Page 33 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

After Jeremiah’s accident, gentlemen came to call. Every bachelor and widower on the island paid their respects, along with a handful of brazen schoolboys. Maggie sent them all away without even a cursory glance at their lips. She had put all manner of romantic notions behind her.

Now, in the dimly lit alcove, Bash’s lips looked imminently kissable, even as he licked them nervously.

Quickly, and before she could lose her nerve, Maggie pressed her mouth to his, knowing full well what assumptions he might make, what liberties he might expect to take, knowing—but allowing herself a moment’s grace not to worry—and then she promptly sat down beside him on the hammock nudging his thigh with her knee. “Scoot over a bit?”

He pushed her back to standing and swung a leg up into the hammock so he could recline on his back with one foot still on the floor. Then he tugged her hand to him and, bracing herself on his shoulders, she awkwardly straddled him for a moment as she clambered ever-so-gracefully to his side, the memory of his hard length emblazoned on her skin.

The whole hammock rocked so that Maggie fell against him, and they swung wildly until he threw his leg back over the other side to stabilize them while she scrambled to settle in. Were it not for his strong arms around her, she might have flipped right back out onto her head, but soon she found herself lying on her side, head on his shoulder, facing him as they swayed gently in the darkness.

Bash’s hand came up to cup her face, and he ran a thumb over her cheek where his own scar would have been. “All right?”

“Mm,” was the only reply she managed, though she was desperate to ask how he’d acquired his scar, and when.

He ran his hand down her neck to her shoulder, and he was right there, smelling like citrus and salt, his breath tickling the tiny hairs that framed her face.

“You should unbind,” he whispered. “It can’t be good to leave that on all the time.”

Probably true, but was it worth the risk?

Searching her face, he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.

“No one will see,” he breathed, stroking her upper ribs with his knuckles.

Then he pressed his forehead to hers, and Maggie couldn’t stop herself. She leaned forward and kissed him again, the soft, long, lingering sort of kiss she’d always dreamt of.

He was warm and hungry, and his breath hitched as he kissed her back, his tongue darting out to taste the bevel of her lips, until she opened them wider to let him in. He nibbled her bottom lip and then sucked on it tenderly, and dear merciful Jesus, this was what she’d always imagined kissing was supposed to be like, and more.

He kissed along her cheek, her jaw, and down her throat, and then his fingers found the edges of his cravat wrapped around her, and when he loosed it, she gasped in relief over and again, her chest heaving with each breath as he unwound the fabric beneath her shirt.

She threw her head back, drawing each new breath like it was her first, and he continued to kiss her neck and shoulder, leaving her mouth free to gulp in lungfuls of air.

Maggie was dimly aware that Bash had one hand fisted in her sark, but she jumped when the hand traveled to her belly and then up to cup her breast through the linen. Every possible emotion flooded her, leaving her wet and wanting, tears springing to her eyes.

Jeremiah had never touched her like this, like he wanted to worship at the altar of every inch of her with every inch of himself. But when she realized the hardness digging into her leg was Bash’s erection, her breathing sped up for another reason altogether, and her vision began to cloud.

She hadn’t been thinking clearly—about any of it. Regardless of what her body seemed to wish, she decided long ago she wanted no part in the marital act, not ever again. Not even with Bash. He was still a man, she’d do well to remember, and judging by the rest of him, it would hurt as much as it ever had.

He must have sensed the change in her because he pulled back. “Mags?”

With conflicted tears in her eyes, Maggie turned her face away, into his shoulder, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He ran his hand over her arm again, then cupped her chin to make her look at him. With an agonized voice he asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

She shook her head and tried to whisper, “No,” though she doubted he heard it. “But I can’t,” she said, trying to sound strong, trying to find the words to explain because even she didn’t understand what she meant. She could. She had. And just moments ago she’d thought she might again, but she was afraid, and she needed to make him understand.

Bash simply kissed the crown of her head and rolled onto his back, one arm crooked behind his neck.

And just like that, something expanded in Maggie’s chest until it burst, and she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone or anything, even as the tears continued streaming down her face.

“Shhh,” he soothed. “Just sleep now.” He kissed her cheek, chastely, and held her tight to his side. “Just sleep.”

With her hand upon his ribcage, she could feel his heart racing deep inside, her own speeding up to keep pace with his.

Lying so still it hurt, Bash willed his heartbeat to slow and his prick to stand down. He hadn’t brought her to the hammock intending anything more than a restful night’s sleep. It pained him to think of her in a pile on the floor while he and every man aboard enjoyed so much better.

He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t touch her, sworn it to Dutch, as well, but then she kissed him, and his brain turned to rum sloshing in a barrel, and he’d pawed at her like a feral dog.

Christ, she was intoxicating. Every brush against her soft skin made him feel like he was caught in a raging storm. And, though he’d never lain with a woman—how could he, when Mad kept him practically a prisoner of this floating dungeon?—he’d found himself wanting desperately to please her.