He fought off the distant fear that in spite of his best efforts, he would lose this, he would lose her. He joined his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, hungrily, as though it were the first kiss, as though it were the last. Wedging himself between her thighs, he slid a hand beneath her and lifted her hips. With one long, sure stroke, he buried himself in her molten haven to the hilt.

A shudder of absolute pleasure rippled through him as he released a low groan, tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. If he moved, he was likely to spill his seed before he’d seen to her ultimate enjoyment.

She tightened her body around him, and he moaned. “You are a witch.”

“I love this, love the way it feels when we’re bound like this.”

Swallowing hard, he lifted his head and gazed down on her, saw the wonder in her eyes that after everything he could still want her. “Emma, how could I not?”

Emma felt the tears sting her eyes because he knew, knew , the doubts that plagued her, the questions that bombarded her. He answered them without her giving them voice, as though they were bound by something that went beyond flesh, beyond hearts. As though their souls belonged to each other.

As he began to rock against her, he spoke her name again. It contained a richness she hadn’t noticed before. She relished the sound of her name coming from his lips. Her name. Emma.

It was her that he possessed, her that he touched, her that he stirred. His movements became more frantic and her body reacted in kind, meeting his thrusts, building the pressure toward release. Her skin, her muscles, tightened and curled.

Opening her eyes, she became lost in his. She ran her fingers through his hair, over his shoulders, down his back. She felt his corded muscles bunching and straining. Dew from his efforts to hold back pooled on his skin.

“Emma,” he forced through clenched teeth as the pinnacle of pleasure rocked him, rocked her.

She emitted a tiny scream, before his mouth blanketed hers and absorbed the remainder of it. She trembled in the wake of the cataclysm, felt the tremors undulating through him.

Collapsing to the side, he rolled her flush against him, draping one of her legs over his hip. Still joined, they faced each other, breathing heavily, drenched in sweat. Reaching down, he brought the sheet and a blanket over them to ward off the chill, to create a cocoon of warmth, as their bodies basked in the lethargy.

Gently, holding her gaze, he palmed her cheek and stroked his thumb in a circle on her face. She strummed her fingers over his back. Slowly their breathing calmed, settled, no longer harsh, no longer blocking out the patter of the rain hitting the roof. Even as she grew drowsy, she had to face the truth.

It had been a mistake to come here, to think she could have him again and then blithely walk away to face whatever the future held.

“Don’t think about tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“How is that you always know what’s on my mind?”

He didn’t answer with words. He simply gave her a tender smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead before again positioning himself so he could see her more clearly.

“I told you about the watch I stole,” he said.

She nodded, wanting to caution him that now was not the time for remorse, even as she wanted him to unburden his sorrows. As long as she was able, she would provide him with what strength she could.

“The irony is that I stole it because my father didn’t have one. And it was his birthday.”

She saw him blink back the tears. That the memory could bring this large, strong man to tears tore into her heart. “Oh, James.”

He shook his head as though to shake off his morose musings. “I told you the story only so you’d understand how important justice is to me. It was a damned watch. It’s value not worth my father’s life. A year in prison perhaps, a few lashes of the whip, but not his life. And Rockberry’s life is not worth yours. I’ll not let you”-he touched his thumb to her lips-”or Eleanor be hanged.”

“You can’t control the courts.”

“Don’t underestimate my influence. I’m not saying you won’t have to account for your actions, but I swear I’ll not see you hanged.”

She fought to give him a reassuring smile. She wanted to believe him. She truly did. But he was not God. He was not king. He was not nobility. He was an inspector with Scotland Yard. The son of a man who’d been hanged for thievery, regardless of his innocence.

He was simply a man, even if he was the man she loved.

When Emma awoke, her first thought was that she’d slept, amazingly a deep dreamless sleep. Her second was that she was alone in the bed, but not alone in the room. She sensed his presence before she located him sitting in a chair by the window, the lamp nearby providing him with sufficient light to read the journal in his lap. Although only his profile was visible to her, she could detect the deep furrow in his brow as he absorbed her sister’s account of her life and time in London. With his elbow perched on the arm of the chair, providing support, he held his chin, his forefinger stroking just below his lower lip, a lip she had an urgent desire to nibble upon.

Beyond the window the dark of night still hovered. The storm was dying down, the rain a softer patter, the wind a quieter moan.

Emma studied James as he read. He’d drawn on his trousers. Pity that. She’d never considered herself a woman who would prefer a man in all his naked glory, but James was indeed a fine specimen. He made her feel tiny, yet strong. She had power over him. He desired her. She couldn’t stop the small smile from forming. He could distinguish her from Eleanor. No one else had ever been able to tell the three sisters apart. She supposed it was odd to take such delight in his ability, but it made her feel special. Their entire life all three sisters had struggled to be seen as individuals. People thought they should wear the same clothes, should strive to be identical, but they each possessed their little quirks, their small differences, and in some cases large ones. Eleanor was headstrong, quick to anger, quick to act. Emma analyzed far too much. Elisabeth had been far too adventuresome. It was the reason their father had decided she would be the first to brave London. What a catastrophe that had been.

Yet it had put into place a series of events through which she’d met James. If not for the fact that it had cost Elisabeth her life, she might have been grateful. Guiltily, a small part of her was glad for James-but the price had been so dear.