“You are no longer in the navy, and I am not a ship!”
“Nay, you are not . . .” His voice grew low, dangerously seductive. “But I like the cut of your jib, the taut trim of your sails”—the dark gaze slid over her breasts, the gentle flare of her hips—”the shape of your hull.”
“Get out of my bed.”
“Why? I really am most comfortable. Not as comfortable, of course, as I would be if you
were to drop anchor beside me. . .”
Her skin tingled and flushed crimson. “I said, Get out of my bed!”
He suckled the juice from his fingers. “What, would you prefer to do it on the floor?”
“I’d prefer that you shut your mouth before I shut it for you!”
“Now that, “ he said, wickedly, “could be interesting.”
“Damn you, I’ve had it with your sly innuendos!”
“Now, Majesty, “ he murmured, affecting a look of mock hurt. Putting the dagger down, he sat up, swung his handsomely muscled legs off the bed, and sat looking at her, charmingly boyish, alarmingly dangerous, and shamelessly naked. “Don’t go getting your guns all primed. I am just a sailor . . . and what sailor doesn’t lust and pant after a beautiful woman? I find you beautiful, and”—he let his gaze rake over her breasts, her hips, her bare ankles—”I want you.”
Maeve swallowed hard.
“Come, now, dear lady.” His hand, a broad, and callused hand—a man's hand—slid over her silky sheets in a way that was calculated to suggest that same masterful hand roving over her equally silky flesh. He gave a slow, heated grin that sent the temperature of her blood soaring to new heights. “Don’t make me come over there and get you . . .”
His body seemed relaxed, but she sensed the raw power underneath, the ability to spring,
wolflike, and bring her down like a helpless hare.
The Pirate Queen took a step backward.
“You fear me,” he murmured, his eyes glinting. He spread his hands, as though in truce, and again she was struck by the power, the strength, in those broad palms, those beautiful, tapered fingers. Shivers coursed through her. She had no trouble imagining them around her throat. No trouble imagining them crushing the life out of her.
And no trouble imagining them caressing her heated flesh.
“I fear nothing!” she snapped, defiantly. “D’you hear me? Nothing!”
“No? Your lie is thoroughly unconvincing, I’m afraid. I think you fear me very much.”
Rising to his feet, he took a step forward. Another. “You see, Majesty, I have waited all night and half the morning for you. I have waited . . . all my life. Now, be a good lass, and let me pleasure you. . . Love you. . . Stroke your sweet flesh into flame and fire. . . After all”—again, he flashed that disarming grin—”we have so little time left together. . .”
He took another step forward but Maeve stood her ground, gripping the raised cutlass, her gaze locked with his and every muscle in her body strung shroud-tight—
“I’m warning you, pirate!”
Sweat ran down her spine as he moved closer.
“Stay away from me!”
“So little time,” he said again—and reached for her.
With all her strength she swung the cutlass, and he expertly ducked the blow that would
have taken off his head. The momentum spun her around, the sword smashed into the bedpost, and Gray was on her before she could even think to go for the dagger on the nightstand, seizing her wrists, jerking them above her head, and slamming her belly up against the doorjamb so hard the breath exploded from her lungs.
“Back off,” she snarled, through clenched teeth.
“Nay. You, madam, should have had the sense to do that when you first entered this hallowed chamber.” The silkiness was gone from his voice, the playful teasing replaced by a hot, sexual carnality that made her tremble. His chest drove against her back, his arousal against her backside, and she felt totally helpless. And with her body crushed against the doorframe, she could do nothing but shut her eyes and steel herself against the ripples of desire as she felt his breath against the curve of her neck.
“All my life, I’ve fantasized about making love to a lady pirate,” he murmured, his deep
voice sending tremors down her spine. “At last, that fantasy is about to become reality. . .”
“Over my dead body!”
“Oh, I hardly think so, Majesty. In fact, I shall take great delight in making that body of yours come alive.” His hand slid up her forearm, over her shoulders, caught the thick fall of her hair and lifted it off her neck. She felt his lips against her nape, his breath fanning the damp skin there, and still, his big body pinned her helplessly against the doorjamb.
“I’ve heard the tales about you, but they do not pay tribute, nor do justice, to such a fair and fiery maiden . . . I think I am in love . . . Do you believe in love at first sight, Maeve? I never did, but I do now.”
“No, I don't believe in love at first sight, and indeed, I don't believe in love at all!”
“Now that is truly a pity.”
“What is a pity is that if you so much as touch me, you won't live to tell about it, damn your eyes!”
“Ah, such pluck, such fire! Indeed, madam, I will touch you . . . but were you to go down without a fight, I should be sadly disappointed. . . So, indulge yourself, Maeve, and”—his fingers caught her collar and pulled it downward, exposing her neck and shoulders to his mouth — ”fight.”
She felt his lips moving against the back of her neck, nibbling, kissing, feathering, his tongue tasting the hot skin and drawing little circles in the downy hair at her nape. Her senses swam and she caught her breath. She tried to struggle, but he only pushed himself against her all the harder, crushing her, pinning her, rendering her more helpless than she already was.
“Do you know your body is already answering mine, Majesty?” His hand caught in her hair
and pulled off the leather thong, and she felt his fingers trailing through the long, silky tresses, smoothing them, stroking them, separating them. “Don’t deny me, sweetheart. Don’t deny
yourself, for there's something between us and you know it as well as I do. Let me take you in my arms, carry you to your bed, and make delicious, savage love to you. . .”
She waited for his lips to touch the soft hollow between her shoulders; then, catching him off guard, she jerked her arm down and out of his grip, and drove her elbow brutally into his chest. But he was quicker than she, and far stronger, spinning her around and backing her spine against the wall so fast the room twirled around her. He caught her wrists, dragging them up over her head; furious, she looked up into his face, met his eyes, and drew her lips back in a feral, savage snarl.
“Let—me— go.”
“I can’t,” he said simply. “I want you too much to let you go.”
Then he smiled. Disarmingly. Devastatingly. Knowingly. Something melted inside her. Her
knees went weak and her breathing quickened. He moved back, ever so slightly, pressing his bare leg against her thigh and allowing her to feel his heat, his power. He dragged his foot up the side of her calf, his knee trailed toward the junction of her legs with agonizing slowness. There it pressed, burning through the loose trousers and making her long to thrust herself shamelessly against that sweet pressure.
“When I get free,” she managed to say weakly, “I swear to God I’ll stab you so full of holes you’ll look like a damned fishing net.”
“My dear madam,” he murmured, still holding her arms high while he nuzzled her ear and
branded her neck with warm, searing kisses, “any stabbing to be done is my delightful calling, not yours. Relax, Majesty, and give in to your deepest desire.”
“My deepest desire . . . is to sink my dagger into your heart and watch you . . . die.”
“And mine is to sink my dagger into your sweet woman’s flesh and watch you writhe with pleasure.” His lips were moving lower, toward that crea
my swell of flesh above the closure of her shirt. Maeve’s heart began to pound, and the room was suddenly too hot, far too hot. “Shall we have a contest to see who wins?”
His knee continued to press, to rub, against her throbbing junction. Then his hand followed, touching her, stroking her, caressing her through the thin barrier of fabric. She felt a rush of pleasure and dampness, and sank against his hand, knowing, even as a sob caught in her throat, that he would win, indeed.
There was no fight left in her. None at all.
“Kiss me,” she murmured, faintly.
His face loomed above, his eyes wicked with challenge and desire, the dimple in his chin the last thing she saw before her eyes drifted shut.
“I’m going to kiss you . . . everywhere. I’m going to kiss you until you swoon with pleasure, until you melt like sugar beneath my lips, until you cry out my name in the throes of passion. I am in love with you, Pirate Queen, whether or not you believe in the notion.” She turned her head, and her cheek came up against the hard bar of his arm, smelling of salt and warmth and clean, scrubbed skin. His fingers captured her jaw and gently forced her head back around, and she knew then that she wanted this as much as he did.
God, help me, she thought, faintly—
And was aware of his mouth lowering to hers . . . an inch away . . . a hairbreadth. . .
Touching.
Sinking, sweeping abandon . . . joy . . . surrender. She tasted the sweetness of oranges on his lips, on his tongue, felt the rough press of his thumb against her jaw, and sank beneath a feeling of being swept away, carried away, overpowered, ravished. Her legs buckled and with his knee positioned strategically between her thighs, he held her up against the wall. She moaned deep in her throat and his lips ground against hers. Her head swam and she felt his hand pushing up the loose fabric of one pant leg until it was bunched around her upper thigh and her skin was bared to the harshness of his palm.
No God, I take that back. . . Don’t help me. . .
The kiss deepened. Her nipples hardened, ignited, tingled against her shirt. She sighed
deeply and pressed into him, even as he slid his fingers up her arm and brought her wrists down with them.
“Love me, Maeve.”
She needed no urging. Hooking an arm around the back of his neck, she drew him close, and felt his kiss become savage, plundering, demanding. . .
A pirate’s kiss.
Hard male muscle imprinted her body. His hands fitted easily around her waist, positioning her more firmly atop his hard thigh, and she leaned back against the wall, gasping as his fingers found the bud of her desire and gently stroked it through her trousers.
“Oh,” she managed, trying to find anger, trying to find control, and finding neither.
But he only laughed, caught her jaw once more and forced her mouth against his. She drove upward to meet it, panting hard and greedily taking his tongue into her mouth. Again, the tangy sweetness of citrus; again, the hot flush of sensation through every nerve in her body. Her legs went limp, her mind reeled. She felt herself growing hot, growing wet, growing . . . impatient.
And then he drew back, breaking the kiss. Her eyes opened to regard him dazedly.
“I may take a prize,” he said huskily, his thumb clearing the hair from her damp cheek, “but I never plunder it unless invited aboard.” Hot fingers dragged down her throat, circled her breast, dragged across a hardened nipple. “I can let you go now, Maeve, to continue on your set course . . . or you can indulge your wish to be . . . plundered.”
She closed, then opened her glazed eyes, her heart beating wildly in her breast.
“What shall it be?”
Did she have a choice? Let him, her mind pleaded. What ill can come of it? When will you ever have such a dangerously handsome man as this in your bed, ever again?
As long as she did not let herself fall in love with him, she was safe. Unable to be hurt, deserted, abandoned—
Her silence was answer enough. She collapsed even as his strong arms scooped her up and
carried her easily to the bed.
He held her for a long moment, relishing the feel of her in his arms before lowering her to the soft expanse of silky sheets and tasseled pillows and feather-down mattress. She lay on her back, staring up at him; then he stood, tall and strong and virile, his gaze raking over her body.
She flushed hotly. Their eyes met, and he smiled a long, slow, smile before easing himself down beside her.
Melting inside, Maeve trembled as he began to undress her, carefully, skillfully, expertly.
Masterful hands skimmed over her belly, grazing the skin there, igniting her blood. She lifted her shoulders so he could draw the shirt over her head. The warm trades kissed her . . . he kissed her, with lips burning against her neck, her collarbone, trailing lower to claim one hard, aching nipple, then the other. She moaned as his tongue circled the soft pink areola, the tightened bud, sucking at it greedily, even as his hand found her belt and slowly slid the leather through the buckle and drew it off. Instinctively, her thighs clamped together before his hand gently slid between them and coaxed them apart.
“Maeve, my Queen,” he murmured, dropping kisses between her breasts as he drove his
hand beneath the waistband of the cottony trousers and dragged them down her hips. She felt every acute sensation; the hair of his arm grazing her legs, the warmth of his skin against her own. “I have lived for this moment all my life.”
“You . . . you probably say that to every woman,” she whispered, faintly.
“Aye, but I have never meant it as I do now,” he murmured, his breath warm against her breasts. His hand moved lower, pressing once more against the junction of her thighs. “Open for me, Maeve. . . Let me explore you . . . cherish you . . . love you.”
The last of her apprehension fled in the face of what he was doing to her, and she couldn’t have disobeyed him even if she wanted to. Sighing, Maeve opened to him, shivering with
delight, anticipation, and longing as his fingers moved lazily through the curls at her inner thighs, stroking her until she was wet and gasping and arching shamelessly against his hand. Then there was only cool air against her wet nipples as his head moved downward, his lips skimming over her belly, his breath hot against her navel . . . her thighs . . . her— She started to sit up, but his hand was there against her chest, his thumb circling one nipple as he pushed her gently back down to the thick stack of pillows.
“Enjoy your desire, Maeve. Let me savor every blessed inch of you.”
She lay back, trembling, seeing the ceiling, the top of his head, through half-closed eyes. He was easy with her. Patient. His hands were hard and strong against her thighs, gently coaxing them further apart, and she felt his breath against her thighs, her sex, his fingers holding her inner folds apart, his thumbs stroking the swollen bud of her desire until it was no longer his thumbs there, but his mouth.
“Oh, sweet heaven—” she sobbed, at that first wet thrust of his tongue against her flesh.
He raised his head, his gaze soft and tender. “Relax, my sweet. I’ll never hurt you. Trust me on that.”
Relax. It was a command, and dazedly, it came to her that he was a man who was well used to issuing them. A dangerous man . . . a man of power, a man of authority.
But she was in no position to ponder that further; not in the midst of such overwhelming
sensation. She gave herself up to the pleasure, and when it became almost unbearable, she pushed him away, rolled onto her side, and, drove him onto his back. His eyes gleamed as he guessed her intent. Wantonly, she moved atop him, straddling him, her palms flat against his chest to brace herself as she began to ease herself down atop his rigid staff.
It had been a long time since Maeve had last known a man, and the years had rendered her
tight and narrow. But she welcomed the pain, gazing down at him and relishing every delicious moment, every sliding inch of wet sensation, the feel of his huge and swollen arousal filling
every inch of her, stretching her, almost to the point of pain. He grinned confidently up at her.
His eyes were glowing, drifting shut with desire, then open, the thick lashes half concealing irises of a shade mirroring the deepest blue of the sea. Again, that wolfish smile; again, the dimple in his chin; again, that quiet amusement. He was a man in control, a man who was dangerous no matter how disarming that smile. Her heart fluttered and she bent down, heatedly kissing his lashes, his nose, his mouth. His hands drove up through her hair, thumbing her jaw, holding her mouth to his; then he released her and Maeve, sighing deep in her throat, sat back and took the final inch of him into herself.
Sweet, savage impalement.
“Ah, love,” he said gently, his eyes dark with desire. “Ah, dear, sweet, love . . . I have lived for this moment with you all of my life.”
He cleared away a tumble of hair that had fallen over her shoulder, then pulled her down and kissed her. Deep and long and hard, even as his hands strayed down her body, finally clasping her hips and moving her against himself to begin a rhythm.
The kiss deepened. His hands pressed against her hips, guiding her movements. Sweat began to trickle down her back. The bed rocked beneath them. The motions came faster. Their breaths mingled, hot and damp.
“Damnation,” she moaned, into his mouth. “Oh, God, pirate. . . Take me . . .”
“I will take you, dearest, to the stars and back, as many times as you’ll let me.”
Dampness sheened their straining bodies. Her senses reeled, climbed, peaked—
“Oh . . . Oh, yes!” she cried.
And then he drove savagely upward into her. She felt the warm spill of his seed at the same time she found her own release. Her head fell back and she cried out in sweet agony, her senses exploding in a shower of glittering light. Sobbing, she collapsed atop him, her lips falling against hot, salty skin, her heart pounding a tattoo against her ribs.
She lay there, tears of joy and happy defeat rolling down her cheeks. At that moment her
heart filled with something huge and warm and inexplicable.
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