The Maid and The Cook

by Eris Adderly

  But there were lips on her shoulder now, and the arm ‘round her middle didn’t ease up in its hold. Fingers splayed across her belly.

  “Mmm … Brigit …”

  Oh, for the love of—! Now you’ve gone and woken him up, too!

  And not just him. There was a hum, a tingle she’d grown accustomed to, that flared to life now. One that always seemed to appear whenever John Bone touched her. One that started just between her thighs.

  Well. Perhaps if we are both awake …

  She tilted her shoulders to better face him. There he was, so, so close. Those eyes that saw her as something worthwhile. That soft, wicked mouth.

  A small movement of her jaw angled her face up towards his, and their lips came just into contact. Their eyes traded a silent song, a nameless joyful suffering, and time seemed to stretch out. Her chest was rising and falling with breaths that came shorter, and her eyes were burning hot under threat of an outburst of new emotion.

  The arm at her waist slid over her side and around her shoulder, and now she felt the barest touch of a fingertip just beneath her chin. Brigit roiled with tension.

  Oh God! Oh God, this man!

  The pad of his finger began to trace a delicate, excruciating path down the front of her throat. It seemed to go on for days, and she was driven near to madness by this silken, feather of a caress coming from the same man who’d called himself ‘large and clumsy’ that very morning.

  Brigit was nearly squirming by the time the fingertip reached the hollow of her throat, the cupid’s bow of her upper lip still no more than brushing his. She swallowed. Neither had closed their eyes or torn their gaze away from the other. Now his forefinger was sliding off to the side of her neck, his thumb opposite, so the column of her throat was under his palm. The tips of his fingers curled ever so gently into the meat between her neck and shoulder. While almost completely still, they rushed towards something. Something …

  “John,” she whispered against his mouth, “I—”

  The kiss happened then, scattering thought aside.

  Everything was so warm, so perfect. Lips a sweet prayer and that tongue such a scorching blasphemy. Oh, how she’d needed this man. It only took her being led astray onto a pirate ship to find him.

  The hand at her throat grew restless and slipped back down to her hip where fingers, gentle moments ago, pulled her back against the massive frame of his body with a rough urgency. There he was, hard as stone, pressed to her backside in a wordless confession of need. He crowded her at the outer edge of the bunk with a slow churn of his hips, and Brigit pushed herself back, shameless, surrounding his erection with her body’s curves as he ground himself into them.

  As they kissed, and though it was awkward, she managed to snake a hand behind her and was able to fumble and root her way into his breeches. When she found him he was scalding hot to the touch, and she filled her grip with his swollen shaft, way down at the base.

  He hissed, as if he’d been burnt, trying to keep his voice low. “Brigit!”

  Mmm, there he is. There’s my man.

  A small door opened somewhere in Brigit’s mind then, as she accepted the weight of this thought. She was, indeed, beginning to think of John Bone as her own.

  She gave him a healthy squeeze and he pulsed in her hand. Her thighs slid together, wet from arousal. Brigit needed him, now.

  No one else is awake. We can be quiet …

  “Please, John,” she breathed between kisses, “love me.”

  There was little time for her to contemplate her choice of words.

  * * * *

  Her grip on him tightened around more than merely his aching prick.

  What did she just say?

  John drew back from a string of kisses that had blurred his world like strong drink to see her eyes, dark and pleading in the lamp light. Something compressed under his ribs.

  He glanced around the hold. It was either very early or very late, but still, they were the only two awake.

  Hell, a man only has so much will power.

  Especially when the maid looked at him that way, on fire with want.

  He descended on her then, nudging her hand out from between them, grabbing up fistfuls of skirts and petticoats, piling up fabric at the small of her back. Even if a sailor or two were awake, he had no faith he could stop now.

  Breeches shoved clear of his raging lust, John angled himself and slid with agonising relief into the hollow between thighs and bare pussy. She tightened her legs around him in response and he ploughed through the lush furrow, stifling a groan at the soaking mess he found waiting there.

  John watched her chew at her lower lip, eyes closed, holding back whimpers of her own. He wished he could have her elsewhere. In a proper bed, away from a sleeping crew. They could make noise, they could scream and beg for each other. He wanted that. Wanted to hear her cry out, call his name, make demands for him not to stop with that salty mouth of hers.

  And mayhap one day you will, John. But for now, shut up and give the woman what she wants.

  He tilted his hips to a shallower angle, bringing himself to press at her entrance. She looked back at him again, expectant.

  “Brigit,” he whispered, “do ye want me?”

  Those eyes were unblinking and swallowed him whole.

  “I want you John, please.”

  He surged forward. One moment he was without, the next within. She was so unbelievably wet the barest movement of his hips saw his cock sheathed to the root. And with her thighs clenched together this way she fit tight around him, even more than she had their first time. It was enough to make his teeth grind together.

  Keep a hold of yourself, man.

  But he wanted to fuck. To have her. John began to push, to take. He would show her what she did to him, but it was madness. She was too hot, too close around him, and her mouth was open in a wordless picture of pleasure, eyes nearly black with need, saying Give me! Give, give.

  His fingers dug into her hip and he held himself still. How was a man expected to hold up this way? He’d be done in moments if it went on like this.

  Think of her then, instead, you great ox.

  The smile welled up from his insides before curling up on his lips. Yes, he should think of her.

  The hand at her hip burrowed its way beneath fabric now, tracing a path back over the same territory, only free of obstacles. His fingers slid along the cleft where her thigh met her body, and beyond that the curls between her legs. He dipped between slick folds, searching.

  The tiny chirp of delight she wasn’t able to supress told him he’d found what he wanted. He began to stroke and circle his fingertips, holding his cock firmly in place within her core, trying to keep his own pleasure to a minimum, lest he end things before they began. Like all women, however, she couldn’t help but make things difficult.

  Brigit would not hold still. He’d halted his thrusts, but she wouldn’t have it and arched into him, writhing on his cock, squirming, stroking him with the grasping walls of her pussy as his fingers fluttered between her lips. Fuck. This was not helping.

  No! Not yet, John!

  Her head whipped back to him, eyes wide and desperate, and her wrist twisted to grab at the braids of his beard. With a sharp tug, she brought him down for a frenzied kiss and her lovely round hips humped at him in a fury. He could almost hear the apology in her tone as she gave up her muted, urgent sounds into this mouth. His hand worked between her legs, tenacious, determined.

  Come for me, girl. For the love of God! Before I—

  She went stock still, eyes wide. Feminine flesh clutched around him. Her body pulled at his prick, rippling, sucking at him; excruciating.

  John held his ground, gritting his teeth as her shuddering worked its way to an end. The look on that face of hers as she floated down nearly had him undone.

  She was his. He knew. Her eyes told him.

  He needed to be still.

  John took a deep, slow breath, and brought his tired han
d over her hip and lightly raked his nails up the back of her thigh, enjoying the feel of the muscle there tightening in response. His caress was stopped along the way by a ripe handful of bottom, and he took time to knead at the plump cheek. She sighed and rolled into his touch, and the feel of her, cushioned up against him that way, impaled on his cock, brought him into a new surge of lust.

  His thumb pressed into the soft globe of flesh, and it slid, suggesting, along the cleft of her bottom, even before his mind had the words. John was filled with unreasonable desires. The pad of his thumb brushed over that hidden pucker and Brigit inhaled sharply.

  Behave yourself, John.

  But he wanted to do no such thing. She made his mind spin with depravity. The things he would do with her, if she’d allow. He swirled the thumb about, lazy, exploring. If Brigit O’Creagh was his, he wanted to claim her in every way possible. And there was one way, right in front of him now, he hadn’t.

  * * * *

  In the same way a body drifts, well on its way to sleep, and then is jarred awake by a sudden sense of falling, Brigit was sobered out of her hazy reeling by the feeling of John Bone’s thumb tracing a path where no thumb had any occasion to be.

  Had she not been limp as a rag from her own release, moments ago, she might have gasped, or stiffened. The contented fog she floated in now, however, stripped her of tension and left her merely curious. She turned her face back to him, wrinkling the bridge of her nose and cocking her head in unspoken question.

  The cook arched a mischievous brow at her and circled his thumb with more pressure, massaging at the knot of flesh while his cock remained buried inside her. That he’d yet to reach his own climax was a fact not lost on Brigit. She was sobering up now, and fast.

  He’d nudged at this same forbidden opening once before, that first night as he’d pleasured her with his mouth. Just a tickle from his little finger then, enough added sensation to help send her over the edge. Now it was more than a nudge.

  The cook held her gaze, watching her for denials as the thumb dipped. Her heart beat faster, and she opened her mouth, but only to breathe and hold fast to blue eyes. If he went on this way, there would come a point where …

  Her breath hitched. The tip of his thumb was in, circling, and then pressing deeper. She felt the glow of warmth between her legs kindle to life again at this new, strange stimulation, and Bone added to it with a slow, deliberate movement of his hips, withdrawing and sheathing himself again. It was too much, this, and she wanted to cry out, and irrationally, to slap him for doing these things to her while she had to remain silent.

  The timbers of the hull creaked passively with the subtle rise and fall of the ship, and around them men made quiet sounds in their sleep. If the frustrated groans and whimpers she held narrowly in check were to erupt now, she’d wake the whole crew.

  Damn you, John Bone, what will you have? Stop torturing me!

  His languorous pumping ceased, but now he stroked at her from inside with the impertinent thumb. The cook lowered his lips to her ear and spoke, barely audible.

  “Brigit … have ye had a man this way before?”

  Her body clutched at him in shock and unexpected arousal, which brought another reminder that both her entrances were still full of pirate.

  He’s not making conversation, Brigit. He wants permission.

  Could she give it?

  She knew this was done, and knew she might expect it to hurt. A stray thumb was one thing; an entire stiff prick was another. Though the subtle way he was easing it in and out now, while he awaited her response, was not altogether unpleasant. And the idea of him having her in this forbidden way, taking what no other man had yet taken …

  Yes. She wanted to give this to him. Let him take pleasure from her body any way he wanted it. The thoughts alone were overwhelming.

  “No, John,” she whispered, answering his question, “I haven’t.”

  His eyes were on her, expectant. She gave him what he wanted.

  “Be my first.”

  He thrust into her then, her words making his hips buck on their own, a pained look on his face as he bit his lip. It seemed her assent itself drove him closer to the edge.

  The thumb left her, and only an odd sense of vacancy remained. His kisses fell at her shoulder, her throat, before catching up her mouth again as he plunged home into her pussy several more times for good measure. Just as she began to press back into this rhythm, however, he withdrew to accept her offer. Now the hard length of him was gliding, slick, over the newly awakened ring of flesh between her cheeks.

  She heard the blood pulsing at her temples, a surging rush to echo her thoughts.

  Oh God, oh God, Brigit, he’s going to. He’s really going to.

  The first nudge lit her up. Her eyes were wide as she felt the blunt steel of him begin to circle, to press. He spread her own moisture around with the warm, fleshy head of his cock, intent, she judged, on easing his passage. When the pushing began in earnest, however, she went entirely still.

  It was a curious feeling. When she held it in her hand or her mouth, the end of his shaft was plump, supple. Now that he made to enter her this way, it felt condensed to a hard, narrow point, bent on spearing into her. Brigit felt herself begin to open to him.

  Heaven help me, this is it!

  John brushed a kiss over her ear. “Calm down, pretty girl,” he whispered. “Let me in. Let me have ye.”

  It was his voice that did it. Brigit let go.

  The stretch as the tight band of muscle accepted the first rigid male inch was like nothing she’d known. There was a hint of a burn as her confused little rosebud adjusted to the new intrusion their efforts asked it to accommodate, but then a delicious … wrongness … as this normally ignored part of her body received the lusty attentions of a man.

  His hand moved back to her hip now, no longer needed to angle himself into place, and he began the tortuous process of working his remaining length up into her bottom.

  Brigit lay there on her side, somehow wonderfully helpless in the ship’s hold, as the cook took up a slow pattern of press and withdrawal, rooting his impossibly firm girth further inside as he went. The swollen folds of her sex were throbbing with abandon now, vacant, envious of the male flesh filling her backside.

  And there he was. She felt the soft press of his balls up against her, and knew he’d seated himself to the hilt. The hand at her hip came to splay across her belly and their eyes locked, blue on green.

  The look on her face must have been pleading now, as she held his gaze over her shoulder. His brow furrowed with concern and she saw he was worried about pressing on, about hurting her with movement now that he’d filled her. But what she begged for with her eyes was not for him to hold back.

  “Go on, John,” she breathed, “let me feel you.”

  Brigit felt him. Oh, did she feel him. The withdrawal was almost total, and her nerves went wild with new sensation, but the next full, smooth plunge stuffed her again to the brim, intense and utterly foreign. Her mouth came open in a silent curse. How many strokes like these could she take, Brigit wondered, before she went mad?

  Her neck relaxed as she surrendered to the experience, and as her head lolled forward again she found herself staring blankly into the hold. Bone was working her now, his movements slow and careful, and her inner thighs slipped with wetness at the thrill of being taken.

  She became aware, however, through her carnal haze, that she and the cook were no longer the only two stirring in the crowded cabin.

  In the hammock straight across the walkway, a man was awake. Staring at them. Brigit’s breath stopped. It was Hawke. And he had his cock in a lazy hand, stroking.

  She froze, clenched. Movement behind her stopped, and she tilted her face back to hiss at Bone, while keeping her eye on the deckhand.

  “John,” she said, low and urgent, “Mr Hawke is awake. He’s watching us.”

  Of all things, she felt a shadow of a chuckle rumble through his chest at this
, and he kissed at her jawline.

  “Did ye want to stop now, love?” he asked her, voice low but playful. “Or shall we give him a bit of a show?”

  Brigit gaped at him.

  “He’ll have naught but the palm of his hand until at least Nassau, the poor bastard.” Bone smirked at this, but then his features grew serious. “But we’ll stop, if ye want.”

  She didn’t want to stop, but … With an audience? Could she?

  The whole crew already knows you sleep in his bed, girl. They’ve guessed what you’re up to, whether they’ve seen it or no.

  He throbbed inside her, making her tingle and stretch as he waited for her word. Right. She wanted John Bone more than she wanted the deckhand to go back to sleep. Brigit arched back into her lover, pushing herself down onto his erection for her response.

  With a barely audible growl, he accepted, bent on having her now, prying eyes be damned. Her encouragement seemed to have cut some restraining band of caution loose and the cook pushed deep, letting small grunts of effort escape as he delivered his lust up into her. Thick manhood sank in again and again, raw, searing, decadent.

  It was all Brigit could do not to cry out, while he split her in two this way, and Hawke’s keen eye in their direction made it quite difficult for her to focus on remaining silent. Her first instinct was to shut her eyes and block out the deckhand’s intent stare, but a moment or two of the crude attempt at blinders proved it a failure. She could all but feel his gaze on them. Her eyes came open again and, sure enough, there was Hawke, staring, tugging at himself with a purpose.

  Bone’s hand at her hip wandered up, groping at her breast, squeezing, pulling her roughly to him. She ground back to receive his thrusts now, a slow warmth creeping over her belly as she discovered something peculiar about being watched.