The Seduction of Phaeton Black (3 page)

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Authors: Jillian Stone

BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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His nose was strong and straight, but in profile appeared slightly beakish. His mouth was full and, yes, sensuous and kissable. Hair much too long to be fashionable, but there was something about the mode. Bohemian, perhaps? She examined his body as he moved around the stove. He was a nice size. Large enough but not imposing. And that rude shaft was plenty of male.
“If you are quite finished with your assessment of me, I would like to begin one of my own.”
She closed her eye. Blood accelerated through every pathway in her body.
“You must know you have nothing to fear from me.”
Still, a throb of alarm surged in her ears. She shifted her head and forced herself to open both eyes. He stood close by, scratching a raised brow.
“If I have nothing to fear, why have you made me your prisoner?”
“Ah, the ties.” He tugged a side of his mouth upward. “For my own protection.”
She strained against her bindings as he circled the chair. “While the Darjeeling steeps, why don’t we revisit our precious moments together, last evening?”
He had a kind of unruffled, arrogant way about him. She squirmed in the chair. “I prefer an Oolong. Or a nice, smoky Lapsang Souchong.”
His eyes crinkled, but his expression otherwise remained stoic. “You know your tea, Miss, but I shall not be diverted. Evening last, I was having a chase down Savoy Row after a pesky, flirty little phantasm when I was abducted by an equally trifling, yet forward olive-skinned maiden who put a dagger to my neck and proceeded to abuse me.”
His gaze wandered between several undone buttons that exposed much of her flimsy chemise. “Care to explain?”
In the blink of an eye, she moved into a trance. Transporting herself back a few hours, she recalled a whisper of chimera and a tingle of demon. Her eyelashes dropped lower. “I sense unfathomable powers and yet almost unendurable exhaustion. Not death, but a weakness of spirit.” She looked up into his eyes. “And great sadness.”
He studied her. “You have abilities?
She nodded quickly and shook off the spell. “My mother had gifts. A Cajun witch, powerful, beautiful.”
“A
Vauda
?”
She eyed him suspiciously before nodding. “You know the
sang mélangé français
ways?
“Your name, mademoiselle?”
“Why should I tell you my name? You hold me captive, sir. Why should I reveal anything to you?”
“Because I believe in civility.” Caught in his own deceit, he shrugged. “Let’s just say I prefer a name. If not possible before intercourse, after will do.”
“I had no idea a man could get up a shag with a knife at his throat.” Was that a smirk or a lopsided grin from him? “That wasn’t a compliment,” she growled.
“Honestly?” He tilted his head back. “Sounded like flattery.”
“You raped me.”
“You demanded it.” He placed a hand on each chair arm and leaned forward. “Why didn’t you cut me ear to ear?”
Her glare faltered. Why hadn’t she killed him? The evidence of her knife was right in front of her. A fresh scar slashed across the side of his throat. If she had pressed harder, he would be dead.
She chose not to respond to his question because she didn’t like the answer. How could she forget those intense waves of arousal? Pleasure that was both frightening and miraculous. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
His gaze lowered to rudely ogle her mouth. “Our first time was rushed, wouldn’t you say?” Grazing the curve of her cheek, his lips brushed closer to her mouth.
Weakly, she parted her lips. “You took advantage of me, sir.”
“I heard little protest.” He held back, his words delivered as a soft caress. “Only oohs and aahs. Your hot, breathless words in my ear.”
She curled the tip of her tongue over the edge of her upper lip. With his attention on her mouth, she furtively lifted a knee between them. “How could I complain with a band of filthy pirates after me?”
“Mmm, most taxing.” His exhale buffeted softly over her cheek. “But, did you enjoy yourself, miss?”
“Yes.” With one swift kick, she shoved him off.
He bellowed a hellish groan, as his hand flew to his crotch. Apparently she had clipped the jewels. Bent over, he walked off his agony by rubbing himself into impressive arousal.
“Happy now?” She braced for a beating. But none came.
Spurning the steeping teapot, he went straight for a bottle of whiskey and popped the cork. She gave him high marks for grog guzzling and pain tolerance.
He sputtered and coughed. “Delighted.”
Chapter Three
S
HE HAD NEVER MET THE LIKE OF SUCH A MAN
.
After a few deep draughts of spirit, he kicked a chair out from under the table and straddled the seat. “The chair rails guard my bulging privates. Not to be confused with filthy pirates.”
He took another swig from the bottle. “Tell me about these imaginary, cutlass wielding corsairs. Miss—?”
“My name is America Jones.”
He set an elbow on the chair back and cupped his chin. He had a wary way of studying her, as if she were some kind of curiosity. “Are you incapable of answering questions in a truthful manner? Again, Miss—?”
She set her jaw and glared. “America.”
“Is the name of a continent, or two. I can never remember if there are two continents designated north and south, or one continent designated south and north. Which is it?”
Why did he play the Mad Hatter? Leaning far back off the chair, he had to catch himself. The grog appeared to be having an effect. “And there is a new country, the United States of
America
.”
Even with her arms tied down, she still managed a shrug. “It is my name, sir. America Síne Jones, and I have learned to live with it these twenty-ought years.”
“I believe I may call you by your middle name.” His mouth twitched. “
Sin–ay
. I do so admire the first syllable.”
Her gaze narrowed to a quizzical squint. “Is your mind always in the gutter, Mr.—?”
“Black.” Liquid sable eyes flecked with gold drank in every inch of her. “Only when I am interested,
Miss Jones
.”
“And are you interested?”
“I once enjoyed a meal at the Langham Hotel, which I thought about repeating for weeks afterward.”
“Is that what I am to you? A supper?”
He lowered his chin. “A banquet, my tempting dark dove.” Hooded ebony eyes crinkled at the sides. He enjoyed taunting her.
Captivated for a moment, she mentally slapped herself. “I would love to stay and chat, really I would, but I must be on my way.” She flashed the faintest of smiles. “Now that we are introduced, certainly you can release me from bondage?”
“One more thing, Miss Jones. If you would kindly explain about the pirates?” He tilted his head. “Your eyes are most extraordinary. Almost feline.”
What an exasperating man! While he swigged from the bottle, she tugged again on her bindings. “Why do you insist on torturing me?”
She pressed her lips together and chewed the inside of her bottom lip. A force of habit when vexed beyond endurance. Well, she supposed two could play this silly, annoying interrogation game. “Are your parents still living, Mr. Black?”
He sat up and blinked. “Mother died of a virulent meningitis years ago. My father teaches advanced mathematics at Trinity College.” He ran a hand through thick waves of dark brown hair. “He might as well be dead. We don’t get on.”
“I could not tell you if my mother is alive or dead. I’ve not been home to Louisiana in many years. Buried my father four short months ago. Charles Gardiner Jones.” She leaned forward purposefully. “A decent and honest merchant trader. Acquaintances said he couldn’t face his business failure—that he died of drink. People who knew him well told a very different story. My father’s heart was broken by his lying, scheming business partner.”
When her eyes threatened to tear, she lifted her chin. “After his funeral I vowed to bring Yanky Willem to justice.”
“And how goes this pursuit?”
She frowned. “Not as well as I’d hoped. Last night Willem caught me rifling through a year’s worth of cargo manifests.”
He arched a brow. “Searching for—?”
“Proof of piracy, Mr. Black.”
He smiled that maddening grin of his. “I knew if I was patient, we might actually get round to the original subject of my query—the filthy pirates.”
“Chased me from the Docklands all the way down the Strand.” She laid her head back against the padded chair and absently counted the cracks in the ceiling. “When you stepped into the sharp edge of my blade, I was clean out of bullets.”
“Bullets? And where, pray tell, is your pistol?”
Now it was her turn to grin. “Untie me, and—”
“I think not, Miss Jones.” From behind protective rungs, Mr. Black stepped over the seat of his chair and ventured closer.
“Shall we search together?” In a blur of movement he threw her skirt up over her knees and wedged himself tightly in-between her spread legs. The man moved like a panther.
“Sorry, no chance to knee me in the groin.” He moved his hands under her skirt and over her legs. Even as she fumed, her stomach fluttered.
He slowly worked his way higher. “Did you reach your satisfaction last night?”
She gasped for a breath. “What satisfaction, sir?”
His fingers slipped underneath satin garters, skimming the tops of her hose. “Ah, a dainty derringer, very ladylike.” He placed the weapon in the lap of her gathered skirt and cocked his head to one side. “When we coupled, brief as it was, did you experience arousal, Miss Jones?”
“Surely not from that large wanker of yours routing me out.” She avoided eye contact. “Perhaps, there was some pleasure. Briefly.”
A hand remained under her skirt and stroked the inside of her thigh. “I’m curious. Have you ever been satisfied from intercourse? Since there have been one or two before me—”
“One.” She bit out. “And I don’t find any of it very pleasurable.
Satisfied,
Mr. Black?”
“What if I told you that I could make it very pleasurable for you?” The man’s free hand undid a few more of her blouse buttons. And he purposely swept a finger along the lace edge of her camisole. “No corset?”
A grim sort of grin tugged at her lips. “I hate them. A woman can hardly breathe.”
He looked up from her cleavage. “Shall I make you a promise,
Sin-ay
? I will untie you
after
you allow me to pleasure you.”
She chortled with laughter. “I’d rather take another wager.”
Coffee eyes deepened to black. “This is not a wager; it is inevitable. You will be satisfied, and then you will be free to leave. I consider this a matter of—”
“You are arrogant and conceited Mr. Black. Why should I indulge you?” But he was also outrageous and appealing. And, she quite wondered if the pleasure he imagined possible, was ... possible.
 
Phaeton picked up the pale grey ribbon of her chemise and pulled. Two satin brown nipples invited him to taste. He suckled one until she moaned and her belly shivered.
“Miss Jones, have I been a very bad boy?”
A sensuous pout of a frown caused a painful ache in his manly parts.
“You are playing some kind of game with me?”
“We are playing a game together.” He unbuttoned his trousers, but stopped short of exposing himself. He spread out his hands as though he was about to reveal a masterpiece. “May I?”
She bit her lower lip. “All right, Mr. Black. You may remove that beastly tosser. But you must not stroke it.”
He did as he was told, and became fully erect. “Since I cannot pleasure myself, may I touch”—his hand moved over the top of her skirt, pressing the fabric between her legs—“here?”
Eyelashes fluttered over exotic eyes. They were more grey than green.
“No touching.” Those grey-greens fractured into dark emeralds. “Not until you express your regret for last night.”
Smart, wicked little strumpet. Phaeton worked hard to suppress his amusement. “I am so sorry to have neglected your satisfaction, mademoiselle.”
America said nothing, but moved her knees farther apart.
He reached under her skirt, and worked fingertips over hose and garters. He stopped just short of her feminine triangle. The inside of her thighs were like taut velvet, yet jiggly in all the right places.
His penis jerked, and he longed to toss up her skirts for a look. But he would wait until she squirmed, nay, ordered him to do it.
Softly circling smooth inner thighs, his hands brushed by moist curls. “May I?”
“I’m afraid you will have to apologize again. This time you will ask for my pardon with sincerity.” Those almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Only then will you be allowed to touch my cunny.”
Phaeton pressed his lips together. His passion now elevated dangerously close to peak arousal. “My dear Miss Jones. I beg you to forgive my angry phallus, which I do now fully admit took advantage of your plight.” His fingers slipped easily into heavenly warmth and copious wetness. And this young lovely had never known the glories of intercourse? He would make sure to remedy that.
Grazing her face with his mouth, he pressed his lips to the tip of her nose. His tongue found the sensitive underside of her upper lip. “And yet—you did ask for it at knife point,” he taunted.
Her eyes glared even as she gasped for air.
He easily found the rapidly burgeoning nub to her pleasure and circled. Her head fell back onto the soft padding of the chair as her sighs and moans urged him onward. Those lovely breasts, fully exposed, nipples taught, pointed at the ceiling.
“As I am nearly always up for it ...” He stroked with his thumb, guiding one, then two fingers into her sheath. She answered him with a tremble in her legs.
A push of her skirt got him a peek at dark curls and glistening pink folds. A deep groan rose from his chest. “I do implore you to say yes and allow me the comfort of your sheath.” He might die from this hellish prick tease. A game of his own making, which he now regretted.
Abruptly, he discontinued both his apologies and ministrations. After a sad look at his bobbing prick, he pleaded with her. “Might you grant me some relief, dear lady? May I press onward?”
“You may put it in, but only an inch.” She marked the spot with her gaze. “Just to the end of the knob.” He sucked air between his teeth. Clever puss, this one.
Capturing her legs, one arm under each of her knees, he tilted her bottom up to receive him and pressed in by an inch. “One more?”
Her lashes lowered over dark eyes. “Then no more.”
Slowly he pressed inward, his thumb circling her pleasure. He added fingers to tickle and tap and flutter over the nub, coaxing the sensitive rosebud to swell and run wet with juice.
“Yes.” She moaned and thrust her hips upward. “Don’t stop.”
He thrust deeper, circled faster. A dozen hard pumps, and she cried, “Yes.” And again. “Yes.” A strong wave of orgasmic ecstasy reached out and entered his body. The very sensation of her pleasure sent him into loud, growling release.
As his shattered world pieced itself together, he pondered the effect her arousal had exerted on his own. Phaeton raised his head from her shoulder.
“ ’Tis a fair thing to lie between a maid’s legs.”
He returned his head to her chest and nuzzled a plump mound.
“I recognize the bard’s words. Hamlet to Ophelia?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“On long voyages, when my father owned just one ship, he would read to me every night from the plays or sonnets.” His lips brushed over a nipple, causing a tremor. “What you did just then—the effect you had upon me. How exactly did you accomplish that, Mr. Black?”
He jerked upright and loosed the knot binding her arm. “Do not fall in love with me, Miss Jones.”
He chafed her wrist between his hands to encourage circulation. “And please do not come knocking at all hours of the day and night requesting my services.”
She snorted. “You are safe with me, for I do not believe in such affection. Men take love for granted; they do not prize it.”
He unleashed her other hand. “You claim to be a woman with no heart?”
“A girl gives away the secrets of her heart, and a man is off down the lane for a toss up the neighbor’s skirt.” She rubbed her own wrist this time.
“Phaeton.” The voice and footsteps came from the landing. “Might I ask you to sit with Lizzie for a spell?”
He bolted out of the chair and yanked up his pants. “Mrs. Parker, an unexpected but welcome visit.”
Madam paused at the base of the stairs. The scene in his flat received an amused once over. “So sorry, Phaeton, it appears I have interrupted—”
“I was just on my way out, Ma’am.” Miss Jones pulled her chemise over bouncing breasts and retied the ribbon. He tried to help with the buttons, but she slapped his hand away. With a curt nod, she straightened her skirts and headed for the stairs.
“Esmeralda.” He offered a chair. “I’ll just be a minute.”
He launched himself upward, two steps at a time, and ran down the hall. An elderly gentleman chased after a giggling harlot in chemise and pantaloons. “Miss Jones.”
She confronted him in the entryway leading out to the street. “What is this place?”

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