Rogue's Mistress(38)

Suddenly, Mercy realized that she was covered with sweat. The stateroom was cloyingly hot, and the fervor of their argument hadn’t helped. Her hair was damp, and her frock was clammy. She tugged impatiently at a tight sleeve. “Damn, it’s hot in here.”

Julian’s eyes burned with an emotion she recognized all too well. “Perhaps I could suggest a way to cool madame off?”

She stared up at him, entranced by the look in his eye, despite herself. “Don’t tell me you’re proposing a dip in the river?”

“Non. ” He smiled, reaching out to stroke her chin. Unwittingly, she shivered.

“Did you really find the Morgans so much more fascinating than your husband?” he asked gently, though she could hear the hurt in his voice.

“Well . . .” Feeling guilty, she avoided his eye.

He grasped her chin, forcing her to meet his challenging gaze. “Mercy—are you sorry you married me?”

The direct question set her floundering. “No,” she answered, stunning herself with her own honesty. “Not really.”

“Why do you think I married you?”

She sighed miserably. “I’m not sure.”

His titillating fingertips slid down her neck, torturing her exquisitely. “Not even now?”

She quivered at his touch and didn’t reply.

“Do you still wish you’d married Philippe Broussard instead?” He caught her face in his hands. “Tell the truth, now.”

She swallowed hard. “N-no.”

A perplexed expression flashed across his features. “Then why did you become betrothed to him in the first place?”

Again, she avoided his eye. “Must we—”

“Yes, we must. Why, Mercy?”

She let out the painful breath she had been holding, and dared to meet his probing gaze. “To escape you.”

He looked pleasantly surprised. “To escape me? As your guardian, or as—”

“Both,” she admitted in a strangled whisper.

He frowned at her, hard and assessingly. “You exploited Philippe’s feelings, then?”

“I would have made him a good wife!” she flung at him.

He chuckled.

“Anyway, you’re a fine one to criticize me,” she continued, moving away from his debilitating touch and thrusting a lock of damp hair from her brow. “When you acted without scruples, demanding that I marry you—”

“Then we’re well-matched, aren’t we, chère?” Julian cut in with irony. “Both of us ruthless.”

They glared at each other for a charged moment, then he sighed. “Mercy, must we continue as enemies?”

Once again, she was staggered by his directness, his honesty. “I—don’t really feel like your enemy,” she managed.

An expression of intense pleasure gleamed in his eyes, then he scowled. “Still, you’re crossing me at every turn.”

“You forced me to—”

“Marry me,” he supplied. “But the rest I did not force. Why must you constantly defy me? Am I so terrible?”

Mercy wrung her hands. “It’s not that you’re terrible, it’s just that you’re . . .” She gestured helplessly. “Impossible.”

He smiled. “A subtle distinction, I must say. Still, we’re married now, on our honeymoon. Why can’t we make the best of it? Why don’t we put aside our animosity and just try to enjoy ourselves?”

Looking up into his mesmerizing eyes, Mercy realized she was losing ground fast. Suddenly, everything he said seemed to have a hidden sexual meaning. “That sounds reasonable,” she murmured, much too readily.

He gripped her shoulders, and his eyes glinted with wry humor. “Promise you’ll try to be more of an agreeable wife?” he teased.

“Promise you’ll be less of an overblown boor?”

“An overblown—”

“Promise,” she cut in relentlessly.

He ground his jaw. “You first.”

“Promise. Now you.”

“Promise,” he repeated, catching her close. She shuddered as he nuzzled her hot cheek with his warm lips. “So, my proud little wife, you became betrothed to Philippe to escape me as your guardian.” He leaned over, his mouth hovering a hair’s breadth from hers. The direct, smoldering look in his eyes made her quiver as he whispered, “What else did you want to escape, chère?”

“This,” she murmured without pride, pressing her lips hungrily to his.

The kiss was hot, consuming, explosive, setting them both on fire. Yet after a moment, Julian gently pushed her away. “I promised to cool you off, wife,” he said wickedly.

He stunned her by gripping the delicate fabric of her bodice with his strong fingers and ripping downward forcefully.

“Julian!” Mercy’s eyes were wide as saucers. “You’ve ruined my frock!”

He stared with raw hunger at her bared, heaving bosom. “I can buy you another one—dozens, hundreds even. But I won’t have you wearing this gown again. I’m sick and tired of watching other men devour your bosom.”

“Julian! Of all the arrogant, asinine—and after you just promised—”

“Hush,” he commanded, smothering her protests with his lips and clutching a bare breast hungrily. Her rebellion died out instantaneously. Once she was limp and languid against him, he murmured, “Now I’ll cool you off.”

To Mercy’s horror and fascination, her husband quickly stripped her of all clothing, then passionately ordered her to lie down on the bunk. She did so, but when she would have covered her nakedness with the sheet, he said simply, “No.”

Mercy complied, reclining in unabashed nakedness, her gaze shamelessly devouring Julian as he undressed. Mon Dieu, he was magnificent, so strong, so hard and muscled—especially the part of him that now strained robustly at his belly, the part of him she hungered for so wantonly.

Once he was gloriously nude, he came to her bearing a basin of water and a cloth. He laid the basin on the floor and wrung out the rag. “Turn over.”

Shivering, dizzy with arousal, Mercy flipped onto her belly. She almost swooned with anticipation as Julian moved aside her heavy hair and perched his body above hers. When his hard manhood grazed the curve of her hip, her fingers clawed the sheet.

Slowly, he began sponging off her body, starting with her sensitive nape. His ministering to her so intimately was exquisite sensual torture, especially as he followed the soft cloth with his lips and tongue, lapping up the moisture left behind. When she reared up off the mattress, she was rewarded with a sharp slap on her bottom and a terse order to lie still—an order she eagerly obeyed.

Julian moved as if he had all the time in the world, and in the torturous moments that followed, Mercy was seized by one uncontrollable shudder after another. The room was so hot—he was so hot, she was so hot, burning alive. Indeed, she would never have dreamed that the delicate flick of his tongue could sear her so. As he tantalized her spine, tasting and teasing, she again tried to buck away, but he held her firmly. She felt her backside breaking out in gooseflesh as his tongue roved the small of her back, moving in mesmerizing slow circles. He slipped a hand beneath her then, increasing the torture to an agonizing level as he stroked her aching nub with his skilled fingers, even as his tongue continued to torment her spine. She went crazy, panting shamelessly and moving wantonly against his hand. A low, feral chuckle escaped him. Then, when he abruptly changed tactics, sinking his teeth greedily into the soft mound of her bottom, she screamed and rolled over.

Julian was grinning at her, unrepentant as the devil himself. Several dark curls dangled rakishly over his forehead. She lurched upward to kiss him, but he pressed her shoulder back, scolding her to lie still. He began to sponge off her front, beginning with her fevered brow, running his tongue all over her hot checks, her delicate nose, her burning lips. When she tried to steal another kiss, he wagged a finger at her and turned his attention to her creamy throat—and lower. Mercy could barely breathe. He seemed to linger forever on the tight, swollen mounds of her breasts, circling, tasting, dipping, and stroking.

After a moment, he glanced up at her flushed, breathless face. “Do you want children, Mercy?”

The unexpected query seized her with a stunning wave of sexual excitement. She had always secretly yearned to have her own children someday. Then she remembered Julian’s past arrogant words and she stiffened. “You once said you wanted children as a way to control me.”

"Non, chère. ” His eyes were suddenly filled with regret. “I said those words in the heat of anger.” His tongue lapped over her nipple with a delicacy that curled her toes. “I want children to bring us joy. Do you?”

“Oui,” she murmured shamelessly, thrusting her fingers through his hair.

“Do you want my child?”

A fierce joy streamed through her as she imagined cuddling Julian’s baby. And the thought of how healing a child might be in their relationship touched her deeply. “Yes,” she whispered.

He groaned in pleasure. “Bien.” He ran his tongue delicately over the underside of her breast. “I would think,” he continued huskily, “that it would be difficult to hate a man whose child you carried.”