“Please,” she said wildly, “don’t do this—”
He turned her to face him and grazed her mouth with a surprisingly soft kiss. She jerked her head back and struggled furiously, a short scream escaping her lips. His hands tangled in her hair, pushing her head down to the bed. A powerful thigh swung over her body, and he straddled her hips, crouching over her intently. She whimpered in fear, clawing at his face, his chest, but nothing would stop the ravenous mouth that wandered over her throat, cheeks, chin, and salty-wet lashes. Her cries were smothered as his lips forced hers open, his tongue plunging into the hollow of her mouth.
At first Griffin intended to take her without delay. It didn’t matter if his desire was reciprocated or not—he had to bury himself inside her and satisfy his hunger. Roughly he pulled at the clothes that covered her.
Suddenly Celia went still. She turned her face away from him, closing her eyes, steeling herself to endure what would follow. Griffin stared at her naked body. She was slim and fragile, soft as silk, her skin translucent in the moonlight. He could see the delicate tracing of veins above her breasts, the pale satin points of her nipples, the glint of down that formed a line along her midriff.
Her lips were wet from his kisses. Slowly he bent over her, tasted those soft lips with a gentleness that was foreign to him. She clenched her teeth and held herself immobile while his mouth brushed over hers. He touched the side of her breast, traced the shallow curve underneath. A sweet scent clung to her, the natural fragrance that belonged to her alone. He pressed his mouth to a soft pink nipple until it formed a hard bud, brushed his beard against the aroused peak, then soothed it with his tongue.
Celia quivered in outrage. The way he touched her seemed like a mockery of what she and Philippe had shared. “Don’t,” she said hoarsely. “Just have done with it! Don’t pretend I’m willing…don’t pretend…”
He seemed not to hear her. His mouth left a trail of fire as it skimmed to her other breast. Strangling a moan, she rolled to her stomach, trying to douse the burning in the pit of her belly and between her thighs. Immediately he found the back of her neck and tormented the vulnerable spot with nibbling kisses. His warm fingers dipped into the hollows of her spine, pressing and kneading, working down to the smooth place where her buttocks began. Celia clenched her fists and turned her perspiring face into the cotton ticking. “I hate you,” she gasped, her voice muffled. “Nothing could change that. Let me go!”
“I can’t.”
“I-it doesn’t matter what you have done for me, I am not yours and you have no right—”
“You are mine. Until I give you to the Vallerands.” He bent over her unwilling mouth once more, thinking that he’d never had to seduce a woman before, not when every corner of the world was filled with willing ones. For him, the act of mating had always been quick and intense. But now he wanted something different, wanted it enough to wait with unnatural patience.
He slid his large hand over her breast, covering it completely. Her heart beat wildly into his palm. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, stroking her breast in a calming movement. “I won’t hurt you.”
She gave a choking laugh at the incongruity of such words, when his muscular body was poised over hers so threateningly. She sensed the violence of the passion contained inside him, expected that at any moment he would tear open his breeches and fall on her like an animal. His mouth touched hers, and the unfamiliar laugh died away, melting beneath the scorching heat of his lips. The hammering rhythm of her heart seemed to drive the air from her lungs. Slowly he acquainted himself with the inside of her cheeks, the sensitive places under her tongue.
Celia felt herself slipping into a dreamlike trance. She no longer cared who she was, or what she was doing. All that mattered was that the feeling didn’t stop. Her breasts ached, and she moaned as he circled them with gentle fingertips. The muscles of his arms tightened, and he pulled her upright until her nipples were buried in the mat of springy hair on his chest. His hand moved up the ridge of her spine, clutched the hair at the back of her neck. “Say my name,” she heard him mutter against her throat. The feel of his rough beard against her skin sent a wave of shocking excitement through her.
“No—”
“Say it.”
Celia sobbed in anguish, trying to conjure up Philippe’s image, trying to recall herself to sanity. But Philippe’s face had vanished, and there was nothing left but darkness and the tormenting caresses of a stranger. Tears slid down her face. “Justin,” she said brokenly.
“Yes,” he whispered, gripping her small head between his hands, lowering her to the bed.
“Justin…” She shuddered as his kisses swept over her face, harvesting the tears from her cheeks, chin, and jaw. The tip of his tongue ventured into the corners of her mouth, gained entrance to the moist softness beyond her lips. She had never been kissed like this before, with a slow thoroughness that sent her thoughts spinning into chaos.
Dimly she sensed the terrible guilt that awaited her if she allowed him to take her. If she put up enough of a struggle, there was a slim chance he might let her go. But to her everlasting shame, she found she had no more will to fight…her body was welcoming the drugging caresses that eased away all pain, all awareness of everything but rapture.
Unhurriedly Griffin stood up and removed the remainder of his clothes, his gaze never leaving her. The tiny bed creaked in protest as his weight lowered onto it once more. Celia gave a shivering moan as his hair-roughened leg intruded between hers. His lips covered hers while his fingers searched through the pale golden triangle at the juncture of her thighs. He found the tender line of closed inner lips, opened them with soft strokes. Weakly she tried to deny him, but he kept her legs apart with his knees and subdued her with a low murmur.
His palm coasted up the inside of her thighs, encountered the touch of wetness in the tangle of hair. Embarrassed and frightened, she turned on her side. He pulled her back, his hand gliding between her legs once more. Her inner muscles constricted as she felt his fingers probing the entrance to her body.
Celia tried to control her gasps, tried to ignore the maddening urge to push her hips up against that warm, knowing hand. One of his fingers slipped into her swollen passage, stroking the slick inner walls. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, the tip of his finger tracing a sensitive place inside her, causing her to jerk against him with a startled gasp. “Easy, ma petite…relax. I won’t hurt you.”
As Griffin whispered reassurances to her, he lost his ever-present awareness of the outside world, the keen alertness that had never left him before. He drew pleasure from her with singleminded concentration, as if thirstily drinking water from a spring. Celia’s small hands touched his bearded face, his hair, his flexing back. Closer and closer her limbs moved to his, pressing against the unfamiliar hardness and rough texture of a man’s body. He held her slim hips between his thighs, while the huge, taut length of his aroused flesh burned against her abdomen.
Griffin began to enter her, and paused at the discovery that she was impossibly small. Celia writhed under the exploration of his mouth and hands, softly begging for release. Her fingers curled into the back of his neck, and she pressed her face against his shoulder, gasping with fear and need. The gesture of surrender lured him on, and he plunged into her softness with a single thrust. It was then that Griffin’s mind reeled from shock as he heard a cry of pain, felt her awkward attempts to accommodate him. The throbbing flesh that surrounded him had never been breached before.
Since attaining manhood Griffin had taken care to avoid virgins. They were nothing but trouble, and they held no attraction for him. The shock of encountering his first virgin was not a pleasant one. He should have recognized the signs—but he had been too eager for her. And she had been, after all, a married woman. Or had she? He seized her face in his hands, glaring at her furiously. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “Not Philippe’s wife, not anyone’s wife. Tell me why, damn you!”
She cringed
away from him, unable to speak. Her body was racked with agony…he was too big, he was hurting her…his rage frightened her. He moved slightly and she gave a cry of distress, tears sliding out from beneath her eyelids.
Breathing in harsh bursts, Griffin released his grip on her face. “Dammit, answer me!”
She moaned and turned her head to the side, trying to block out his anger.
Griffin wondered what the hell he was going to do. For all his experience, the deflowering of innocents was something of which he had no knowledge. And he did not want to hurt her further. She pushed at his chest with her hands and twisted beneath him. “Don’t,” he said, keeping her still. “Don’t move.” He lowered his mouth to the space between her eyebrows and kept his lips pressed against that small spot.
The warmth of his mouth there was strangely hypnotic, and she began to relax.
“You should have told me,” he said. “I could have made it easier for you.” He drew her wrists over her head. “Leave them there, petite. And be still.”
Separating his mouth from her skin, he let his breath fall on her moistened forehead. Celia inhaled sharply as she felt him slide deeper inside her. The rough tips of his fingers traced over her lips, and then were replaced by his mouth. Leisurely he tasted, bit, and sucked at her lips, sometimes languid and light, sometimes hard and intense, until her mouth was warm and swollen and her entire body was tingling.
His hands brushed over her in long strokes, preparing the way for his gently questing mouth. Inch by inch he withdrew from her, and Celia gave a whimpering protest. She felt empty, restless, her body seeking more of the hard, masculine pressure. His lips coasted over the center of her chest, down her taut midriff to her navel. Delicately his tongue circled the tiny rim before dipping inside. Unable to bear the intimate wetness of his mouth there, she moaned beseechingly.
Griffin moved his body back over hers, teasing the feminine mound with strokes of his heavy shaft. She felt his hand slide under her back, and she arched willingly, allowing his probing fingers to find the base of her spine. Her breath caught as she felt pleasure spreading from her shoulders to the backs of her knees. He eased another few inches into her throbbing passage, stretching her until she clutched at his shoulders in a reflex of pain.
“Look at me, Celia,” he said huskily.
She stared into his eyes, mesmerized by the depths of shadowed blue. The ache between her legs faded, and she made no protest as he pushed forward again, filling her completely. They exhaled together, both aware of a sense that time had stopped, leaving the two of them alone in a world without boundaries. Griffin plunged and withdrew slowly, luxuriating in her soft body.
Celia held on to him desperately, knowing she should have clawed and fought him until the bitter end. It was madness to want him. But he demanded her pleasure, forced it from her with unforgivably gentle lips and hands. She slid her fingers into his hair, kept his mouth on hers while his kisses ravaged and feasted without inhibition. Her hips strained toward his, and with a low grunt he grasped her buttocks, showing her a circular movement that intensified the fire between them.
The half-sweet, half-painful rapture exploded inside her with stunning force. Helplessly she arched up to his thrusting hips and gasped against his chest, her mind blank except for the thought that she must be dying. Griffin lunged inside her a final time, every muscle in his long body tautening into fine-tempered steel. His beard scratched the soft skin of her neck, while the heat of his breath singed her nerve endings.
The embers of pleasure glowed for a long time afterward, while he held her trembling body against his and drew her head onto his shoulder. Celia was too weak to move. She felt herself slowly drifting into an exhausted slumber. Then for a few moments she felt the deepest peace she had ever known, but it was soon eclipsed by shame. She could not deal with such feelings now though; she was too tired. She did not move from the warm circle of his arms, only rested more fully against him and let sleep overtake her.
Much later she was aware of a river of darkness that cradled and carried her in its slow current. Unable to decide if she was awake or lost in a dream, she abandoned herself to the sensation. Stealthy hands swept over her with devastating tenderness. A hard, expert mouth slid across hers. Her knees were parted easily, and she lay relaxed and drowsy as the force of him moved over and inside her.
Softly she moaned his name, unresisting as he pulled her legs up to his waist. Understanding her needs with terrifying accuracy, he adjusted his rhythm to accommodate her body, building and stoking the fire until her desire matched his. Later she would despise herself for letting it happen again, but for now there was only feeling, only sweet forgetfulness…and she craved it as she had craved nothing else in her life.
It was early in the morning, yet already the day was still and sultry. Celia crept outside cautiously, clasping the detested black shirt around her body. She kept quiet for fear of waking Griffin, who was still sleeping in the cottage. She had neither the strength nor the nerve to face him yet. As she made her way to the edge of the lake, she felt an unfamiliar soreness between her legs. The reminder of what had taken place last night caused her face to flame scarlet.
Nothing she had ever read, no gossip she had overheard, no religious doctrine, nor medical knowledge her father had imparted, nothing had prepared her for what she had experienced last night. There were many who believed that a decent woman should not feel pleasure even in union with her husband. Certainly there was no excuse for her to have responded to a stranger as she had. And not only was Griffin a stranger, he was a pirate, a scavenger who killed and stole and ravened the wealth of others. She felt sick with guilt. It was incroyable that she should sink to such depths, not three days after Philippe had been murdered. She had never imagined there might be a bestial side to her own nature, and she hated herself for it—even more than she hated Griffin.
Celia found it difficult not to cry as she dropped the black shirt at the lake’s edge and scooped water on her bloodstained thighs. But she no longer had the right to tears—she would not allow herself that luxury anymore. She was responsible for what she had done last night, and she doubted that even a lifetime of remorseful prayer would ease her sin and shame.
Philippe, she thought in agony, I am glad you never found out what kind of woman I really am.
Unsteadily she washed herself, her remorse doubling with each scrape and bruise she discovered on her pale skin. Griffin had made those marks. Remembering the way she had pushed her body up at him and writhed underneath his hands, she bit her bottom lip.
There was a rustling sound behind her. She whirled around to see him standing there. He was clad only in his worn breeches, his hair-covered chest left bare and his long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He looked at home in their primitive surroundings—far more at ease, she suspected, than he would be in more civilized circumstances.
His gaze wandered over her naked, glistening body, his interest undiminished even when she snatched up the discarded shirt and covered herself. “Don’t go anywhere without me again,” he said.
She stared at him with swollen, reproachful eyes. “I’ll do what I wish,” she dared to say.
“You’ll obey me if you prize your neck. We’re not in New Orleans yet.”
The threatening softness in his tone sent a cowardly chill of fear through her. “D’accord,” she agreed, the word sticking in her throat. She inched away from the edge of the lake, holding the shirt tightly closed.
Griffin lowered himself on his haunches and scooped several handfuls of water over his face and chest. Droplets glittered like diamonds on his sun-darkened skin. He turned to glance at her through narrowed eyes. “Why were you still a virgin?” Tactfulness was a quality he had discarded long ago.
A searing blush covered Celia’s body. Although she had been more intimate with him than with any other man in her life, she knew nothing about him. It was nearly impossible to confess such personal things to him. Still, if she did not re
ply willingly, she knew he would force her to. “Philippe was a gentleman. He…he said he would wait for me to feel comfortable with him before he required me to…to perform my duty as his wife.”
“‘Perform your duty,’” he repeated mockingly. “No wonder he didn’t press the issue, if that’s how you regard it. And at your age—what is it, twenty-three, twenty-four…?”
“Twenty-four,” she muttered.
“In New Orleans you’d have been considered a full-fledged spinster. At your age you should have welcomed Philippe into your bed with cries of gratitude. But you asked him to wait.”
“I wish I had not,” she said under her breath, but he heard her clearly.
“So do I. God knows I never expected you to be a virgin.”
“If you had known, would you have left me alone?” she asked bitterly.
He held her gaze for a long moment. “No.”
No apologies, not even a pretense of concern for how she might feel this morning. Celia was torn between self-pity and outrage. He was nothing but an insensitive brute!
“You’ve lost nothing,” he said, reading the anger in her eyes. “No one will ever suspect it wasn’t Philippe who bedded you.”
“My worry is not what I have lost,” she said sharply.
Griffin looked at her questioningly.
Celia’s forehead was wreathed in a frown. “I am speaking of consequences, monsieur, something I am certain you never pause to consider. What if I conceive a child as a result of what happened between us?”
Although Griffin’s face registered no emotion, inwardly he was startled. She was correct—he had never bothered to consider the possibility before. After all, the kind of women he visited all possessed remedies to prevent or take care of unwanted pregnancies. But a well-bred French Catholic girl would not be versed in such matters. “It is a possibility,” he said. “Not a likely one. But if it does happen we’ll deal with it then.”