Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [70]
“It takes two to make a baby, Mr. Vashon,” she said dryly. “So I let them know that if a pregnancy occurs, it won’t just be the woman going. I’ve found it makes the both of them more willing to use sheaths.”
“Sheaths?” Peter looked to his twin. “How do you suspect Guillouet would respond to that suggestion if we offered it to him?”
“Maybe as well as the other suggestions we’ve given him.” Paul glanced at Yasmeen, then to Archimedes. His voice lowered. “Captain believes that women only serve one function, and it’s not aboard a ship. But he thinks the whorehouses are just fine—and I’ll say that I do, too. There’s no one looking at you with big eyes in the morning.”
“Whorehouses are damn fine, I agree.” Peter sighed. “I’d still prefer the women and the sheaths.”
Yasmeen preferred women and sheaths on a ship, too—especially when they were aboard her ship. The familiar ache of losing her lady started up halfway through dinner, and while she remained quiet, Archimedes entertained them all with stories of his adventures. She excused herself early, and was cleaning her guns when Archimedes came into the cabin almost an hour later, his hands empty.
“No notes?” she asked.
“Ollivier is still in the captain’s cabin. It’ll wait until morning.” He looked her over, sitting on the bunk in her breeches and shirt. “How modest are we, Mrs. Fox?”
“Not very.”
“Good.”
Turning his back to her, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a hook. Yasmeen tucked a pistol beneath her pillow and the other between the frame and mattress over her head. She moved to the washstand, poured water from the ewer into the bowl.
She heard Archimedes’ breath catch when she stripped off her shirt. Without turning, she pushed her breeches and small pants to her ankles, kicked them to the side. The water was cold, her soap slippery. Goose pimples raised under her fingers as she began to wash. Her nipples hardened. She didn’t pretend it was the cold. Knowing that he watched her was almost as pleasing as a touch.
The scent of resin filled the air with every stroke of her hand over her skin. His rough voice came from behind her. “What’s that fragrance?”
“Olibanum,” she said. More subtle than a flowery perfume—and to her nose, warmer and more luxurious. Too expensive for her now, the soap had been a gift from Scarsdale before leaving England. “My favorite.”
“It was coconut the night I shot you with the dart.”
“That was oil for my hair.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Archimedes wore only his drawers, the drawstring tied at the waist, the linen stretched over an impressive erection. The glow of the lamp cast gold over the hardened muscles of his chest, the ripple of his abdomen. Watching her, his emerald eyes burned with a hot light.
By the lady, she wanted him.
How long had it been since she’d wanted a specific man? Forever, it seemed. She’d wanted the sport and pleasure of the bed. If she found someone attractive, she’d take them for one night, have a quick tussle, and leave with her need satisfied. It had little to do with wanting them, and everything to do with finding release.
But after all this time, she wanted him. Archimedes Fox.
She reached for the small towel folded beside the bowl, but stopped her hand when she heard the pad of his feet, coming closer.
“Allow me, Yasmeen,” he said. “Please.”
Please. She felt like saying it instead, but she only nodded. Standing behind her, he took the towel, unfolded it over his palm. The rough caress of cotton began at her shoulders, drying the length of her back in long sweeps. Yasmeen clenched her teeth, her head falling forward. She wanted him inside her—but this was even better. Though he practiced restraint, allowing himself only this, such a caress was her sweetest pleasure. Only his bare hands would have been more welcome.
The stroke of the towel slowed over the curve of her ass. Oh, sweet lady. The men she was with were rarely patient. And those who took their time still never moved beyond a squeeze of her tits, a grab of her ass.
Not that she’d have wanted them to. Those