He dragged his fingers between her legs. Angelica leaned into him, grinding against the heel of his hand. She moaned, kissing him deeply.
Her tongue searched for his, finding him, tasting him. She drew it into her mouth and sucked hard. It was wanton and vulgar. His knees went weak. Brody grabbed Angelica’s backside, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Locked together, they sank onto the floor, he on his back, she writhing on top of him.
Angelica reached beneath her thighs to work the buttons of his fly. She was bared to him—open for him—with her silk nightdress rucked up over her belly. This was not his sweet shadow-angel, timidly panting at his gentlest caress. This was a confident, sensual woman who knew exactly how to work a man.
When she freed him from his trousers, she pumped him roughly. He watched her raise her hips and slide him in. Angelica took him deeply, fully. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, rolling it across her shoulders as she rocked her hips. She might have moaned, but the roaring in his ears was deafening. His mind was lost to anything beyond the swaying of her body as she rode him.
Brody reached for her, greedily pulling her down against his pounding chest. He nipped her neck, and licked her ear, whispering, “Not like this. I’ll finish too soon.”
Angelica slipped him out of her. “Like this, then.”
She crawled onto her hands and knees, tipping her hips for him.
Brody raked his hands up the backs of her thighs, gripping her hard. “Is this how my girl likes it best?”
She nodded, breathless, and he drove into her. Angelica cried out. She lowered down on her elbows, widening her legs to fully take him. With every thrust, she threw her hips back at him. Harder. Harder. Faster.
Her lover had taught her well.
Brody was close—so close. Angelica’s fingernails clawed the rough, woven floor covering as their bodies pounded against one another. She was so shamelessly, desperately aroused. He could have easily slipped his hand around her hip and stroked her, but they both knew this wasn’t about her.
Instead, she reached between her legs, searching through the gaping fly of his trousers, to press and rub between his. Her touch sent him curling into her, desperate and seeking.
His own orgasm was a shock to him. He was sure he had never come so hard. Brody strained, breathless and panting, shuddering, and swearing. He pulled Angelica back against him, kissing her fiercely. Never in his life had he had it this good. He writhed into her, fighting the last flashes of pleasure coursing his veins.
He did not want it to end.
Utterly wrung out, he collapsed to the floor. “My God, Angelica. My God…”
She sat up, sweeping her dark hair from her sweat-drenched face. Her ghostly blue eyes seemed to glow in the firelight. He saw her for the first time then—what she truly was, what she had always been.
Hideous and beautiful, all at once.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Angelica woke aching. She’d gone to bed aching, too, and clamped her thighs together in a desperate attempt to staunch the need. Captain Neill had not offered her release. He had not kissed and petted her like that first night in her kitchen. All this time—even after her rough initiation—she still believed him when he’d said lovemaking would be beautiful. Sacred. Perhaps that was what men told virgin women, a lie to convince innocents to give up their chastity. Or, perhaps, gentlemen did not bother to pleasure whores.
That was what she was to him. A convenient place to spend himself for the night. But that kind of crude copulation was all Angelica knew. It was the only way she felt in control. Because she’d taken him, just as surely as he’d taken her.
She’d loved every hot, breathless minute of their exchange. The feel of him beneath her. Behind her. Inside her. Angelica had dreamed about it for so long that she hardly believed it had actually happened. In a move of desperation, she rocked her backside against the mattress, wincing as the sheets rasped her sore, bruised flesh.
Yes, she’d fallen on her bottom in the bath, but she hadn’t hit her head. Last night had been real. Not simply another one of her lonely, kitchen-pallet fantasies. She had…fucked…Captain Neill. What did that mean for her now?
Hopefully, they could move forward.
Come to some sort of understanding.
“Good morning, Angelica.” He was awake. He was up and dressed. He was…packing.
Today, he would take his whore to meet his family.
She sat up, groaning. The pain was as acute between her legs as her very first time. “Good morning.”
Captain Neill dug through the wardrobe, folding, rolling, and stuffing her belongings into a canvas bag. She heard the rustle of tissue paper as he unwrapped box after box of skirts, blouses, and brassieres.
He must have noticed her listening. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d do it for you.”
“Are we in a hurry?”