The Ice Princess

Page 7

She reached up and pulled his queue forward across his shoulder. Then she unwound the inky black strands, spreading them, sifting them with her fingers, playing like a cat with string. All during this he stood silent and still and let her tease. When she was done she fanned his unbound hair over his shoulders and examined him. He looked like a pirate—in a naval officer's uniform. She frowned at his clothes and untied his black neckcloth, pulling it free. She threw it to the floor, prompting a frown from him.
That hint of disapproval delighted her.
She attacked his coat and waistcoat next, throwing the one on the bed and the other perilously near the fire, but he was stubbornly impassive. He began to crack, though, when she pulled his shirt off.
Unfortunately, so did she.
He was so finely built. She ran her palms over him slowly, unable to suppress the desire to touch him. His shoulders were broad—so broad—and muscled from years of living at sea. She was used to rich men, men who would rather cut off their hand than do physical labor. Their flesh was soft, white, almost feminine. Isaac could never be mistaken for a female. His body was hard, the planes of his chest scattered with black curls of hair, and tanned as if he doffed his shirt to work when at sea. She flexed her fingers, digging her fingernails just a bit into his muscled chest.
"Careful," he murmured.
She looked at him under her eyelashes. "Do you really want me to be careful?"
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Maybe not."
She gently pushed him, shoving him backward toward the bed. She was under no illusion that she physically overpowered him--that was impossible—but he let her play at dominance. He sat on the edge of the bed and she crawled up into his lap, curling there like a cat seeking his warmth. She laid one arm across the back of his shoulders and used the palm of her other hand to tilt his face toward her. Her heart skipped at his look. With his hair sliding about his bare shoulders, and his black eyes glittering under lowered brows, he looked a barbarian—a man who could seize her and carry her away to some waiting ship. He was powerful and male and her chest ached suddenly. She wanted him. Wanted him forever.
But that was folly.
So she smiled slowly—a seductive smile she'd first practiced at the age of fifteen—and laid her mouth against his. Her lips were trembling just a bit, but he made no comment, only sat and let her play her tongue in his mouth. She could become drunk on his taste. Forget time and place and simply live in the moment—if she dared. She bit his bottom lip and at the same time drew her nails across his chest.
He caught her hand. "Sheath your claws, madam."
She pulled her hand from his grasp and with her eyes locked with his scraped one nail gently over his nipple.
He sucked in a breath.
She lowered her head, hiding her smile of triumph as she sweetly kissed his other nipple. She could feel him go still beneath her, so she used the flat of her tongue to tease that small part of him.
"Coral," he growled, the sound resonating against her lips.
She looked up through her eyelashes and nearly forgot what she was about. His sensuous lips were slightly parted, his head tilted back, and those black eyes for the moment closed. She pursed her lips around his nipple and sucked.
He swore then, low and foul, and she felt herself contract at the sound. To make a man like this lose control was simply heady. She twisted on his lap—swiftly and not particularly gracefully. She'd lost some of her own control, but she didn't let herself think about that. Instead she gathered her skirts, pulling and yanking, until underneath her bare bottom was against him.
He opened his black eyes, staring at her. His thick brows were drawn together as if he meant to reprimand her, but he seemed distracted.
She smiled and wriggled her hands underneath the froth of her skirts, seeking and finding the fall of his trousers. Delicately—expertly—she unbuttoned him until his flesh surged unrestrained into her hands. She stared into his dark eyes as she held him. He hadn't changed expression, but a muscle ticked on his jaw, giving lie to his seeming unconcern.
She ran her fingers up his length, measuring, testing, the penis she couldn't see. "I want you. I want your cock inside of me."
He blinked and suddenly she saw sorrow at the back of his eyes. "Coral . . ."
No. No. She would not let him pity her. She rose up on her knees—braced on either side of him on the bed—and came down unerringly on his penis, taking him into her an inch or so.
He had his hands on either side of her waist as if to stop her—and he could have had he wanted to. But his cock was already lodged within her, pushing into her sensitive flesh, and she'd yet to meet a man willing to disengage at such a moment.
She looked down at him—feeling triumph, feeling loss—and pushed against his flesh. She still held him upright with one hand, but with one last shove she took him fully and her hand fell away.
He was inside her—all of him. She nestled against him, sex against sex, in the most intimate of human positions. Yet she was still fully clothed and her skirt covered them both. Had someone entered they would not know for certain what went on under her skirts.
She bent her head and licked his nipple. "Do you like this?"
He bared his teeth to her.
Her heart jumped and she laughed—a nervous puff of sound. She braced her hands on his shoulders and rose, just enough, not too much—she knew the exact amount—and let him slide from her. His nostrils flared as she reseated herself, swiveling her hips a little, making them both gasp with the force of their rejoining.
"Do you like this?" she panted, rising again.
He shook his head, but she hardly thought he meant for her to quit.
She set a rhythm, fast and sure and entirely unstoppable. He was hard and slick now with her moisture, and with every downward stroke he widened her, rubbing against her clitoris. Warmth was spreading through her pelvis and she could feel the slide of sweat down the middle of her back. That part she'd always disliked, but she barely noticed it with him.
This was different somehow from all the other times. He was different.
And he would not break. Even when she rode him hard, using all her considerable talent, even when the sweat stood on his upper lip and he grit his teeth.
Why wouldn't he break? "Do you like this?" she demanded.
And he arched his hips suddenly, taking her clean off the bed, embedding himself into so deep she swore she felt him brush her womb. He threw back his head and grunted, the muscles on his arms bunching as he gripped her waist. He opened his eyes and stared at her as she felt his semen fill her to overflowing, felt his cock jerk inside her again and again.
He exhaled a mighty gust and relaxed, her knees finally touching the bed once again. She still held his shoulders—awkwardly now. For a moment she wondered if she should dismount or wait for him to recover.
Then he inhaled. "Yes, I like this, but it's obvious that you, madam, don't."
Chapter 8
After many long days and nights of travel, the soldier stood before the Ice Princess herself. He bowed low, for he'd been taught proper manners by his mother, and said, "Good day to you, madam!"
The Ice Princess opened her icy eyes and said in a voice as cold as an iceberg, "Come kiss me."
"I thank you, no," the soldier replied. "Though I do appreciate the offer."
"Then why have you come?" she asked.
"To bring my brother Tom home," he said, "and I'll not leave without him." . . .
--from The Ice Princess
"Damnation!" Isaac threw the official letter down.
Lieutenant Cranston, sitting across the tavern table from him, looked startled. "Something amiss, Captain?"
"It's as we feared—we've been called back to sea early. We set sail in less than a week." He stared down at the congealing plate of beef before him, his appetite lost. There had been a time once, immediately after his wife had died, when he would not have minded the abrupt summons back to duty. Then there had been no one waiting for his return to land and home. Now . . .
"Damnation," he growled again under his breath. "The men will be barely rested. They'll be resentful and surly and there's bound to be fighting." He glanced up at Cranston. "Better make sure our supply of grog is in order."
Cranston nodded. "Aye, sir."
"And tell the other officers that discipline will be tight—no looking the other way over minor incidents. Better a flogging or a stay in the brig than one of my men maimed or killed in stupid fisticuffs."
"Aye, sir." Cranston stood. "With your permission, I'll begin preparations."
"Good man." Isaac watched the lieutenant weave his way through the tavern crowd. He had preparations to make as well—accounts to be settled, business to be transacted before he sailed again. The list was never-ending when one spent the majority of time at sea. But tonight he wouldn't do any of that.
Tonight he'd visit Coral once again.
He glared at his piece of beef, his mood foul as he remembered how she'd used him the night before. He'd known making love to Coral wouldn't be easy, but the woman had used him like a goddamned whore. And then she'd somehow expected him not to notice that she'd never been engaged in the act at all. He'd left her before he said or did something he'd regret later.
"Will ye be wantin' more ale, sir?" the tavern wench asked flirtatiously at his elbow.
He looked up and unconsciously transferred his glare to the poor woman. Her pretty blue eyes widened in fright.
Isaac smoothed his expression and made his voice gentle. "Nay, lass, I'm done here."
Outside, the sun was beginning to set, taking her warmth with her. Isaac pulled his cloak about his body as he walked to Aphrodite's Grotto. All the way he brooded on Coral and her deceptions and the kind of fool who would return to a woman such as she. But when he at last stood before her little door and watched it open he forgot all that.
Coral's chin was lifted, her mouth stretched in a faintly mocking smile, but he could see the uncertainty that lurked in her exotic green eyes.
Isaac sighed. "Invite me in, love."
He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes before she stepped back. "Please come in, Captain Wargate."
He nodded. "Thank you."
Her small concession soothed him a bit. He entered the room and turned to study her. She didn't seem to know quite what to do, now that he was here.
Well, that made two of them.
"I don't know what you want," she said, sounding accusing.
"I know," he replied drily.
She looked hurt.
Oh, Christ. He rubbed his jaw, realizing absently that he needed a shave. "Do you have any wine?"
"Yes." She glided to the table and poured him a glass, bringing it to him. She offered the wineglass to him silently, holding it in both hands.
He took it, meeting her gaze. She wasn't the type of woman to apologize, even if she'd known—and admitted—what she'd done wrong. The very first captain he'd served under—a wise old seadog—had told him that happy men accepted what was real and under their nose. Chasing after impossible wishes only drove a man to melancholy and excessive drink.
Isaac sipped his wine, then walked to the table and set the glass down, feeling suddenly lighter. He looked at Coral. "Come here."
Her expression was clearly wary, but her curiosity must've won out over her reticence. She crept closer, stopping just out of arm's reach.
He sat on a chair and spread his legs, patting one knee. "Come."
Her look was almost resentful, but she came nonetheless, perching uneasily on his thigh. He wrapped an arm around her, but held her back when she tried to kiss him.
"What do you want from me?" she exclaimed irritably.
"Let me explain," he said soothingly as he drew her skirts up with his free hand. "You and I have a confusion as to terms."