by Holland Rae
The boots came off, then the jacket. Even behind the fabric of his shirt, Catalina could see the swell and sway of his powerful body. And then his shirt was gone as well, and his dark skin shone, rippled with muscles that stretched from his chest to the hills and valleys of his arms. His hands were on his britches now. Her mouth went dry, and she watched intently, as he slowly, deliberately, pulled the last garment from his body and moved toward her on the bed. He was large, so much larger than she had thought he would be, when feeling him through the fabric. His member jutted from a nest of dark curls, long and thick, throbbing. There was a small drop of liquid at the very end of the slightly red tip, and she found herself licking her lips.
Armand’s actions bore all the grace of a jungle cat approaching its prey. As he stood over her, Catalina felt her heart race and her blood run hot, and she knew she was most definitely about to be devoured.
One of his hands cupped her breast, the rough pad of his thumb rolling over her peaked nipple.
“You’re so ripe,” he growled, his body throbbing in agreement. “I want to taste you.” And then he was, just as before, pressing his mouth to her straining nipple, taking it between his lips and rolling his tongue over the bud. But then his hand was tracing the side of her hip, of her leg, rolling over the valleys and plains of her body and slipping between her thighs. For a moment, he simply traced around her heat, causing her to buck and arch against him. But he kept her in place with one steady hand, and the other one roamed, exploring the length of her thighs, the curve of her backside.
Then his fingers were upon her, upon the needy little trigger just above her entrance that had been throbbing and wanting for pressure of some kind, any kind. When he finally swept his finger across her, Catalina felt a great relief, as a wave of pleasure rose. Still, she wanted something, needed something more, something greater than just his finger upon her, just his mouth teasing her breast wildly. She wanted to be filled. She wanted him.
“Armand,” she said, her voice the husky tone of a woman just before the edge. “Please.”
He groaned. “What do you want, Catalina? Tell me.”
At first, she couldn’t seem to find her voice, but the fire in her body burned and she was desperate for relief. “Touch me.” She demanded it.
His hand cupped her breast. “Here?” he asked, and she nodded.
“More.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but husky and demanding. “I need… more.”
His self-control seemed to be waning, because his fingers were curving back around her behind and toward the heat between her legs.
“Here, Catalina?” he asked in his rough tone. “Is this where you want me to touch you?”
She whimpered in reply, and he slowly spread her knees apart, baring her to the room, to him.
And then, before she even realized, he had one rough finger at her entrance, slowly pressing inside. She sighed with relief, but her body bucked against him, desperate for more, for something. Another finger joined the first, and Catalina damned it all to hell, taking from him as he explored her body. She could feel her desire, slick against the inside of her thighs, as Armand slowly pulled his fingers out and slid them back in.
“I want you.” This from him, a demand.
And then he was there, on his knees before her upon the bed, stroking himself. For a moment, she was mesmerized by the motion of his hand moving up and down his length, tugging slightly, but then he was sliding before her, slipping himself right into the entrance of her body, barely a fraction of an inch.
“Tell me, Catalina,” he whispered. And she did.
“Take me.”
He slid into her body, and the rush of pleasure she had been feeling turned into a burning, shooting pain. He froze instantly, and she could see the expression upon his face, concern, worry, fear.
“I had thought…” He paused, sobriety reentering his voice. “You didn’t tell me.”
She shook her head. The very worst of the pain seemed to be ebbing, in truth, and a small burst of pleasure was filling in its wake. “I’m fine,” she whispered, stroking the muscled length of his arm. “Perhaps, just a bit slowly.”
He nodded, sliding himself from her with care, and then slowly, deliberately, moving back into her body. This time, she felt very little of the burning, far overpowered by the heady rush of pleasure afforded by his delicious movements. One hand was still cupping her breast, and he was licking it again, all while slowly, carefully, sliding in and out of her.
Seemingly without thinking, Catalina wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into her. It barely hurt at all now, with the way he was pressing against her, both inside and out, filling her completely, making her crazed for the feel of him. She groaned against his ear, and he took her mouth, plundering it with his tongue.
“You can move faster,” she whispered. “Please move faster.”
He chuckled at the desperate tone in her voice, and then he was moving faster, groaning as he filled her all the way, and she was groaning too, because the pleasure was growing now, bigger and impossible to contain. Surely, surely this was too much for her body.
And then he slipped his hand between her legs, rolling the tight nub between his fingers, and that was too much for her body, because Catalina screamed, a full-fledged scream, and fell right over the crest of her pleasure, waves upon waves of deep lust pouring over her, like swaths of velvet. She shook against him, feeling the throb of his member deep inside her, and then she finally, finally, came down.
He was looking at her with such a lustful expression in his gaze, Catalina felt her body heat up all over again.
“You’re exquisite,” he groaned. “My God.” And then he was thrusting with far less control, his hand cupping her behind, squeezing, rounding. He pulled her toward him, shifting them both up slightly, pressing his hard, hot cock even deeper into her body, and Catalina knew she wouldn’t last long, not this time, not with the powerful, lingering release she had just experienced.
“Finish with me,” Armand demanded gruffly in her ear. “Please, Catalina.”
She gripped his shoulders tightly, and then she was riding him instead of the other way around, taking from his body, pulsing and pumping, against the hard rod within her. And she felt him seize, felt her own body reach that pivotal point, and they were meeting thrust for thrust for thrust against each other, clinging tightly, desperately to the other, until she heard Armand roar, a sound which broke her control, and they pulsed into each other’s needy bodies. She felt her powerful release catch her from behind, pushing her right past the threshold of control, and she tumbled, headfirst into a distant brightness, delicious lights popping before her eyes.
She distantly registered Armand sliding away, felt the heat of his release across her stomach, felt the weight of him, as he slid beside her on the bed, both of them breathing deeply, her heart pounding in her chest.
He carefully wiped her body clean, then tossed the rag to the side without a word. Then Armand Rajaram de Bourbon, magistrate, earl, childhood friend, gathered Catalina Sol, pirate mercenary, into his arms, and they drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Armand woke early the next morning, as streams of brand new light began to sift lazily in through the window. He kept his eyes closed against the sun, overly aware of the breaking pulse against his temple. He rarely overindulged in spirits of any kind, but ale had a particularly nasty effect upon his head, and his mouth felt parched, as though it had been stuffed with wool.
For a moment, that was all he seemed able to focus upon, but after several deep, even breaths, he cracked his eyes open enough to see if there might be a pitcher of water with which to wash his face, before going to fetch some breakfast. When he made to move, however, he felt a soft tug upon his arm, keeping him pinned to his place in the bed.
Cracking his eyes slightly wider, Armand realized with a horrible, sinking feeling, that his headache and potential for morning nausea were not the worst of
last night’s decisions. For a moment, he simply allowed himself to look at her. Long tendrils of hair spun out around her head, as if she were some mythical sea queen. Her face, normally reserved, normally stoic against the world, was softly curved as she slept. Those delicious lips, still swollen from their kisses the night before, were slightly parted, and she was breathing softly, which gave a slight swell to the deep curves of her bosom and belly as she inhaled. One nipple was just within reach of his fingers, and Armand had to curl his hand tightly to avoid reaching out to touch her. Despite the roiling sensation pounding in his skull, the lower parts of his anatomy were far too aware of the magnificent, powerful woman sleeping entirely nude beside him.
He blinked as the reality of his actions settled against his muddled brain. What the hell had he done? Images of their coupling stirred his body to even further attention, filling her, claiming her. He had claimed her. He was reminded of the secret she had kept from him the night before. She had been a virgin. He had taken that from her, caused her pain, ensured difficulty, should she ever choose to marry. She would never return to London society again. Not unless he did something drastic.
That she had made no indications of wanting to return was far less important than the aching sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with his drinking and everything to do with his guilt. Armand swallowed deeply. Another drink would undoubtedly upset the contents of his stomach, otherwise he would have craved a glass of something strong. As it was, he couldn’t afford the luxury, and his head reeled at that moment, as if to prove the point. Besides, the sun had yet to fully rise. Gentlemen didn’t drink spirits before the dawn.
They also didn’t deflower ladies, he thought with a pang of self-admonishment. Was he the worst sort of man? By God, Captain Catalina Sol was bringing out a whole new side of him. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to go about righting the situation wearing only what his mother had given him. Slowly, carefully, he extricated himself from the soft curve of her arm, sliding from the bed, determined to keep the contents of his stomach exactly where they were.
He pulled on his britches and boots, then threw his shirt over his head, not bothering to tuck it in below the waist. He was on a ship of mercenary pirates, surely they had seen uglier sites than a worse-for-drink nobleman with a guilty conscience. So Armand walked down to the galley, righting himself against a doorframe before brewing some bitter coffee and taking a few pieces of toast from a stack on the table. If he had learned anything over the years of selling rum, he knew that soaking up the poison was one of the only effective methods of curing the aftereffects of a night’s drinking.
Breakfast in hand, he made his way back to the captain’s chamber. Catalina was still asleep. She had turned upon her side, and the long curve of her body caught streams of the increasing sunlight. He considered shutting the blinds for the sake of his temples, but the image she made against the bed was too tempting to say goodbye to just yet. Instead, he forced down a cup of coffee and a few pieces of toast. They were dry as the desert, but the roiling waves in his stomach seemed to calm a little, so he started upon another piece.
Across the room, Catalina began to stir, and he stiffened. Armand knew he had a duty. He may have forsaken his estates, left to be run by proxy in his absence. He may have forsaken all of England and France, not to speak of his mother’s lands. But he had not forsaken his gentlemanly upbringing entirely, and he knew within his heart, down to the very tips of his slightly swollen fingers—he was never touching ale again—what he needed to do.
“Coffee?” he asked.
Her eyes were sleepy, and there was an ephemeral glow about her, with that halo of hair and the lovely golden color of her skin, from a life at sea. She nodded sleepily.
“Good morning,” she whispered, a small smile playing upon her lips. “I take it that the ale is making a second appearance this morning.” He found he was irritated that she seemed to suffer no ill effects of their over-indulgence. In fact, she rather seemed to be glowing, the soft light around her catching the room in streaks of gold and pale blue.
“I suppose I’ll have to take back what I said last night,” Armand said. She raised an eyebrow, accepting the mug of coffee he offered. “You can most certainly drink all the men in London under the table.” At that, Catalina took a long drink from her mug.
“It’s all about practice,” she said. She was just sitting there, the sheet around her waist exposing those two perfect breasts to the room, and Armand was torn between wanting to appease his guilty conscience, and his powerful desire to walk across the room and push her back against the bed, giving him full opportunity to kiss, lick, and bite those delicious pink nipples. He cleared his throat, unsure of what to say next. And then, merely because he could think of no suitable preamble, what with the pounding of rocks against his brain, he came right out and said it.
“I think we should marry.”
If she hadn’t been bred a noblewoman, he had no doubt that she would have spewed her coffee all over him. As it was, Catalina merely choked on the coffee in her mouth, and then placed the mug down on the bedside table. The calmness with which she moved was far more disorienting than Armand would have cared for.
“I beg your pardon.” It had all the ring of a young debutante upon a ballroom floor, but Armand knew better than to believe her. He could feel the stare of a woman who was very accustomed to having her way, and that tone of voice harkened back to their days of youth, when they scampered and scurried their way through the countryside. If Catalina, or Charlotte, did not like something, the casual observer would not have known it from her tone, but anyone the wiser would make haste to hide. As a young girl, Charlotte had a pretty little habit of throwing crockery. Armand was beginning to suspect it was one she hadn’t forsaken.
Still, he’d encountered sights far more dangerous than she, even if none were immediately coming to mind. But he set his chin straight and raised one eyebrow in her direction. He longed to close his eyes and wake from this dream, to realize that all of it had been in his mind and that none of it was real. He wasn’t supposed to sleep with her. Right now, he only wished he could turn back the clock. He wanted that more than anything.
But it wasn’t the truth. He had spent so much time running from his responsibilities, pretending to be someone he was not. This was one matter for which he would need to make amends, to make things right.
“I said—”
But she cut him off. “I know what you said.”
By the tone of her voice, he would have assumed all was well, perhaps even expected an acceptance of his proposal. By God, she’d be a fool not to accept it, and Catalina was clearly no one’s fool. But there was something akin to steel in her gaze, and Armand felt the rush of last night’s alcoholic indulgence all over again, as it tumbled through his stomach. So he offered her a smile, suddenly feeling as though he needed to ward off a coming explosion. He was beginning to get the queer suspicion she was going to say no.
But she didn’t say no. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. Instead, Catalina Sol tilted her head back and laughed. She laughed until he could see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, until her belly rocked and she gripped the sheets. She laughed and she laughed, until Armand could take no more.
“What the hell, Charlotte?”
That stopped her in her tracks. She looked at him. “You’re not joking.”
It was not a question. Oh, for all that he wanted it to be a question, it was not, and that was most dangerous thing of all.
Still, he answered it regardless, hating the look he now saw in her eyes, hating the fact that she seemed unaware of just how much trouble they had made in giving in to their desires the night before.
He stepped forward, his jaw squared.
“I am most certainly not joking,” he said, glad to hear that his voice sounded even and almost calm. For all outward appearances, it might seem that Armand was actually in some sort of control, except a thread of pure rage was climbin
g up his spine, and he twisted his fingers, his nails cutting into the flesh of his palm. “Charlotte, I don’t see what could possibly be funny about this—” Before he could manage his rational argument, as a man should hardly have to give to the woman he had deflowered the evening prior, on exactly why they should wed, she cut him off with a tone so fierce, it stopped his heart for a beat.
“Don’t call me that,” she said, and it was as though her very voice had turned to ice. “Don’t you ever call me that.”
Was that it then? Was Lady Charlotte Talbot, daughter of the Earl of Derby, his oldest friend in the world, truly dead?
Before he could ask, however, she continued in her same, steely tone. “I am Catalina Sol, captain of the Liberté, and I behave as I please.”
He felt a twang of pure fury burning behind his eyes. How it all gone so wrong?
“I eat and drink where I please. I rescue the people I wish to rescue, and I take the lovers I wish to take.” Knowing that she had only had the one true lover—himself—the statement should not have made Armand so terrifically angry that she referred to them in plurals, but it did.
“You are ruined.” He nearly spat the words, aware that she had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t allowed anyone to do since youth. Since her. “You are ruined in the eyes of all that matter, and if you do not marry me now, then you will likely never marry anyone.”
The expression upon her face almost resembled that of a mother speaking to an insubordinate child, as if the child simply could not comprehend what they were discussing.
“No. I’m not.” She was standing now, hurriedly dressing in those tailored britches of hers that had been enticing him for the last few days and pulling her shirt over her head in a rush. He ground his teeth to keep from raising his voice. “I am not ruined from last night because I was ruined far earlier in my life. I will never”—the pause was almost violent—“ever return to society in London. I am Catalina, not Charlotte. Your friend is gone, Armand, and the sooner you understand that, the better we are surely all to be.”