The Captain of All Pleasures (4 page)

But what a way to go…

She boldly obeyed by parting them. He touched his tongue to hers and
that feeling
arose again—hot, liquid, and undeniable. His breathing became ragged. She could feel his heavy arousal against her belly—
oh, Lord,
he pressed it against her, and her head fell back in pleasure and shock, her mouth opening in a silent cry. She couldn't allow him to touch her like that. She would make him stop…. But she already throbbed where their bodies met. Her breasts ached. In the clash between her wanting and her will, the wanting took over. And ruled her.

She grabbed his shoulders, pulling herself up on her toes to get closer, deeper into his arms. Her body began shaking as the movement drove her breasts into his chest. She was coming out of her skin, frenzied to be near him. Was she making that low keening sound?

With a curse, he released her and deliberately set her away from him. “This will be over before it begins,” he grated in a strained voice. He was out of breath, and when he ran his palm across the back of his neck, she could swear he battled surprise.

He watched her in a searching way, and even though he seemed tense as a tightly wound coil, Nicole thought that she pleased him. With the tip of her tongue, she tasted him on her lips, and brought her hand to her bruised mouth, reveling in how she could still perceive the seeking pressure of his kiss.

She studied his mouth, staring, captivated by how warm his lips had been, since they appeared to be chiseled out of stone. He fascinated her. His behavior fascinated her. And she knew there was more.

She stood there, unable to take her eyes away. Even though he was her enemy, his kisses helped her past that detail. If only for a night. Why not use him to finally know what her schoolmates whispered about in the dark?

“Tell me your name.”

Wait! Sutherland didn't know her. She hesitated for just a second too long.

“Of course, I don't expect you to give your real name…but I'd have thought you would have picked out a working name.”

Working name? What the devil—All questions ceased. He was angry again.

“Christina. My name is Christina,” she hedged, supplying him with her middle name.

Was he amused? She got the impression that her “working name” was not what he'd expected.

She knew she couldn't come up with a reasonable excuse for why murderous cutthroats had followed her without letting him know her identity. Especially since all she could think of were his lips. Nervously she took a deep breath and forced a tremulous smile, though that was the last thing she wanted to do.

He, in turn, looked down into her eyes until his gaze settled on her smiling lips. Whatever he saw there had his fingers threaded through her hair, then descending over her neck, until he skimmed the backs of his fingers over her breasts. Her eyes grew wide. She grabbed his wrists to stop him, but wished she hadn't as soon as the feelings registered.

He twisted out of her grasp, placing her hands on his chest before bringing his fingers back to her body. She was dumbfounded by his actions, and her reactions. The rigid muscles in his chest moved under her fingertips, enticing her; his touch made her breasts ache.

She looked down at his hands, eyes shuttered. He didn't behave like the pinching, clutching men she'd seen on the docks. He…luxuriated in her, watching his own stroking movements, seemingly enthralled as he teased her nipples to hard, aching points. Her eyelids slid closed when he grasped her sides, his hands so big on her body, and rubbed his thumbs over her.

“You bring a man to his knees when you smile, but you probably know that,” he told her in that gravelly tone. “Tonight, I'll have you, and I'll make you smile with pleasure.” He bent down and gently brushed his lips to hers, as if preparing her, warning her, for the deepening contact of his mouth.

She became lost in his kiss with its thorough caressing. He acted hungry for her, as if he couldn't control his reaction to her, and thinking of that made her hunger for him. Heat and sensation bombarded every part of her body that touched his—her breasts, her belly, her legs.

She clung weakly to his coat, scarcely aware that she deepened the connection of their bodies by pushing into him as he'd done to her earlier. He responded by pulling her hips to his with a grinding force. She raced toward something, something she starved for. Then his hand trailed down, lighting on her thigh before kneading upward, inch by inch. Did his other hand fumble with his trousers?

She was feeling too much, closer to flying apart than she'd ever been in her dreams. Too much from this man. She stiffened. A last shimmer of sanity called to her. This was
Sutherland
. It was supposed to end with just a kiss.

Instead of holding him to her, she pushed away from him. She shook her head forcefully. For God's sake, this was Sutherland! Why did she behave like this with him? In answer, the throbbing in her body grew more pronounced.

Unconsciously she swiped at her lips as if to erase what she'd just done. Of all the men in the world, she couldn't be this attracted to
him
. She simply couldn't. Particularly since she'd never met another man who made her body rebel against her. She couldn't allow a rival, an enemy, this power over her.

A thrill, of what had to be fear, surged through her when she admitted there were a few moments back there when she probably would have done anything he desired.

More important, she reminded herself, while she was in here…
cavorting
with Sutherland, the two men who wanted to harm the ship and had tried to kill her were loose.

In response to her pulling away, he laughed a mirthless laugh and ran his hand through his thick, black hair. “A word of advice—in your line of work, you should at least act as though you enjoy my kiss,” he said, then he stalked past her down the corridor.

Her wits were slow, simpleton slow in her desire-saturated mind, but she finally understood why he'd so heroically brought her back to his ship.

He thought she was a whore.

She wasn't offended by that in the least. She had befriended courtesans who made their livelihood from loving men. No, disappointment seeped into Nicole because during the day she had come to believe that they'd had some powerful connection the night before. The memory of that had factored into why she'd let him kiss and touch her. In reality, he'd just been surveying the women in the tavern and assumed she was part of his selection.

When he walked away, she whirled around to leave. Because that's what she should do. She hadn't even reached the deck before she started doubting her decision. Those men were out there. It was freezing out on the docks. And dark.

Nicole walked to the gangway, past the guards, who seemed uneasy around her. She tried to see each way down the quay, but only craggy, dark places abounded. Miles separated her from the
Bella Nicola,
and she had no money. And how could she be sure anyone would even be back aboard by now?

She hesitated. Captain Sutherland thought she was a prostitute. Nicole didn't attempt to delude herself that if she entered his cabin, she'd come out unscathed. Then she imagined Pretty jumping out from behind a building, his cadaverous face twisted into a grin.

Crossly, she turned and scuffed to his cabin, all the while sorting through her spiraling emotions. When she entered, his face was unreadable, but she swore he looked surprised to see her return. If he was, he promptly got over it. He didn't waste any time closing the door behind her, and she teased herself by ridiculously thinking that he didn't want her to change her mind.

He stood near enough that his warmth and his addictive scent enfolded her, before moving to the center of the cabin. He shrugged his broad shoulders out of his coat and tossed it over a chair, his every movement casual and unhurried. She had the feeling that he played with her, as if he had all the time in the world to find out her secrets.

Regardless, she would make the most of this situation. Yes, she'd just entered Derek Sutherland's cabin still shaking from his kiss. That was
bad
.
But
she needed a safe haven until she could be certain the crew had returned to her ship before she attempted to go home.

“Captain, I, uh, would like…” She had to stop and cough before beginning again. “I would like to stay with you for a couple of hours. For protection,” she added hastily.

“Why should I protect you?”

Good question. Yet she had no good answer. “Because I'm asking you to?”

He paused, taking time to look her over again. His voice was husky when he answered, “I'll keep you here with me.”

She nodded.
There. That wasn't so bad. This was a good decision,
Nicole assured herself, even as she reacted to his hungry look with another bloom of heat throughout her body.

But who, she wondered as the sensual rush turned into a deepening knot of dread, would protect her from herself?

W
hen Nicole forced her eyes away from Sutherland and surveyed his cabin, the first thing she noticed was his oversize bed. The second—he'd caught her looking at it. He had the gall to smirk at her, and her face flamed as she glanced away.

The room was extremely large even for a ship of this size, but snug and warm with none of the usual drafts. She took in the tasteful colors and décor and reluctantly acknowledged that it easily surpassed her own cabin, even with all those fancy gifts from her hard-hearted grandmother crammed into it—gifts just waiting, in her opinion, for the right time to be coldly pawned.

A sizable mahogany desk rested under a large clouded-glass skylight, and scattered all over it, so like her own, were charts and scribbled numbers.

As if magnetically drawn to it, she edged over to spy out his course, straining to see in the low light. She made out many of the figures while he fed fuel into the stove and turned up the room's lanterns.

She examined his course line, knowing she was cheating, but she wanted to find out how far south he planned to sail through the Southern Ocean when rounding Africa's Cape of Good Hope. If she could determine that, then she could either meet his course or beat it with a more dangerous, but faster latitude farther south.
How low are you going to go, Captain Sutherland?

Her eyebrows shot up. Lower than even her reckless father had ever dared.

His course ran insanely close to the perilous seas around the Antarctic, cutting the distance and sailing time to Sydney. She had to have read it wrong.

“Don't try to read that,” he advised. “It will only give you a headache.”

Her eyes narrowed. She'd been plotting since she was old enough to count. Indeed, she almost informed him with a sharp rap of her fingernails over the offending numbers that
he
had made a mistake in one of his calculations. But she should probably let the error stand, since it could adversely affect his course in the race. It would be a cold-blooded thing to do, but this wasn't a child's game. If he couldn't meet the challenge, then he'd fail.

When she said nothing, he scrutinized her and said, “It's a
course
—a map of where I'll sail this ship on my next voyage.”
Had he explained that slowly?

Nicole's nails bit into her palms as she quieted her arrogant pride. She managed a tepid smile as if impressed with his knowledge. Yet thoughts of the race vanished when he walked toward her in that slow, fluid way that made her belly tighten.

He reached out to her, his body so close that she would have to move to avoid touching him. Instead, she lowered her lashes. Would he kiss her again? Did she want him to touch her with those lips once more? Nothing happened for the space of what should have been a couple of breaths.

Her eyes flashed open; he'd reached past her toward a bottle of brandy. She didn't think he'd seen her mortifying surrender, but that didn't stop her from berating herself for being so vulnerable to him. Sutherland was a cruel man. A patronizing man. He expected, lest she forget, that she would be
bought
tonight.

Well, he could occupy himself with liquor all night if he wanted, but she would not let him touch her again. As if to illustrate his matching intention, he poured a generous amount and drained his cut-crystal glass in two long draws.

Inclining the bottle toward her, he halfheartedly offered her some. She couldn't decide if this was because he didn't think she'd accept or because he didn't want to share. She shook her head in answer, the movement making her sway.

Perhaps she should have taken a drink, she thought as a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over her and chilled her. Shivering, she pulled her cloak closer and wrapped her arms around her body.

“You're cold,” he said. He set down his glass and walked to a cabinet.

“I seem to be,” she confessed. “I become cold very easily.”

Their tones sounded so mundane that she thought of what would happen when reality claimed her. Thinking of tomorrow was like a wet blanket over all the sensations he'd produced in her, and she couldn't make up her mind whether she wanted him to kiss her or if she wanted to fall down where she was and sleep.

He turned from the cabinet and tossed a blanket at her, and though her sore body made it difficult, she awkwardly managed to catch it. Frowning, he looked her over; then, seeming to make a colossal sacrifice, he took it from her. Without a word, he tugged off her damp cloak to wrap the blanket around her, as if she were no more than a doll he was changing.

He looked her up and down, his gaze stopping at her feet. “Since I've already started this idiocy…” he muttered gruffly, as he bent to untie and pull off her filthy boots. Obliged to place her hands on his wide, solid shoulders, she had to resist moving her fingers over the firm bunching of his muscles.

When he removed the first boot, his eyes narrowed. He held it up to the lantern, where they both saw that the scuffed brown leather had soaked up splattered blood like a sponge.

“Are you hurt?” he barked as he dropped that one and rushed to remove the other.

“That's not—that's not my blood.” Merely thinking about where that blood came from, about the falls and the running enervated her.

His eyebrows rose in amazement, and he studied her face before returning to his task. Nicole felt foolish when he took off her socks, leaving her to furrow her toes in the cabin's plush rug. But she stood unresisting, knowing she needed his help just now. He strode to his bureau and brought back a pair of thick woolen socks. She hadn't realized her feet were cold, but when she spied those socks her body cried for them.

He jerked them over her feet, and her eyes closed in blissful comfort. “That feels so
good,”
she breathed. She opened her eyes and frowned at the sound of her husky, sensual voice. When had she ever sounded like that?

He looked at her curiously, then stood abruptly. As if he needed to explain, he said, “Your feet were like ice.”

Nicole nodded slowly, overwhelmed with fatigue. She took such a deep breath that her head moved with it. Her eyelids opened more sluggishly with each blink.

With something like resignation in his eyes, he placed a huge hand on her lower back and began guiding her to his bed. “Come on. You're exhausted.”

“Oh. No, I can't. I couldn't.”

When she resisted, he said, “I won't hurt you.”

She focused on his face to tell him she absolutely could not be in his bed, but no words came. Her legs shook. She must have gone soft in the rich surroundings of her last school, because a second later they simply gave out. She sank onto his bed, bewildered by her weakness.

“Will you be all right?”

“Yes. No?” she whispered. “I'm just so tired.”

“The night is catching up with you, so rest for a bit. Then we'll talk about who those men were,” Sutherland said, his voice neither menacing nor kind as he lightly grasped her shoulder and pushed her down. He squeezed it firmly once, letting her know without words that he wanted her to stay put, before releasing her to walk over to the basin. He brought back a soaked cloth and began washing her scraped hands.

Nicole looked up at him one last time as he brushed at a smudge on her face, trying to decide if she could trust him, knowing she didn't have much choice. She couldn't tell anything. His face could have been made of marble for all the emotion it showed. Nicole unwillingly drifted to sleep and dreamed that Sutherland said in disbelief,
“Her eyes are blue.”

Derek didn't make as large a dent in his bottle as he'd intended while he sat and watched over the girl curled in his bed. He'd definitely not predicted his first night with her to be like this. Usually he was impatient to bed a woman and get her gone, but she had been afraid and possibly hurt. Still, he wasn't resigned to having her sleep here the whole night.

He was, he had to admit, proud that tonight he'd overcome his natural selfishness in order to do something considerate. Why he was being so charitable to a prostitute, he had no idea. It must have been the liquor affecting his brain, because the girl could be prickly and rude, and he certainly did not get involved with women for more than purely physical reasons.

That's just what he needed to be doing, taking on the troubles of a young prostitute. As if he didn't have enough weight on his shoulders.

Even more remarkable, he was experiencing the wholly unaccustomed feeling of protectiveness. He wanted to kill the two who'd chased her. She'd put up a good fight, which was most likely why she'd survived. Hell, the little spitfire had actually drawn blood from someone.

The idea that she was a fighter intrigued him, probably because he had let go of so much so easily.

Oddly, she hadn't behaved like a prostitute. No innuendos gone stale from overuse or practiced pouty smiles. And only minutes after she'd kissed him and made him want her with a surprising ferocity, she'd had to drag her feet back into his cabin. He'd automatically reached for a drink because she'd disconcerted him. A slip of a girl likely a decade younger had made him ill at ease on his own ship.

Derek didn't know why she didn't practice her wiles on him, wiles he would have known how to proceed with. This girl had only looked at him with a tilted head and open curiosity, until her eyelids slid over those dark eyes, blue eyes, as she began to fade.

He'd almost experienced relief when she'd passed out. Yet that was crazy. If he understood one thing on this bizarre night, it was that he wanted to sink into her lithe body. Sink into her until she eased the ache her abandoned response had created. Damn, how she'd responded to him.

Turning his mind from that gripping image, he took a long pull of drink. The way things were going now, she'd have to spend the night in his bed. He grimaced at the thought. With him, that just wasn't done. Had never been done, in fact.

He reached over to shake her awake, but his hand stilled on her shoulder. She lay like the dead, as she had for hours. Her silky skin shone white as porcelain except for the pale lavender rings under the sweep of her lashes. But if he didn't wake her, where the hell was he supposed to sleep?

For the space of several minutes, he stared down at the girl. It wouldn't make a difference if he slept with her for the few hours left till dawn. It wasn't a monumental thing, damn it!

Decided, he slipped off his boots and clothes and slid in next to her. Her body burned like a little furnace in the bed, and being near her warmth was comfortable. Seemingly of its own volition, his arm covered her waist and brought her to him.

Derek was aware that he protected her, and on some hidden plane he felt good and strong, if only for a few hours. He pulled her small body closer still and breathed in the soft scent of her hair.

He was, though not completely—never completely— pleased. Until he thought of the strange moment of hesitation he'd just had as he stripped off his clothes. It certainly wasn't modesty, but for some reason he had a fleeting impression that his state of undress would make her uneasy. Ridiculous, of course, since she'd probably spent most of her nights like this with dozens of different men.

His last thought before drifting to sleep was how much that fact bothered him.

 

When a soft ray of light flitted through the window and warmed her face, Nicole woke in a dismayed flash. Her rapidly blinking eyes spied a tanned arm sprinkled with golden-tipped black hair wrapped around her.

Captain Sutherland held her in his bed
.

She slowly twisted her head back. In sleep, his face was softened, though certainly not relieved of the dark weariness that had marked it the two previous nights. She felt a tug of emotion, a pull toward him that differed from the physical attraction that had surfaced so powerfully before.

She made herself look away and took a mental inventory of her body, concluding that most of her clothes were on. Her shirt, her pants—her eyes widened and the blood rushed to her face. Sutherland pressed against her backside. At least, a very hard part of him did. It would appear that although she was clothed, he certainly had nothing to…restrain him.