Her snort of laughter only encouraged him. Unbuttoning his pants, he straddled her torso and cupped her breasts, He pressed her swollen mounds around his burgeoning shaft and took slow deliberate strokes. He tweaked both nipples and she bucked and trembled under him. When he grew fully erect, he leaned closer.
“Take me in your mouth.” His husky demand urgent with desire.
She raised her head, her eyes ravenous, admiring of his bobbing prick. A pink tongue moistened tawny plump lips. “No.” She sank back into the pillow.
He blinked. “No?”
Her gaze narrowed into that beautiful almond shape. “Take off every stitch of clothing.”
“Ah, a new game.” Phaeton grinned. “Very well.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and shed his clothes. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder blades as her arms came around his torso. Fingers splayed through his chest hair, rubbing, swirling, then moving down ribs and belly. The muscles in his abdomen quivered. Had she driven him mad with all that provocative talk? Or was this pure lust?
Her fingers closed around his cock and stroked. He forced himself to stand and turn around. America was on all fours; that lovely round ass wiggled as though it might have a tail. “Wicked little minx.” Taking her by the hair, he presented his turgid cock to her mouth. “Take it—all of it.”
His penis felt the hum of her laughter as her lips covered the tip.
Very soon thereafter, speech abandoned him, replaced by the guttural, inarticulate sounds of a growling, wild beast.
On the brink of climax, he released her head and pressed her back onto the bed. She opened for him and he drove deep into the slick warmth of her sheath. Long legs wrapped around his body. Her breath was rapid again, coming in short gasps. She made sweet mewling sounds and ran kisses over his chest. Her licks and small bites to his nipples caused a gasp. “Again.”
With firm, deliberate strokes, he concentrated on her pleasure while building his own fervor a little at a time. He dropped legs down between hers and without missing a single stroke, reached under the small of her back and lifted her upright onto the tops of his thighs. He set back on his haunches. “I hold you impaled upon the ducal sword.”
Lips, swollen from bruising kisses, smiled. And those feline eyes, wide and colored with passion, nearly sent him over the edge. Drawing her tight against his chest he showed her how to rock her hips. He took a mouthful of breast and kept his thrusts slow. With each withdrawal, he pulled out enough to rub her with the tip of the royal weapon. As her love cries increased, he pressed his fingers into the flesh of her buttocks and brought himself deeper inside.
The blissful gasp of her release surged through his body. There it was again, her pleasure increasing, enhancing his own. His thrusts grew rapid and violent, until his climax exploded into her. “Dear God, you have bewitched me.”
Chapter Thirty-two
P
HAETON OPENED THE SLATED SHUTTER OF THE PORTHOLE
and blinked away shafts of light. Well past dawn. Last evening was perhaps the most astonishing erotic experience of his life. And it had happened with America. He had given her a taste of unusual love play and what a game enchantress she turned out to be, responding with a kind of creativity and enthusiasm that was nothing short of dazzling. He already longed for more of her tempting flesh.
The enticing, seductive female lay stretched out beside him. A long, shapely limb straddled tossed off linen and blankets. Gently, he rubbed a rounded hip and buttock cheek, receiving a slumberous murmur in response. His cock twitched. Ah, the added stimulation of a little early morning arousal. Asleep or awake, he had the urge to take her from behind.
She had encouraged him to explore every part of her. His mouth, fingers, it mattered not. He, in turn, showed her how and where to explore. He took a deep breath and recalled curious questions and how intimate her examination was.
A rapid onset of heartbeats urged to him to run.
He had gone round the bend this time. Allowed a pretty, exotic, clever young woman to get close. Much too close. A bit of pressure squeezed his chest. She was after his heart—his very soul—for God’s sake.
Phaeton bolted out of the warmth and comfort of the captain’s berth and dressed. He paused to kiss an exposed derriere and pull up the covers. Topside, he ran directly into Ned McCafferty.
“Mr. McCafferty. She’s sleeping rather soundly at the moment.”
The gruff man eyed him in a wary sort of way. “A good thing, I expect, sire.”
“Very good. Miss Jones has been through quite an ordeal these last twenty-four hours. See that she sleeps as long as possible.”
McCafferty nodded. “I take your meaning, Mr. Black. No interruptions.”
“Good man.” Phaeton tipped his hat and was off down the gangway. Weaving a path through the bustling basin traffic, he hoofed it down Ferry Road to the West India Docks. Somewhere among this mob of drayage carts and carriages, he would find a cab.
“Phaeton.” A voice in the crowd. He whirled around to find Dexter Moore climbing out of a hansom. “Just the man I was sent off to find.”
“No doubt the director wants a full report.”
Dexter shook his head. “Just a meeting. Nothing in writing,”
A side benefit of Secret Branch operations was the dearth of deadly dull paperwork. So he would debrief his superiors, have a pint or two with a few of the lads at the Rising Sun and then make his way home. Interesting enough day, he hoped, to keep his mind off America Jones.
“Volunteered to come after you. They need you back in Whitehall as soon as possible.” Dexter opened the door of his cab. “And the lovely Miss Jones?”
“Asleep.” Phaeton hesitated before stepping inside the hansom. “She is not to be disturbed.”
“But—the hearing. She was to be at the Old Bailey in”—Dexter checked his pocket watch—“just short of an hour from now.”
Phaeton pulled Dex in and leaned out of the hansom. “Turn us around—Millwall docks.”
When they hit a snarl of traffic, Phaeton leaped out of the carriage and ran for the
Topaz
. He crossed the gangplank and nearly knocked over McCafferty in the wheelhouse. “So sorry.” Worst of all, he did not think before flinging the cabin door open. A nubile, light brown Venus stepped from her bath. Phaeton’s jaw dropped.
“Good God.” The voice behind him was Dexter’s.
“Phaeton.” Her smile turned to something more akin to alarm. “And ...” She grabbed for a bath sheet to cover herself. “Inspector Moore.”
Phaeton clapped his mouth shut and slammed the door in Moore’s face. “Get dressed, Miss Jones, you have a hearing to attend.”
Her eyes grew large and round. “Dear God, I quite forgot. How long have I got?”
“One minute to get fully dressed.” Phaeton gladly helped with stockings and garters. “Inspector Moore.” He raised his voice.
A muffled answer came from behind the door.
“Get that hansom turned around and headed for—”
“No.” America tied up her petticoat. “At this time of day, it’s faster by water. Have McCafferty find us a water taxi.”
“Bollocks.” Phaeton struggled with the tiny buttons on her shoes. “Did you hear that, Dex?”
“On my way, Phaeton.”
He set her foot down. “Ready, my darling?”
America twisted her curls into a knot and pinned up her hair. Her eyes darted about the cabin. “Where are the papers?”
Phaeton searched table and desktop. Amber eyes blinked at him from a shelf above the desk. He grabbed a neat stack of documents under the grey gargoyle.
He turned back. “Well done, Edvar.”
Topside, in the blink of an eye, he grabbed her by the hand and they raced across the basin bridge. “There they are.” McCafferty and Moore stood beside a low-slung watercraft which featured a tall smokestack and wheelhouse aft. The three of them scrambled aboard and the steam-powered taxi chugged away from the docks.
Moore opened his watch. “We’ve got a bit less than half the hour.”
“Cracking good call, my dove.” Phaeton leaned back toward the open steerage compartment. “Full steam ahead, Captain.”
“How blasted long does it take to get from the Docklands to Whitehall?” Chilcott groused as Zander shut the door.
Phaeton’s answer was a deep sigh of relief. He and Moore had been on the run for a solid hour or more. Now, finally in the dim light of the director’s office, he eased into a side chair and stretched out his legs.
Hat in hand, Moore prepared to humble himself. “Sorry for the delay. Phaeton and I had to see Miss Jones safely inside the Old Bailey.” Moore beamed. “Her ships are being released to her.”
Chilcott returned to his desk chair. “This young lady is both Phaeton’s abductee and your merchant ship owner, am I correct? Would someone please explain how Miss Jones got entangled in two different operations?”
Phaeton exchanged a quick glance with Moore and cleared his throat. “Rather a complicated story, sir.”
Wild eyebrow hairs merged as Chilcott nailed him with a flinty stare. “I’ve got the rest of the morning, if needed, to sort this all out.” The director’s well-worn leather chair squeaked a groan as the boss settled in. “Do make this a ripping good tale, Phaeton.”
He and Moore spent the better part of the next hour recounting the salient events of each case, breaking only to answer or clarify questions, when asked. As Phaeton gave an accounting of his and Exeter’s investigation in the British Museum, and his story became increasingly Gothic and sensational, Chilcott turned to Moore. “Mr. Moore, need I remind you Phaeton is a Secret Branch operative.”
“Secret Branch, sir?”
“A name I coined, recently, but you will find no mention of it anywhere outside of this office.” Flat-lipped as it was, Chilcott actually grinned. “Mr. Farrell here keeps a false accounting of Phaeton’s cases. For the record, what was Mr. Black working on these past few weeks?”
“He’s been assisting Mr. Moore on his piracy case.” Zander looked up from a stack of files. “Try to keep it as plausible as possible.”
“Secret Branch cases are subject to the highest level of security and are never to be discussed. Not even with other agents.” Chilcott leaned across his desk. “In point of fact, Mr. Moore, they do not exist.”
Moore swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
The director remained forward, hands steepled together, under his chin. “Were you finished, Mr. Black?”
“Near enough, sir.”
“Right, onto new business. The British Museum has a rather lucrative proposition for Miss Jones.”
An amused exchange between Zander and Chilcott made his hackles rise. “That being?”
Nose out of folders, Zander explained. “An Egyptian sarcophagus must be returned to sacred ground, to a location near Alexandria, I believe. And it appears Miss Jones will soon be in need of cargo.”
Phaeton shrugged. “Keeps everything neatly under wraps.”
“Precisely.” Chitcott nodded to Zander. “That will be all gentlemen.”
Zander tapped Phaeton on the back. “You might drop by and assist Exeter. Last I heard he’s waiting on Anubis and Qadesh.”
Phaeton shook his head. “Don’t tell me they’re still at it?”
Zander yawned a chuckle. “I believe so.”
Chilcott stood up. “Tell them your news, Mr. Farrell”
“Oh yes. Last night, a little after four in the morning, Sophie delivered a healthy child. Quite a set of lungs on her. Kept us up the rest of the night.”
Something oddly familial and oppressively warm affected Phaeton as he pumped the man’s hand. “Good God, Zander, that’s wonderful news. And Sophie is well?”
“Hale and hearty.”
Phaeton nodded. “Well, done Mrs. Farrell. Oh, and her name?”
“Fiona Sophrinia Camille.” A proud smile and shrug. “We’ve shortened it considerably—already calling her Fee.”
“Let me buy you a pint, Zander. Celebrate.” Phaeton doffed his hat and held open the door. “Join us, sir?”
Chilcott almost looked pleased at the invite. “Order me a bite of roast beef on toast. I’ll be down shortly.”
Outside the office, on their way to the Rising Sun, Phaeton couldn’t shake a disconcerting thought. What if America was with child? He had used protection only—dear God. Once. Rather foolhardy of him.
“Hope you don’t mind a tagalong?”
Phaeton shut the cab door behind them. “Nonsense, Dex. These immortals rarely appear in public. And in such splendid form.”
A cordon of Metropolitan police blocked off Egyptian Avenue. Phaeton took the lead and ran them through the gauntlet of officers. Rounding a circular row of crypts, they found Dr. Exeter supervising the unloading of a large stone sarcophagus. Much of the mausoleum had been reduced to a pile of rubble.
“What the devil?” Phaeton grinned and shuddered simultaneously.
Exeter signed for the delivery. “Between feats of admirable fornication, they also have episodes of ferocious disagreement. Arguments of the most disturbing, homicidal nature.”
Phaeton surveyed the damage. Not much was left standing but the inner chamber. “Lightning bolts and such?”
Exeter nodded. “If they were human, they’d both be toes up by now.”
Moore picked his way among the steaming rock. “I say, something nasty caused this jumble.”
“Yes, nasty would describe it.” Phaeton turned back to Exeter. “Is it safe for us to have a look?”
Exeter led the way. “As best as we can make out, three thousand years ago. Anubis was off having a dalliance when our young goddess was accosted by an angry mob of priests. He arrived home too late. Found her entombed—watch that rubble.” Exeter jogged around a pile of smoking debris. “Racked with grief and guilt, one supposes, he submitted himself to the same ceremony and was returned to the earth. Made the religious zealots promise to bury him beside her. Apparently left a curse on every last man before they turned him to dust.”
Phaeton mused over Exeter’s story. “No doubt the priests didn’t account for the restorative powers of the Thames.”
Exeter chuckled. “Not likely. Both gods are resting rather peacefully at the moment. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. Now that the sarcophagus has arrived, I might need your assistance in reminding Anubis of his obligation.”
Exeter’s face seemed drawn, lines deeper around the eyes and mouth. “Have you had any rest?”
“Not much. Nipped a few hours in a paddy wagon last night.”
“I’ll take it from here if you wish.”
Exeter shook his head. “I’ve actually managed to become a kind of liaison of sorts, with the help of our translator.”
“Stickles is still here?”
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world, Mr. Black.” The doddering old curator dipped his head to exit what still remained standing of the marble crypt.
“Right.” Phaeton looked around and noted a curious but somewhat anxious look on Moore’s face. “I’ve quite forgotten introductions. Inspector Moore, I’m pleased to introduce Mr. Stickles, British Library Curator, and Doctor Exeter, a civilian conscripted for duty to the Crown.”
Exeter nodded to Moore and waved him forward. “Shall we have a look in at the gods?”
Pale green lights swirled through the murky mist of the inner chamber. On the stone slab in the center of the room, two indistinct shapes lay entwined as one. Exactly the spot where he had last seen Anubis wielding his flail upon a robust derriere. Inspiration, no doubt, for his own abduction and manhandling of Miss Jones.
“Watch your step,” Stickles warned in a hush voice. A fog-like bank of storm clouds hugged the floor. “Our every movement disturbs the atmosphere.” The heavy mist crackled with light and rumbled with thunder as they ventured inside the crypt.