Dunham

Chapter 18

18

If Celia thought Judas was handsome in breeches or, better yet, the altogether, he was breathtaking in a formal suit of clothing. He wore a silver-embroidered black brocade waistcoat under a black velvet coat. Black velvet breeches clung to his strong thighs. He had a modest fall of white silver-shot lace at his throat and wrists, white stockings, and on his feet were black leather pumps with silver heels as high as hers. His silver-streaked black hair was pulled back, tied neatly with a silver ribbon.

It was all she could do to keep her hands away from him, knowing what he was wearing around his cock, but most especially after he had looked at her so ... worshipfully.

She had never struck a man dumb before.

Despite the temptation, however, she refrained from touching him again until they had returned to her cabin and the door was closed-

-at which point, Celia shoved him back against the door and crushed his mouth with hers.

He needed no encouragement to press his thumbs into her stomacher and pull down just enough for her nipples to pop out of her bodice and rest upon the piping.

He dove for the left one, the most damaged. Celia panted and dropped her head back, pressing him to her. She couldn't feel his mouth or teeth, but his hair bunched in her fist and the knowledge that he wanted to pay homage to her scars aroused her further.

"Take off your gown," he growled against her breast. "Leave your stays on."

"But I-" she whispered helplessly, then stumbled backward when he straightened. He crossed the cabin to snatch her dagger off the bulkhead above her pillow, and in two steps he was in front of her.

"-can't ... "

With two skillful slashes, her overdress was cut from her stomacher and fell off her arms, the weight of the dress at the back of the neck unable to be supported.

"Take it off," he snarled, throwing the dagger on the table.

She stared between him and the dagger, not sure she should trust him in this ... state ... whatever it was. Granted, he had taken her before and she had admitted that she liked it, but certainly she did not care to make a habit of it.

Before she could decide the matter, he stepped behind her and pulled her overdress off, nearly taking her arms with it. Pounds of silk whooshed through the air and landed with a plop on her bunk, leaving her in her stays, shift, rolls, and heavy silk underskirt.

She jumped when he pressed his mouth to the back of her neck, licking, sucking ... nibbling. She felt his knuckles brushing against her back.

Testing her.

His lips found their way to her ear and his rigid cock pressed against her arse. "Suck in."

She did and gasped when her laces tightened. "Judas! I can't breathe."

"If you can talk, you can breathe. Suck in."

She did. "Oh!" she choked. "Don't ... like ... game."

"You will," he said, his voice filled with wicked delight as he nudged her toward the table. "Now," he purred in her ear, "shall we see if that cat is as ready as it was when you decided to fondle me under the Hollander's table?"

Celia could barely breathe, much less think when he shoved her over the table and threw her skirt and shift up. Her hips and arse swayed this way and that whilst he sliced her rolls away.

Then he touched her ...

She moaned and collapsed into the table, helpless, weak, nearly unable to breathe, his clever fingers sliding easily, oh, so easily, into her.