He stretched out over her, his mouth seeking her other nipple and delivering the same sweet torment to it.
Catherine. The sharp voice in her head called. Think. Think of the consequences of his actions. If he discovers you are a virgin, his plan will succeed. You will fail. He treats you as he does other women. You mean nothing to him. Nothing.
His mouth moved down to her belly leaving a trail of sensual kisses across her midriff and around her navel. He raised his head, smiled at her and asked, “Is your fruit as sweet as the plump, succulent date, Catherine?”
Catherine stared at him, attempting to comprehend his remark. When his mouth began to descend between her legs, she realized what he had meant.
Good Lord, he wouldn’t! He couldn’t. She had to stop him. She couldn’t allow him to invade her so intimately, not like this, not for the purpose of revenge.
Her mind raced. His head descended. She released a low rumbling moan and he looked up at her with a wicked smirk on his handsome face.
At that precise moment, seeing the satisfaction, the overwhelming sense of victory written on his stark features she knew what she must do.
“Yes, Lucian, yes. Taste me. Taste deeply of me. I miss it so,” she cried in feigned passion and with courage she didn’t think she possessed she spread her legs wider. “Philbert often took his pleasure this way with me. Night after night he would cradle his head between my legs and— “She paused, searching for the right words. Her mind worked quickly and she felt proud of herself when she said, “favor me with the talents of his tongue.” She paused again and lowered her voice to a whisper as though about to tell a naughty tale and used his earlier, salacious suggestion on him. “Then I could pleasure you, Lucian, as I pleased Philbert. He insisted my mouth worked magic.”
Lucian flew off the bed as if he’d been doused with a bucket of ice water. “Blast it all, woman, have you no morals?”
He turned his back on her and stormed over to the cabinet that held his liquor. He needed whiskey and he needed to bring the hard bulge in his breeches under control. He certainly didn’t need her to see his reaction to her lascivious remarks.
Feeling drained from her performance, she relied once again on a simple answer. “No.”
He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. She lay naked, her peach dress crumpled at her ankles, her pale, unblemished skin shimmering with a fine sweat, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, teasing her breasts. She looked precisely as a woman in the throes of passion would look, wild, willing, and wet.
He turned back around, grabbed a whiskey bottle from the cabinet and swallowed a mouthful straight from the bottle.
Lord, but she had tasted sweet, he thought as the fiery liquid scalded his throat all the way down to his stomach. Her skin had felt silky soft, her nipples pert and hard, her—
He severed his erotic thoughts and took another swig from the bottle. She was a harlot, he reminded himself, that she resembled an angel made no difference. She had slept with dozens of men, had satisfied their lusty whims as well as her own. She used men for her own selfish reasons. She was an Abelard. Randolph Abelard’s daughter.
More in control of his emotions, he returned the bottle to the cabinet and turned around. Catherine had discarded her dress and had slipped into her cotton shift. She sat in the middle of the bed combing her hair as though she had not a care in the world.
“You know, Lucian,” she began with what sounded like a voice that was about to chastise. “You shouldn’t condemn another person where morals are concerned. After all you are a pirate, a man of dubious character.”
Lucian couldn’t believe his ears. The woman had the blasted audacity to scold him. “My character is not in question here, madam.”
Catherine shrugged. “Neither is mine. I made it perfectly clear to you from the onset that I had enjoyed frequent liaisons. I kept nothing hidden from you.”
Lucian took advantage of the moment. “Then tell me of your father.”
A knot twisted in her stomach. “You know of mine, tell me of yours.” She dropped her hands with the comb grasped tightly in them to her lap.
“He’s dead,” he answered bluntly, and walked over to the bed, dropping down beside her and stretching out. “Now tell me of yours.”
She cast a hasty glance at him out of the corner of her eye and licked her lips nervously. Dare she trust him this close?
“Temper your passion, madam. You shall not feast on me tonight.”
Relief that he had no intentions of continuing from where he had so abruptly left off overwhelmed her. Her hasty and brazen reply surprised her completely. “Your loss, Captain.”