The Millionaire Rogue Page 27

  Lake, in love! Hope thought he’d never see the day.

  Forbidden fruit indeed.

  He turned back to Sophia. He should send her after them to wait in the safety of the hack. He should not move from this spot until the Earl of Harclay returned, French Blue in hand.

  He should.

  But he wouldn’t.

  Sophia looked at him, her hazel eyes gold in the half-light of the moon. He slid his hand into the inviting curve of her jaw, his fingers brushing the baby-fine hairs of her neck. She shivered again.

  He ducked his head, lips brushing her ear. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Hope led Sophia down the quayside, bowing in and out of shadow as they passed bawdy houses, bawdier taverns, and the dark, nameless facades of weathered warehouses. The gaping blackness of the Docklands yawned over Hope’s right shoulder. He held her closer.

  “D’you think they’re all right?” Sophia whispered. “I trust Harclay to keep Violet safe, but seeing as I poisoned him an hour ago . . .”

  “He’s recovered. They’ll come back to us in no time at all. Besides. With Artois’ thirty thousand in their pockets, I hardly think this Eliason fellow will refuse them.”

  Even as he said the words, Hope winced. Though the Docklands were mostly deserted, the devil knew what characters trolled about this time of night: pickpockets, cutthroats, lightskirts. King Louis’ beringed fingers and Artois’ gilt costume certainly did their party no favors.

  If Sophia saw Hope wince, she said nothing.

  “Ah, here we are.”

  He drew up before a whitewashed warehouse, its facade covered in bold, black letters: HOPE & CO.

  “Here? Really?” Sophia wrinkled her nose.

  “No,” Hope said, pointing toward the river. “There.”

  Her gaze followed his outstretched arm to the bulkhead at their right; a sturdy ramp led from the quayside down to the water, where a dozen gleaming, full-rigged ships bobbed silently in their berths.

  He felt her stiffen. “Those are yours?”

  Thomas scoffed. “Depends on the outcome of tonight’s events. They may be heading for the auction block first thing in the morning, so I figure we may as well enjoy them while we have the chance.”

  He looked down and met her eyes. They were open, storm-tossed, moving from his gaze to his lips and back again.

  “Please,” he said. “Please, Sophia, come with me.”

  His heart drummed an erratic rhythm in his chest as he waited for her reply.

  “Thomas, we shouldn’t. I cannot—” She swallowed, hard, and looked down at their clasped hands. “I promised myself I wouldn’t. I’ve made every attempt to keep my distance, I have, but I—”

  “But you can’t.” The words came out in a rush of relief. “Neither can I, Sophia. I cannot keep away from you.”

  She looked at him, pleading. “We shouldn’t.”

  “If you tell me to stop,” he said, sliding his hand up her arm to rest on her neck, “I’ll stop.”

  “Please.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Please don’t ask that of me, Thomas.”

  “Tell me,” he pressed a kiss to the place where ear met jaw, “to stop.”

  He trailed his lips along the slope of her neck, breathing in her scent: water, soap, air. Each kiss was soft, lingering, sweet. It was madness, this embrace; it went against every rational thought, everything he could and should be doing.

  But once his lips touched her skin he couldn’t help himself.

  Sophia arched against him, head lilting back in offering. “Thomas,” she breathed. “Oh, Thomas.”

  “Do you want me”—another kiss—“to stop?”

  She met his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes. “No. No, don’t stop.”

  “Good,” he said, pulling back. “Come with me. We shall have to be quick; half an hour, remember.”

  One side of her mouth curled into a grin. “Let’s not waste a moment, then.”

  He tugged her down the ramp to the water; she let out a breathless laugh. Their bodies collided at the sway of the dock beneath their feet; Hope caught Sophia and held her against him. She looked up, lips half-open; her shawl fell, revealing the ball of her bare shoulder.

  Hope took a deep breath, let it out. The river sighed with him, the dock rolling beneath them: raising them up as a wave crested, sending them down as it ebbed.

  Planting his feet on either side of Sophia’s, Hope bent his neck and gently pressed his lips to her shoulder. She tasted clean.

  Sophia sucked in a breath, her body rising to meet his caress. He wasted no time; he moved his mouth along the ridge of her collarbone, nipping the tender flesh at the base of her throat. Beneath his lips her pulse took flight, an insistent fluttering like the wings of a bird.

  His desire flared, filling every fiber, every thought and every space of his being. If he wasn’t careful he’d take her here, now, against the bulkhead, hard and fast and rough. Not at all what he wanted for her; not at all what he wanted for this, their last night together. Even if they only had twenty minutes to themselves, he wouldn’t take her like that.

  He prayed the others—Hope and Violet, most of all—didn’t come back, catch him and Sophia. He prayed they took the full half an hour he’d given them.

  “Thomas,” Sophia repeated. “Please. Don’t stop.”

  Above them loomed one of Hope’s triple-masted merchant ships. From a cursory glance, Hope gathered it was vacant; the windows in the aft cabin were dark.

  Or at least he hoped it was. Somehow he very much doubted Sophia would yield to his touch while a dozen toothless sailors looked on.

  There was no ramp of which to speak, only a series of slatted indentions carved into the side of the vessel.

  Hope pulled away. Sophia’s pretty features creased in confusion. Pressing a kiss between her brows, he murmured, “Not here. Follow me.”

  Together they made for the ship. Nestling Sophia in the circle of his arms, he climbed up the ladder one rung behind her; he winced as the curve of her backside brushed far too invitingly against the bulge in his breeches. Again his desire flared, burning a hole in whatever logic he had left; whatever worry he had over being caught.

  That Sophia was here with him; that she would again be his, after he thought he’d never get a second chance—his chest welled with gratitude.

  She heaved herself over the banister onto the ship. She turned, wiping her palms together in satisfaction, and held out a hand; Hope took it, her grip firm as she helped him onboard.

  He leaned back against the banister, catching his breath. Sophia placed her elbows on the railing beside him, her arm brushing his. He listened to her quiet panting; they did not meet eyes, but he sensed her every movement, the curling of her hair about her head in the breeze.

  The ship undulated slowly beneath his feet, the river plunking against its bow some feet below. As far as Hope could tell, the ship was deserted. The deck had been recently swept, and appeared to be vacant of any cargo, empty save for a coil of rope and a pile of carefully folded canvas tarpaulins.

  Relief washed through him. Catching his breath, he turned around and placed his elbows on the banister beside Sophia’s. The River Thames stretched out before them, the moon setting alight a wide blue ribbon of radiance on the water’s surface; the city glowed dimly at its banks.

  How many pairs of eyes, he wondered, had filled hearts to bursting at this very sight. A hundred, a thousand years ago, had the Romans looked upon the Thames in the dead of night and found in its quiet, insistent rush, the glow of the moon upon its surface, solace or sorrow? How many hearts were broken in this place, how many healed? Generations of love lost, love thwarted, love quiet and dangerous; so many stories begun and ended here, at the edge of the River Thames.

  Hope turned to find Sophia looking at him, her eyes soft abo
ut the edges. He wondered what she was thinking, if she felt her own heart, full and swollen, beginning to crack.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was quiet.

  Sophia reached out and tucked an errant curl behind his ear. “No. Not in the slightest.”

  He rose to his feet, running his palms up the length of her arms as he turned her to him. “Good.” He tucked his hand against her cheek as he leaned in. “Neither am I.”

  His lips found hers, full and warm and yielding. She tilted her head to better match his movements, her arms rising to circle his neck as together they fell into the kiss. He slipped his tongue between her lips; she let him in, moaning as he pulled back, taking her bottom lip between his teeth.

  He cupped her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers, harder this time. He felt her body rising to meet him, running her tongue along the slick seam of his lips. His blood ignited as she dug her fingers into the hair at his neck, his cock pulsing between his legs, painfully enormous.

  Hope ducked, deepening the kiss. Her tongue was warm and deliciously wet tangled with his; her eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, featherlight. Her hands were on his face now, pulling him closer, closer, as if she might swallow him whole.

  Please, he prayed silently. Please.

  The breeze moved around them, tickling the hair on Hope’s bare arms. He wrapped them around her, trailing his hands from her face down the slope of her back to rest on the rise of her buttocks. Her pert flesh yielded to the press of his palms; she gasped into his mouth and he nipped at her lip, a low growl in her throat as she bit back. He tasted blood and grinned; she was wicked, more rascal and seducer than painfully proper debutante.

  Sophia began to attack the straps of his breastplate with her fingers; his body went up in flames at her impatience. He covered her hand in his and loosened the strap, breaking their kiss to quickly shrug out of the costume. Dropping it with a thud at her feet, he darted forward and crushed his mouth against hers. The tips of her hardened nipples pressed against the thin fabric of his tunic as the kiss became messy, urgent.

  The pressure between his legs became too great to bear. He needed her here, now, before he was obliterated by the weight of his desire.

  Hope pulled away, and as he stood to catch his breath, Sophia tucked her head into the curve of his neck.

  His heart swelled against his ribcage as if it might expand through sinew and bone to meet her caress. It killed him, the tenderness of her gesture. How vulnerable she felt in his arms; and he—he was defenseless, holding her to his heart, the both of them knowing all the while that in the end they would betray one another.

  He lowered his lips to the top of her head and left them there as he led her across the deck. With the toe of his ridiculous gladiator-style sandal, he coaxed the tarpaulin to unfold into a nestlike circle and guided Sophia to its edge. She was breathing hard; even in the darkness he could make out the luscious curve of her swollen lips, the prick of her nipples against the gauzy fabric of her costume.

  Hope swallowed, gritting his teeth at the anticipation that coursed through him. He grasped the edges of his tunic and made to pull it off; in his haste it got stuck on his head, and no matter how he tugged, he couldn’t untangle himself.

  Sophia laughed softly; he felt her hands on his tunic, gently removing his hands from the fabric before pulling it over his head.

  “Thank God,” Hope breathed. He shook out his curls, wiping them back from his forehead, and lowered his gaze to see Sophia staring openmouthed at his naked chest. He felt himself harden even further—really, how was that even possible?—as her eyes traveled to the front of his drawers.

  He made to cover himself with his hands, lest he frighten her away, but Sophia snatched his wrist.

  “No,” she said. She stepped forward and slipped her first finger into the waistband of his drawers. “Let me, Thomas.”

  Before he could stop her, Sophia dropped to her knees, digging the fingers of both hands into the waistband. With her thumbs she caressed the jutting points of his hip bones, slowly, oh God, so very slowly pulling down his drawers.

  She coaxed them over the bulge; his cock pounced free, the drawers dropping silently to his feet. For a moment she drew back, her eyes widening as she took in his length, the enormity of his desire for her.

  “Really, Sophia, you don’t have—”

  “Shh.” Splaying her palms over the hardened flesh just above his groin, she drew up on her knees. “I want to.”

  He thought he might scream at the feel of her hands scraping down, down, down the length of his groin. She encircled the root of his cock in one hand, the shaft in the other; and then she was bending forward, pressing her lips to the head, kissing him as she looked up, curiosity sparking in those wicked, wicked eyes of hers.

  He let out a long, slow hiss, drawing his thumb across her forehead.

  “You feel so lovely,” he breathed. “So goddamn lovely, Sophia.”

  Sophia did not hesitate, sliding open her lips instead, slick with the first show of his seed. Carefully, very carefully, she took his head into her mouth, one engorged inch at a time.

  Hope sucked in a breath at the feel of her tongue on the very tip of his manhood, languorously, slowly caressing him. He watched as her lips stretched to accept him, digging a hand into her hair. He saw God, he saw stars, he had to hold on, she was so lovely, so beautiful, he wanted to remember every moment, every caress . . .

  Her mouth felt hot and gloriously wet against him, tightening as she began to move, taking him deeper and deeper. He covered her hand at his root with his own, tightening her grip on his shaft, and together they moved, an easy, back-and-forth motion that had him growling with pleasure.

  Sophia’s rhythm increased, her eyes fluttered shut; he watched as she lost herself in him, her toga slipping from her shoulder. That shoulder. There was something distinctly erotic about her bare shoulder, the way her skin glistened in the gray-blue light of the moon.

  He felt himself coiling with pleasure inside her mouth, the familiar tightening almost unbearable as he watched himself disappear past the silken caress of her lips. He was tugging at her hair now, the braids wound about her head falling free under the ministrations of his fingers.

  Wave after wave of sensation washed through him, each more potent than the last. She was here, she was his, for a little while, anyway, and she was giving herself to him without reservation, without regret. Again his heart swelled. How he ached for her; how he would ache after all was said and done, when he belonged to the bank and she, to another.

  He bit his lip, the stirrings of his climax becoming more insistent with each stroke of Sophia’s tongue. He cupped her face in his hand, her eyes flying open as he guided himself out of her mouth.

  His eyes on hers, he sank to his knees before her. His blood jumped at her heavy-lidded gaze, her swollen lips parted to reveal the tiniest sliver of white teeth. She looked beautiful. She looked . . . aroused.

  He kissed her lips; he could taste the tanginess of his body in her mouth and on her tongue.

  That tongue. He caressed it with his own, great, sloping circles that had her moaning into his mouth. She arched against him, wild with need; he felt the insistent press of her hips against his cock.

  Hope released her lips, trailing his own down to her shoulder. His fingers brushing her skin, he coaxed the toga off her arm and down her chest, his hands on her breasts as they surged free above the bodice of her toga. For a moment he held their heaviness in his hands, pressing his fingers into the silken skin; her nipples pleaded against the center of his palms.

  “Thomas,” she whispered. “Please.”

  He slid his left hand to the back of her neck and gently led her down onto the tarpaulin, leaning on his elbow above her as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. They landed softly on the deck, the tarpaulin sighing around them
in the breeze.

  Sophia arched against him, moaning softly into the darkness. She was clawing his chest with her fingertips, her nipples brushing against his skin as he brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss was savage and hard, mindless as they lost themselves to their pleasure.

  He reached down, drawing up the skirts of her toga. He parted her legs and found the slit between her drawers; his fingers first encountered the curls of her sex, silken and slick.

  And then.

  And then.

  Hope groaned, his desire spiking. She was very wet, her flesh swollen with need; she gasped as his fingers grazed the apex of her sex, the nub engorged and hard.

  His cock throbbed against her leg; his blood was screaming.

  He bolted upright, grabbing Sophia by the waist and settling her on her knees above him, her hair swirling around them in the breeze. Her legs were spread just above the tip of his hardened prick, so aroused, the anticipation so great it hurt.

  “Thomas,” she was breathing, her fingers finding purchase on his naked shoulders. He placed his hands on her thighs and squeezed her flesh.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered in her ear, his lips catching on the sloped ridge of her jaw. She tasted of sweat, salt. “I want you, Sophia. Let me have you.”

  He took his cock in his hand and held it upright. With his other hand he coaxed her legs wider, guiding her down.

  She reached down and covered his hand with her own, nestling the tip of his cock into the cleftlike opening of her lips. He cursed aloud, pressing his forehead against hers as they fought for the air between them.

  Slowly, with excruciating tenderness, she sank onto his length. She felt exquisitely tight, stretching to take in the enormity of his desire. She sucked a breath through her teeth, but before he could ask if she was in pain she threw back her head and thrust downward, swallowing him to the hilt.

  For a moment they sat motionless; he didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to ruin these last moments together, and so he waited to take her lead. When at last she brought her head up to look at him, her eyes were dark and wet. He saw a bit of pain there, pain that quickly faded to wild desire.