Beauty and the Spy (29 page)

"I want you inside me." She was nearly weeping with the truth of that.

He abruptly swept her up in his arms, carried her from the pier to where the small wood shelter sat. He pushed the door open, lowered her to the ground. And then, with his usual unself-conscious speed, he stepped back and quickly stripped off his trousers. She saw the thick curve of his arousal arching toward his belly, the hard contours of his thighs, the uncompromisingly masculinity of his whole bare body only a foot away from her, and was jarred suddenly:
This is real. This is happening
.

She pulled her gown from over her head, mimicking his quick boldness, hoping it would be contagious. Still she stood, shivering and a little shy, a little uncertain suddenly, in her bareness. He bundled their clothes together on the ground, making a soft place for them, and this too, made it seem shockingly real.

"Come here," he demanded in a whisper. She stepped forward, and he gathered her into his arms, pressing her against the warmth of his body, and his strong hands moved down her back, clothing her in a soft trail of heat, dissolving her shyness.

His lips against her skin were tender and reverent. They knew her secrets, made her feel vulnerable when she wanted strength, wanted to believe she had a choice in this surrender, when there never had been any, really. His mouth traveled, tasted with lips and tongue, her throat, her temple, the bones at the base of her neck. And when they returned home to her lips she gratefully, greedily drank him in, meeting the searching heat of his tongue with her own.

His hands, deliberate now, on a mission not to reassure but to arouse, roamed her body with shocking skill; his fingers knew where to stroke and ringer, how to tease soft moans from her, to make her beg. He found and savored the curves of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples, cupped and explored the warmth between her legs, until she was supple and boneless, clinging to him. And then wantonly nearly climbing him.

Time dropped away. They sank together to their knees, mouths joined, his fingers twisting in her hair and plucking out pins as it loosened; he pulled her head back to take his kisses deeper, his fingers roving her hair. Her hands on him were careful, tender, over his bruises of his chest, over his arm where the knife had slashed him. Kit closed his eyes when she touched him, as though he could hardly believe the wonder of it, and then folded his arms around her and pulled her down over him, lowering himself to his back.

"Now," he urged on a soft rasp against her mouth. "I need you, Susannah. Please let it be now."

"Yes." A breath of a word.

He rolled over with her in his arms, covering her. She cradled him with her thighs, pulling him closer, and he lifted his torso up, fitted himself to her, slid into her waiting heat. There was a quick bite of pain; Susannah took her lower lip in her teeth to stifle a gasp. But then came the extraordinary feel of him filling her, and in so doing somehow touching her body everywhere. She watched Kit's eyes close when he was deeply seated; the intensity of his pleasure seemed akin to pain.

He was still, hovering over her; for a moment they savored together the miracle of being joined at last. He opened his eyes. So blue. Smiled down at her, crookedly, with quiet, rueful amazement. Pulled back, and thrust forward again, dipped to touch his lips to hers. He was shaking; she could feel his lean body quivering, saw the sweat gathering, gleaming over the lean muscles of his arms and chest.

"I want to go slowly for you," he whispered raggedly. "God, I want to. I'm just not sure I—"

"Hush. It's all right." She covered his lips with a finger. "It's all right."

He sighed then, and began to move in her, his cadence even, purposeful. She arched to meet each stroke, taking him as deeply into her body as she could; reveling in the pleasure she was giving, in the dark desire she saw in his eyes. And she reveled, too, when control was lost to him. He turned his head away from her when the rhythm of his need took him over, escalated, drummed through her body, his hips quick and fierce. When he turned toward her again, she saw the singular mission in his eyes, the unconscious total pleasure, and from the rush of his breathing knew instinctively it would be soon for him. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding him fast.

"Oh, God, Susannah. Oh, God."

His long body went still; she felt his release shudder through him. Felt the almost tangible peace it instantly brought. A gratitude, a tenderness she could scarcely bear, filled her; she touched his lips. He kissed her fingers gently.

"Thank you," he whispered. His chest moved with ragged breathing still; Susannah touched her finger to a bead of perspiration traveling the seam between his ribs. Then touched her finger to her tongue, tasting the salt of him.

"Think nothing of it," she murmured.

He gave a short laugh. Pulled away from her. Eased down next to her, and wrapped her loosely with one arm, flung the other arm out above him. He sighed the long sigh of the replete.

And they were quiet for a time, the sweat cooling on their bodies.

"In case you were wondering," he volunteered lazily after a moment, "we just made love."

"Is that what you call it?" She rolled her eyes upward, studying her view, saw his half-smile and closed eyes. "Your armpit is very handsome."

This made him laugh. "Only an artist would think an armpit is handsome."

"But it
is
… the line of it is, anyhow. The muscles and shadows and hair…" She traced the muscles and shadows and hair with her finger as she said the words, and her voice drifted.

She sat up suddenly and reached for her sketchbook and quickly rendered him, that arm stretched over his head, his bare chest, and long legs, his lolling, spent manhood resting in curling hair, his wonderful face reflecting smug satisfaction, easy intimacy.

"You're a very good model," she told him approvingly. "You hold cooperatively still."

"I don't think I could move if you pointed a gun at me," he murmured.

She kissed the birthmark in the shape of a gull on his outstretched wrist, then leaned down and kissed his nipple, tracing it with her tongue, tasting it the way he'd tasted hers. His hand trailed down her back as she did; she saw unmistakable signs of stirring below.

"You're moving
now
," she teased.

He gave a short, very distracted laugh. "Siren," he said absently. Clearly enjoying the run of her tongue over his chest.

"I think I shall torture you," she whispered. She dragged her tongue down the seam between his ribs, then her lips skimmed his stirring shaft, which all but leaped to attention.

"Or I you," he whispered. He sat up suddenly swept her into his lap so that she sat across his thighs, and breathed into her ear, touched his tongue there, traced the whorls of it. A silver-hot shiver of sensation coursed through her body.

"Do you like that?" he murmured.

"I don't know," she half-gasped. "It rather takes… everything over."

He dragged a single finger down her throat, over the fine bones of her chest, touched it to the stiff peak of her nipple. "Proof that you most definitely like it," he confirmed in a sultry whisper. She laughed a little, then stopped abruptly, because she needed all of her faculties to enjoy what he'd begun doing to her breasts with his hands.

And then they were quiet, and with a tacit sort of agreement, everything was soft as breath, delicate. With lips, and fingertips light as air, with breath itself, she caressed him, and he caressed her. She breathed into his ear, tasted the cord of his neck while his fingers gently, maddeningly, softly, played along her spine, her waist, her belly, the nest of curls between her legs, her throat, her breasts, as though he was bringing music from the most delicate of harps. Until every cell of her vibrated with desperate need. His breath was hot, then cool, in her ear. She finally gave up exploring him and submitted, hooking her arms loosely around his neck, selfishly wanting just to take the pleasure he could give.

He knew so much more than she did. But she would learn. She would learn.

"
Kit
," she finally gasped urgently against his neck, when it became untenable. She needed him to ease her need. She would beg him, if necessary.

It wasn't necessary.

"It's all right," he murmured to her. "It's all right." He cupped her buttocks in his hands, lifted her up, and guided her down over his shaft with a long sigh. When he was deeply inside her, their eyes locked.

Susannah's breasts slid against his chest, both of their bodies sweat-sheened, as she rose up again, knowing instinctively what to do. He smiled faintly, guided her down again. Which is when she saw his eyes go black again with desire and she exulted. She loved this power to give and take, this humbling exchange of strength and vulnerability.

"There's a place inside you, Susannah…" he said hoarsely. "Guide me. You'll know it when you feel it. I'll hold on to you."

So she lifted up again… and slid down again… and oh, he was right. There
was
a place.

She moved up over him again, with a sultry smile, enjoying this new knowledge, feeling that mysterious need escalating… she held it at bay for as long as she could. Which, as it turned out, wasn't very long at all. For her body took over, found the cadence it craved, and she began to ride him in an instinctive rhythm that grew ever swifter, and he held her, his hips thrusting up to meet hers.

The world became the harsh roar of their breathing, incoherent sounds of pleasure, softly groaned words of urging. Susannah could feel her release pushing, pushing at the seams of her, roaring through her veins like a river of stars, until it flooded its banks and burst from her in an exultant cry. The unthinkable pleasure of it rocked her, shook her like a rag; she trembled and trembled from it.

Kit held on to her, his own hoarse cry following, and she could feel his seed filling her as she breathed her exhaustion against his neck. Felt his chest heaving against hers as they clung together.

And then sank down to his back, bringing her down with him, holding her loosely. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as did her own. He shifted her to make himself more comfortable. They didn't speak until their breathing settled, became more even.

"You will be my wife," he ordered quietly, finally. As though issuing an answer to a problem.

"All right," she murmured with sated equanimity.

A silence.
We're in a shack on a pile of clothes
, Susannah thought, sleepily marveling.

"My father will like you," he said musingly.

"I intend to like him, too."

"He won't like that you have no
money
—"

"Nobody seems to," she said happily.

"But he will like
you
."

"Naturally."

He laughed at that. "Because 'it's
easy
,'" he said, quoting her words to him the night of the Barnstable assembly. He did a passing good imitation of her voice, too, high and fluty, and she gave him a little swat.

"It
is
easy, usually.
You
seem to like me well enough."

He grunted a laugh.

"May we live in London?" she asked.

"Most definitely. Unless you'd like to stay here among the voles and adders."

She tensed.

He was laughing now, shaking beneath her. "There are no adders here at the moment, sweet." She batted him a little again, settled back down, and when he grunted, shifted her head to the shoulder that wasn't bruised.

"And Aunt Frances?"

"Can come to live with us, if she'd like."

"And we can have friends?" Susannah pressed. "In London?"

"I'm a viscount. I can buy you all the friends you want. How many would you like?"

She laughed again. He pulled her close, squeezed her a little with one arm as she lay across his chest. His eyelids were sleepily at half-mast. His body, however, was tense, at odds, with the soft satiety of his face.

She lifted her head up and studied him, her hair trailing down over him. She traced his lips, his cheekbones, his chin with a single finger. Hers to touch from now on.

"Nothing will happen to me," she said softly.

For she knew this was what was bothering him. What made him snap at her when she jested about her death. This astonishing man with the breakable heart.

He opened his eyes wider, surprised at her insight. Drank her in with that vivid blue. But said nothing.

"Nothing will," she insisted. "You are Christopher Whitelaw, spy extraordinaire."

Then again, it was easy to be certain of the world when one had just been thoroughly made love to.

He smiled a little, and still he said nothing. But his hand began slowly roaming over her body softly, possessively, over the curve of her buttocks, her shoulder blades, up through her hair. More of a claiming than a caress. Making sure of her. Memorizing her.

I love him.

He hadn't yet said he loved her, but surely he must. Everything he did, the way he felt, spoke of a love so large it almost seemed wrong to confine it to a single word.

And oh, she did love him. It was beautiful and terrible, enormously comforting and terrifying, battle and peace all at once. What she'd felt for Douglas was a mere cinder of affection in comparison.