Deirdre melted inside.
Unsure what to do, she settled back, quaking at the vibrant bursts of sensation each touch of his hand, each press of his lips, brought her. She felt his fingers moving over her collarbone, her breasts, the rise of her ribs, and the curve of her hips. His mouth grazed her cheek, leaving hot kisses in its wake; then he kissed her, gently at first, then fiercely, drawing the very breath and soul from her with the searing intensity of his desire. Fear filled her, fear that she was not behaving the way she was supposed to, that she might do something wrong, that in doing so she might upset the delicate balance that he was so afraid he would lose.
But he did not seem to share her concern.
He lifted his head again, his breath coming harder. “I am going to kiss you now, Deirdre.”
“But . . . wasn’t that what ye were just doin’?”
“I have only just begun kissing you.”
She shut her eyes tightly, quivering and hot inside, as his mouth roved deliciously over hers once more. And then, kiss her he did—her forehead, the base of her nose, her cheeks, her fluttering lashes, the coarse spirals of her hair. He lifted each of her hands and kissed her palms; he kissed the inside of her elbow, her forearm, and touched his tongue to the underside of her wrist until gooseflesh puckered her skin and feathers of sensation darted through her belly. He bent to take her mouth once more, and she felt his thumb grazing the wildly beating pulse at the base of her throat as she met his kiss with building need and a hunger she was only just beginning to understand.
His head lowered, and she threaded her fingers in his hair, holding him close. His lips were warm against the side of her neck, her collarbone. He nuzzled the cross aside and she heard herself making little noises in her throat as his mouth brushed across her breasts, warm and gentle and leaving her wanting more. She felt his lips against one aching peak. Wetness as his tongue slipped out to touch and taste the erect and hardening nipple. Deirdre caught her breath and sat up with a gasp.
“Lie back, foundling.”
“Are ye supposed to kiss me there?”
“Yes, love. I’m supposed to kiss you everywhere.”
“But, Christian, I don’t know if ye should. I mean it’s been a long time, and ye might be forgettin’ just where ye’re supposed to be kissin’—”
His lips twitched and he bent his head once more, hefting her breast in one hand and kissing his way around her nipple. “I can assure you, dearest, that I’ve not forgotten a single, blessed thing.” He looked up, touched her cheek to reassure her, and pressed firmly against her shoulder to coax her back down to the bed. “Now, lie back . . . or do you not enjoy this?”
“I . . . I’m scared, Christian.”
“Shall I stop?”
“N-no!”
He smiled then, and never had she thought a man could be more handsome than her Lord and Master. And then she forgot all else as his head lowered once more, his lips, and then his tongue, playing with her tightened nipple until the fire between her thighs became unbearable. She sucked her lips between her teeth and touched tremulous fingers to his hair, crushing the pale locks in her fist as the pressure of his lips became a little less gentle, a little less hesitant, a little less restrained . . .
His mouth moved to the other breast, and she gasped as she felt the hot-cool wetness of his tongue against that nipple, too, tracing circles over it until it tingled and ached. His hand was warm against the underside of her breast, pushing it up so that he could better taste it, and then he drew the nipple fully into his mouth, sucking it hard while his hand returned to the other breast and his thumb stroked the hardened peak. Deirdre whimpered with need, her lips clinging desperately to his, and then felt his palm skimming down the curve of her waist, flaring out over her hip, his thumb nearing that aching, throbbing, burning part of her that was begging so shamelessly for his touch.
His mouth left her breast, and cool air rushed in to take its place. She lay there, her breath coming hard and fast through her lungs as he eased himself onto his side, resting his weight on his good shoulder while his admiring gaze swept over her.
Deirdre blushed, hotly.
“You,” he murmured. “Are beautiful.”
She was all to aware of his hand, warm and delicious against her belly, the nearness of his fingers to that part of her that seemed to have caught on fire.
“But Christian, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she said, in a little voice.
He smiled, a soft, lazy smile that warmed her heart. His hand fanned out over her belly, the fingers spreading, now, to slide against her pubic bone and the soft curls that lay between her legs. “Deirdre, love, you needn’t do anything . . . yet. Next time, maybe, but for now . . . for now, just let the captain be in command . . . eh?”
She took a deep, shaky breath, and realized, suddenly, that that male part of him that had so fascinated her earlier was pressing against her thigh like a hard board. “Aye, Christian. Ye teach, and I’ll do my best to learn.” She shut her eyes, stiffened her arms at her sides, and waited.
He gave a little laugh, and spent a few moments dragging his hand through a long, spiraling curl that trailed over her shoulder, encouraging her to relax, allowing her time to get used to the feel of a man’s hand and mouth against her virgin flesh.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
His hand left her hair, roved down over her breast, and she shivered as his thumb circled her nipple and teased it back into a taut peak. “Aye, Christian—after one last, wee request.”
He rose onto his elbow, the wide, powerful breadth of his chest and shoulders filling her vision. “Yes?”
She gazed up at him, and swallowed hard. “Which way . . . is Ireland?”
His hand stopped abruptly. “Ireland?”
“Aye.” Sheepishly, she added, “I need to know which direction it’s in so that when this monumental thing ye’re goin’ to do to me happens, I can be facin’ it.”
He stared at her. A corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. Then his face crumpled and rich, heady laughter tumbled out of his chest. “Bless me, Deirdre, nowhere on this earth is there anyone like you. Ireland lies far beneath the horizon, and at your feet. Precisely where it should be.” His laughter faded away, and he stared down at her, his eyes becoming soft with love once more. “Now, pray, is there anything else you demand of me?”
“Aye, Christian.”
Her hand came up to touch his cheek. “And that is, my dear, homesick little boglander?”
“I want ye to keep kissin’ me.”
Smiling, he claimed her lips, drinking of the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. Her arms wound around his neck, and he knew, suddenly, that his time was limited and that every fear he’d had about his ability to complete this act had been for naught. The sweet anguish was growing harder and harder to bear, and it was all he could do to slow himself down as he moved his hands over her trembling body, soothing her, calming her, teasing her . . . arousing her.
Five long years since he’d had a woman. Five long years since Emily had been taken from him. He cringed, waiting for his dead wife’s face to appear before him and smash his desire to pulp. But there was only the loveliness of this sweet, brave young woman beneath him, only the pale and untried sweetness of her body, only the reverent adoration in her wide purple eyes that drove through his heart and wrapped itself around his hungry soul.
He pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder, burying his nose in her fragrant curls as his hand caressed her belly and his fingers twined in the soft, silky curls at the junction of her thighs. She clamped her legs together, instinctively, her whole body going tense.
“Open, love,” he murmured against her neck. “Open, and let me touch you.”
“It . . . it tickles, Christian.”
He drew back, forcing himself to go slow and easy with her. But his staff was hot and throbbing, driving itself against her thigh and begging for release. Control, he told himself. Just go
slow.
He slid his fingers through the silky triangle between her thighs, seeking her opening. He found her slick and wet and hot, and it was a struggle to get his own breathing under control as she responded to his touch with an answering shiver, the lips of her femininity clamping around his gently questing fingers.
“Relax,” he murmured. She did so, and allowed him to gently ease her legs apart . . . then she caught her breath as he slid a finger between the soft folds of her womanhood and stroked her gently, back and forth, over and over again. He took a deep and steadying breath and bent his head to her nipple once more, his fingers smearing her dampness through her curls as she pushed herself upward against his hand, seeking a deeper touch.
From somewhere, he heard her soft voice: “Aye, Christian . . . it feels good, real good, just like ye said it would . . .”
“It will feel even better, in a moment.”
“Oh, Christian, I don’t think it can feel better—”
And then his thumb, wet with her dampness, found the hard, swollen bud of her womanhood, gently kneaded it—and with a little cry, Deirdre bucked upward on the bed as the first waves of climax began to rush down upon her. Christian kept stroking, his mouth coming down against her own to muffle her cries, his thumb still against her even as he slid his fingers deep inside her wet cleft.
She writhed against him. Panting, he tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, drawing the last shudders of pleasure from her with his fingers and moving himself into position above her. May God help me, he thought, and then, on shaky limbs, he took a deep, steadying breath, abandoning all hesitations, all good sense, and all gentlemanly intentions he’d sought to employ.
With a harsh groan, he leaned back and drove his knee between her thighs. She was still breathing hard, dazed by the force of her first climax; now, she turned her head, her breath feathering against his wrist where it lay alongside her head, her lips moving over his skin, kissing him, loving him, tasting him.
He gazed down at her perfectly formed breasts, her taut belly, the soft indentation of her navel, the wet, silky black triangle between her thighs. Then he stared down at his arousal.
He was ready. By God, he had never been more ready.
“Open for me, Deirdre.”
His knee pressed harder, and Deirdre, just beginning to recover from the heights to which this wonderful man had brought her, gazed up in wonder at him as he slowly, carefully, lowered himself down to her. She wound her arms around his back and opened her legs, waiting as he paused, looking at her with dark, hungry eyes in an unspoken question.
She gave him a shy little smile of encouragement.
He smiled back.
Then he bowed his head, the handsome, sun-bleached locks tumbling down over his brow as he grasped himself in one hand and slowly guided it to her entrance. She tensed, waiting for pain, feeling only gentle pressure, and exquisite, slippery sensation as the velvety head slid gently between her hot and moist folds. He released himself and leaned forward, favoring his shoulder as he slowly, carefully, began to slide himself inside her, stretching her, filling her with a deep and pleasurable fullness. She felt him give a mighty shudder, as though the effort was too much for him, and his face went rigid with concentration.
And then he stopped, his great body quivering as if on the verge of something tremendous.
“Christian?”
She felt his hot breath against the curve of her neck and shoulder, heard it rasping in her ear. “I can go no further, Deirdre . . . without taking your maidenhead.”
“I don’t want my maidenhead anymore. Make me yers, Christian.”
He needed no further invitation nor encouragement. He slid his hands up into her hair, anchoring her head as his mouth claimed hers and his tongue plunged between her teeth and desperately sought her own. She moaned, arching upward to meet his kiss. Then he tensed, drew back, and sheathed himself within her.
The pain was searing, a lance of white fire. She drove herself upward, meeting it bravely, boldly, and gratefully. Slowly, the discomfort faded away on waves of dampness that ran hotly between her thighs, and as it left her, she realized that in its place was a depth of feeling so intense, so agonizingly wonderful, that she thought she would die from it.
And now he was thrusting himself into her, pulling out, thrusting in, and building a rhythm that made her writhe with sweet agony. His tongue melded with hers, his mouth ground against her lips, his hand gathered her hair and crushed it in his fist. Faster and faster he moved, no longer gentle and slow, no longer able to take his time. His breathing came faster. Harsher. Hotter. Moisture broke out between straining bodies. Breath mingled and mixed, became one—
It started. She felt it in the deepest, darkest, most hidden recesses of her body, her soul, building, pulsing, welling up and up—
“Christian!”
She arched up to meet him, her senses exploding with a violence that shook her to her core. Her hands clawed at his back, her nails sank into his skin, and she clung to him, gasping, as she spasmed uncontrollably and her legs clamped fiercely around him. His body went suddenly rigid, and he drew back and thrust himself one last time into her, impaling her to the hilt of himself. She felt his seed, pulsing and throbbing warmly inside her, and it brought another glorious release, another cresting wave of sweet agony that left her sobbing with joy and wonder.
Exhausted, triumphant, he sank down atop her, supporting his weight on his forearms and breathing hard. Slowly, the burning sensation faded away, and the last waves of pleasure radiated out through her fingertips, her toes, the nerve endings of her skin. After a long moment, he finally moved off her and lay alongside her, one arm thrown possessively over her waist and drawing her close, until she was pressed against his still-pounding heart.
“Deirdre?”
“Aye, Christian?”
A long moment went by in which the only sound was their intermingled breathing, the fading tattoo of their heartbeats.
He raised his head and looked at her, and the depths of his soul were reflected in his eyes.
“Thank you.”
Chapter 21
“I don’t know wot the two of ’em are doin’ down there, but I think ye might wanna go get the cap’n and tell ’im we’ve just sighted land off the starboard bows.”
“I ken what they be doing, Skunk,” Ian said importantly. “The same thing they’ve been doing for the past five days. Let ’em be. A pretty lass to warm his bed is just what our cold and aloof Lord and Master needs to warm up a bit.” Ian turned away, shading his eyes as he stared out over the thousands of diamond-like waves, all dancing and jumping in the cold sunlight. The frigate dipped into a trough, heaved herself up again, and impatiently tossed spray over her bows. But there, it was unmistakable. A thin purplish line penciled atop the horizon of blue, blue sea.
Land.
For a crew that had left England hating its new commanding officer, their change in attitude toward him and their vessel was nothing short of astounding. Ever since the heated engagement in which they’d taken the French corvette, pride in themselves and their ship had run rampant. Men at their watches sang “Hearts of Oak.” Hibbert was as likely to be found in a clean uniform as a rumpled one, Skunk no longer grumbled while scrubbing the decks each morning, Teach had taken it upon himself to care for Tildy and her puppies, and Ian diligently oversaw daily gun practice.
But as for their strict disciplinarian of a captain, the idea of him being in love was an endearing and richly amusing one, and there was not a soul aboard the frigate who didn’t watch the blossoming romance with a keen mental telescope—and comment upon it daily. Oddly, this rough group of seasoned tars felt strangely protective of what was happening between their commanding officer and his Irish girl, and though most of them were a good deal younger than he, they saw themselves as protectors of those fragile seeds of newfound love.
Of course, such feelings of mutual protectiveness—the Lord and M
aster watching over them in battle, and the crew watching over his romance with the girl—went far to foster the sort of respect, liking, and loyalty that every captain strives for between himself and his men—and which no previous captain of HMS Bold Marauder had ever enjoyed.
Until now.
“Yeah, ’bout time someone thawed the Ice Captain,” Teach remarked, crossing his arms and leaning his bulk against one of the boats snugged securely in the frigate’s waist. He gave a sly grin. “God knows even Delight couldn’t do it.”
“Heard she tried, though,” Milton Lee put in.
“And failed.”
Skunk waved his hand and scoffed, “Delight ain’t his type.”
“The captain and Deirdre belong together,” Elwin snapped. “Any fool can see that!”
“Still, isn’t it something, the two of ’em being in love.” Ian rubbed his beard, and his eyes grew reflective. “And tae think how much our bonnie Irish lassie hated our very English captain when she first came aboard.”
“To think how much we all hated him,” Teach added, with an expression of mixed shame and puzzlement that was echoed by his companions.
They stared down at their shoes, and even Skunk distractedly kicked at the deck seams. Finally he said, “Ah, but the girl’s good for him. She makes him smile. She makes him mad. She makes him anythin’ but emotionless.”
“Aye, I’ve actually heard him laughing,” Rhodes said, craning his neck as he gazed out over the whitecaps toward the distant land. “Can you imagine?”
Ian laughed. “’Bout bluidy time!”
“I say, Ian,” Wenham said, “in all seriousness, if you want to make our commanding officer happy, do send someone to tell him we just sighted land. By my reckoning,” he added, looking down at his chart and tracing the coastline with his finger, “it’s Cape Cod. The captain’ll want to make the ship presentable for his admiral.”
“Presentable?” Ian drew himself up, peeved about being reminded of his duty. “What’s wrong with her? I doona see anything amiss!”
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