The iron duke, p.27
The Iron Duke, page 27
Eyes never leaving her face, he brought her hands to his chest. His nipples, she realized, and instinctively cringed. “You ripped them out here?”
“Yes.”
And two more. “Where else?”
His fingers curled into her palms as he drew her hands between them. Then lower, until she cupped his hard length through his breeches, and he ran her thumb over the wide tip of his erection. She stared at him in horror. The corner of his mouth ticked up.
“Or I lied so that I’d have your hands on my cock.”
She barely stopped the loud laugh that rose up through her. Catching herself, she whispered, “But truly?”
He nodded, drawing her hands up to his shoulders and smoothing his palms down her sides to her hips. “I paid for these rings. But I didn’t like where they’d put them.”
So matter-of-fact. Her heart seemed to slow, but every beat struck harder and harder inside her ribs. He’d said there was always a use for a boy of fourteen at the Ivory Market—and she’d seen too many broken children in London not to guess that there’d been a use for a boy of eight, too. But only eight years later, he’d been sold to the Americas, bound for a coal mine. Her fingers traced his face. Despite being so handsome.
“You must have been uncontrollable for them to have sold you again. Were you of iron, even then? And as strong?”
Whatever sort of nanoagents he had, they’d done more than help graft metal prosthetics to flesh, as they did to most buggers. She couldn’t even lift him. Yet they’d made him strong enough to move, run, jump—despite the heavy weight of his bones.
“I’ve always had the iron. The strength grew with it.”
But not quickly enough, she thought. No need to break a boy’s bones when he had flesh. With enough pain or threat, they could still have controlled him. And he wouldn’t have reached his full strength until he’d been full grown. Still, whatever he’d possessed at sixteen must have been enough that he hadn’t been worth the risk of keeping.
When she said so, he nodded. “They decided I was too dangerous to use anymore. But I was worth more sold than dead.”
Too dangerous to use. “You killed them. Some of those who used you.”
“Sometimes while they were using me.” His lips twisted. “And afterward, that meant I fetched a higher price.”
Because the danger meant excitement. The thrill of restraining something so strong, and then to take him. Yes. She could see why it would fetch a high price. And she saw more.
“And so now, you don’t force women.” Something was growing in her chest, light and airy, leaving her almost giddy. “And if Hunt had sold Andrew, you wouldn’t have left him to that. You’d have found him even if he wasn’t on the Terror.”
“Along with any other boy sold off my ship.” His fingers tightened on her hips. “But don’t be mistaken, Mina. I don’t crusade on principles. I just protect what’s mine. They were on the Terror, so they’re mine. And when I found Andrew, I wanted your gratitude.”
“I will be grateful. But I’m not doing this for that. This is for me.”
His eyes challenged her. “You aren’t doing much of it.”
Smiling, she kissed him again. The warm breeze slipped around them, tangling her hair, catching the collar of his shirt, and cooled the perspiration on her face, her neck. Tugging at his shirt, she smoothed her hands beneath. His abdomen contracted beneath her fingers, and she slipped up over hardened muscle and crisp hair. He stiffened when her fingers brushed the small hardened nubs on his chest.
She froze. “It still hurts?”
“No.”
Good. The memory of his head at her breast made her ache. She’d lick him, too. “The same as mine?”
“I like it. But they’re not the same.”
Oh. “I loved your mouth on mine.”
Stark hunger scraped across his features. “Then let me taste you again.”
Suddenly trembling, she lifted to his mouth and pulled down her neckline, baring one breast. Slowly, softly, he circled the hardened peak with his tongue before drawing her into his mouth. Her fingers dug into his hair. With a groan, he shifted his body down, and instead of straddling his thighs, her legs were spread over his hips. He pressed her down until his erection formed a thick pressure against her burning core.
She rocked against him and had to bite her lip, stifling the need to whimper, to cry out. Aching, needing him inside her, she kissed him deep—and then lifted herself again, up and down, rubbing that hard ridge against her sex. His face darkened, cheekbones flushed. His ragged breaths urged her on, his hands on her hips helping her move.
And it was too much for her. Too much. Need that had been building slowly began a rapid, uncontrollable rise. Gasping, Mina scooted back down his thighs and cut off his groan of denial with a kiss. Her lips explored his mouth, his jaw. Her hands traveled down the muscled planes of his chest to his stomach, until she found the edge of his breeches. Her cheeks heated. The material stretched over his cock was soaked with her need.
So wet. And he’d barely touched her, yet she wanted and ached. She’d been afraid that as soon as he touched her, she’d lose control. But she’d lose control without it.
She wondered if he would, too. Her fingers moved to the front placket of his breeches.
He caught her hands at the first button. “Mina. This is for you.”
“It was too much. So just . . . let me.” She stilled. “Unless you don’t like it?”
With a short laugh, he pushed his erection against her hand.
“Then let me.”
He released her, fisting his hands beside her knees, his gaze fixed on the shadows between them as her fingers unfastened his breeches and loosened the tie of his drawers. Though barely able to see, Mina could feel. Hot, hard—and so thick that her fingertips didn’t meet when she closed her hand around him.
At her touch, his breath hissed through his teeth. At her first stroke, he jerked upward, thrusting through her grip. Marveling at his reaction, she fisted him in both hands and pumped his length again.
“Mina. God!”
His head fell back against the rail, the tendons in his neck straining. Impulsively, she leaned forward and put her mouth to his throat, sucking and licking. He jerked again, and her palm slipped over the wet tip of him, a slick drop that eased her way back down. A harsh sound came from his chest. He bucked, and she realized the moisture had done it, made the sensation that much better. There wasn’t enough.
“Help me.” She panted against his neck. “Help me make you wet.”
His chest heaving, he brought her hands to his mouth and licked a wet stripe up the center of each palm, through the sensitive crease between her middle fingers. She shivered.
“I was wrong, Mina.” His gaze burned into hers as he lowered her hands to his cock again. “You couldn’t punish me with restraints. Only if you stop.”
He’d already paid when she’d shot him. He’d paid with his horror when he’d realized what he’d done, with his regret and apology. He didn’t need to pay more now.
She closed her fingers around him—and the moisture was soon gone. He reached for her hands again, but her body was wet. So wet. Shifting forward, she rocked her sex against him.
He choked back a guttural moan. Heart racing, Mina grabbed onto the gunwale and held on as she rode over his thick length, each long stroke tying the knot burning at the apex of her sex tighter and tighter, every thrust through her slick folds digging a deeper ache within her. Need and panic began screaming together, but she wanted to see him to the end, wanted to see him when he came apart. Wanted to see what it was to come without fear.
His hands suddenly grasped her hips, forcing her to stop. His muscles turned to steel and he shook beneath her, and she felt the pulsing of his heavy flesh, the spurt against her belly. Gasping, she remained still, watching as the orgasm contorted his features, looking so much like pain but it was ecstasy, pleasure—and her own so strong that she poised at the precipice, where a tiny movement would tip over into terror, and she’d shatter.
Then his was done, his body unlocking, his muscles no longer so rigid. A tremor ripped through her when he sank back against the side of the ship. He opened his eyes—and froze, staring up into her face. “Mina?”
She had to answer. She whispered, “That’s all I can do.”
“Mina, God.” The tightening of his hands on her hips made her whimper. He stilled again. “You’re so close. Do it yourself. Your fingers, like my tongue.”
Trembling, she shook her head.
He held her, not moving, waiting until her need eased and he could bring her in to lie against his chest. Then longer, until she yawned against his neck.
“To bed, Mina,” he said softly.
“And you?”
“I have to stay until dawn. Let me come to you then. To lay with you.”
“To take advantage of me when I wake up?”
“No.” She felt his smile against her hair. “I’ll begin when you’re asleep.”
Rhys hesitated at the side of her bed. Mina lay in the center of the white sheets, the thin nightshirt twisted around her legs, a sheen of perspiration on her skin. He’d disturb her when he lay down—heavy as he was, a sagging mattress was a given, but he’d broken more than one bed. And if he woke her, anxiety might keep her from sleeping again. Even though she’d agreed to share his bed until they returned to London, this was still new.
To him, too. But he was already certain the airship and the Terror wouldn’t be enough. Why had she trusted him when he’d said they would be? She knew he was a pirate, and a liar—but perhaps she truly believed that he’d be done with her before they reached London. Perhaps it was what she wanted.
He’d wait until he’d had her. Then she’d learn differently.
The engines started, shattering the silence that had lasted through the night. Mina stirred. Her eyes opened and widened at his appearance. He searched her face for fear when she realized that he only wore his drawers. He didn’t see any.
All right. The bed creaked as he got in. She rolled toward him with a startled laugh, coming to a rest against his side. He lifted her over him, tucking his arm around her waist. Christ, she was a small thing. Her shoulders were barely the width of half of his chest. He could feel her toes at his shins, and the top of her head tucked beneath his chin.
The fingers of her right hand skimmed over his pectoral, as if hesitant to touch him, testing his reaction. He lay still, and finally her hand rested against him.
Sleepily, she said, “I hate that blasted engine.”
Rhys did, too. He preferred the quiet of the Terror—though he didn’t know if she’d find it quiet. There was always creaking, the cawing of the seabirds, the roar of the waves, the voices and footsteps of the crew.
“London is loud,” he said.
“But with different noises. Not just one. I thought one would be easier to ignore, but it just becomes louder and louder. It becomes everything.”
It struck him that he’d thought that his first time on an airship, too—that the engine would drive him mad. Then a few days later, he didn’t notice it anymore. “It’ll be better soon. The heat, too.”
He felt her nod. Then she said, “It will soon be too hot to sleep like this.”
“Do you care?” He didn’t.
She seemed to think it over. “No.”
Good. He closed his eyes.
When Rhys woke up, she was sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed, watching him. The cotton nightshirt stretched over her knees, blocking his view between her legs. So he’d have to get under there. But first, he wanted to look some more.
Her black hair fell smoothly from the part at the center of her head, framing her round face. A damned pretty face, he realized with some surprise. Driven by his need to possess her, he hadn’t thought much about how her features came together—he’d already liked all of them. But now, with his need still urgent but soothed by the promise of soon having her, he could truly see her. And she wasn’t just pretty. Her face contained everything. Her features could be soft and hard, cool and hot. They gave him her laughter and anger, insight and confusion.
Now, she was studying him with her keen inspector’s gaze, patient and razor-sharp, as if she was preparing to peel him apart.
All right. But only if he could peel away something from her in trade.
Rhys turned onto his side. “Take off your nightgown,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because you have small tits and big nipples.” Both the perfect size for his mouth. “I want them now.”
She still hadn’t recovered from her confusion and surprise. She glanced at the sun streaming through the portholes. “Now? But—”
In a quick movement, he rolled over onto his stomach, his elbows alongside her knees, his palms cupping her hips. All he had to do was shove her nightshirt up and lower his head, and he could bury his face in the crevice of her thighs. Her fragrance penetrated the cotton, warm and earthy, the musk of sweat and woman. His cock ached. To take the edge off, he rocked his hips into the mattress.
“You’re about to interrogate me. I’ll answer. But I intend to suck on your nipples while I do.” His gaze dropped. “And when you’re done, I’ll spread your legs and fuck you with my tongue.”
“Oh, blue.” On a gasp, she twisted away. He caught her knee with his right hand and ran his left up the inside of her thigh. She quivered and looked back over her shoulder.
His fingers found moisture, heat. She wasn’t wet. Not yet. He slipped through her folds and circled her clit.
Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. Her head bowed. “Stop that.”
He didn’t. The little bud was swelling beneath his fingertips, stiff and slick. “Because there’s daylight outside? Because it’s difficult to interrogate me like this? Or because you’re afraid?”
He’d stop for the last. Only for the last.
“Because I can’t think.”
Good. He dragged her beneath him and onto her back. Her nightgown rode up on her waist. She was naked beneath. He came down between her parted thighs, his weight on his elbows, pinning her hips with his. Letting her feel him through his drawers. She was hot now—and so wet, soaking the linen through to his cock.
“Ask what you want to know,” he said, lifting his hand to his mouth. Her lips parted in shock as he licked her flavor from his fingers.
“I—he—Scarsdale.” She closed her eyes. Her throat worked, and she continued with slow deliberation, “Scarsdale said that Hunt threw a zombie off an airship onto the Terror and it bit you.”
“It did.” He angled his forearm until she could see the scar. “A big chunk.”
And the feel of her beneath him was doing a lot to keep that memory at bay. But not for her. Horror had filled her eyes, as if she was imagining it. And still not understanding.
“But how—?”
“Am I still alive?” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Her brow furrowed when she frowned up at him. Rhys kissed the frown away, but had to admit he wouldn’t last long like this. And she seemed determined.
So he’d let the lady have her way.
He rolled over and off the bed, glad he’d visited the privy before he’d fallen asleep and had no need for it now. His erection was so hard, he’d either break his cock bending it the right direction or piss in his own face.
The cabin girls had already been in. Coffee, grapes, and melon waited on the small table, along with bowls of the yogurt and honey that Yasmeen favored. Aviators were lucky bastards. Traveling short routes and stopping often enough, they could load up on fresh food and supplies as needed. Never down to hardtack and picking worms out of it.
Coffee in hand, Rhys glanced around at Mina. Her gaze wasn’t on his face, but fixed somewhere on his chest and stomach, and hungry—as if she wanted to take a bite of him, too. He resisted the urge to find a breeches and shirt. If she liked it, he’d let her look.
Though he sure as hell couldn’t understand it, any more than he understood Scarsdale, or what any woman saw in a man when he was all but naked. In the Market, they’d tried to keep him shaved and oiled up after he reached puberty. Probably for good reason. Twenty years later, he was nothing but hair. Hairy chest. Hairy legs. A jaw that was rough five hours after he scraped a razor over it. But even with all the hair gone, there were just harsh angles and rough muscle. Hands coarse and callused. The jut of his cock against his drawers was ridiculous, and uncovered, was nothing but a blunt ugly tool. But Mina . . . God, look at her. Even on the thin side, she was soft and curvy, with every part of her made to fit his hands, his mouth.
But still thin. Frowning, he glanced down at the plate. There was enough here for two, but he knew himself well enough that he could polish this off without a second thought. And so would she. At dinner, she ate with concentration, and though she never asked for seconds, she never left a crumb, either.
He did that, too. He had too many memories of plates that weren’t full to waste what was put in front of him. He pulled out a chair. “Get over here and eat this with me.”
She did. Unable to turn down a meal, even when he ordered her around like a sailor. Christ, that twisted at him. She pulled her blue wrap on over the nightshirt and sat. Taking her coffee, she said, “You must have some idea why you survived.”
“My bugs are different.”
He said it without thinking, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He might run her off before they reached the Ivory Market tonight. Of course, as quick as her mind was, she might have already figured it out. He didn’t see any surprise on her face. Instead, she popped a grape into her mouth and arched her brows, waiting for him to continue.
“But I don’t know if that’s why. Might have been that I shoved my arm in a boiling pot right after. Maybe that killed the diseased ones.” And had hurt enough, had felt like it’d almost killed him. “I might just be that lucky. Whatever the reason, I’m not looking to get bit again.”
“Animals don’t become zombies.”
