Page 34 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

She had responded to his caress like a dying person, starving for the food of touch, and he’d grown so hard that one errant finger could have brought him to completion.

And then she’d cried.

Because what lady would want to be mauled by a scarred and stormy sailor, especially a pirate with no prospects beyond the hangman’s noose? She had trusted him to keep her safe, and now she must surely fear all the strings which could so easily be attached.

Her tears dripped down his neck, tickling him as if they were his own, and he rolled over to face her again, rubbing a hand up and down her back. At least tears meant she was finally getting enough to drink.

“Mags,” he whispered, and after a moment she lifted her eyes to greet his. “I’m sorry for whatever it is,” he said, and she offered him a watery smile before kissing his shoulder and then his neck, and then his cheek, right where the captain had flayed him with a belaying pin when he was eleven.

She kissed along the scar, a warm trail on either side of skin which was somehow sensitive yet registered no touch. Then she found his lips again, and he kissed her back, hungrily, greedily, trying not to press his starving prick against her belly. He ran a hand lightly down her back once more and she shivered.

Christ. She was going to be the end of him, he had not one single doubt.

“How did your husband pleasure you?” he asked, shy and confused, but eager to learn, to understand, quite willing to follow her lead.

She stopped kissing him then and pressed her forehead into his chest breathing heavily. If he weren’t lying in a hammock, he’d kick himself right in the arse, bastard and fool that he was for bringing up her dead lover now.

But she surprised him once more, this girl, so full of depths and eddies. “How? He didn’t,” she whispered. “Not even once.”

Was that why she’d cried? A sick sort of rage flooded through Bash at that cold pronouncement, that he, a fumbling gelding, might have more concern for her pleasure than the man sworn above all to cherish and keep her. If the man wasn’t already dead, Bash would steal her away and challenge the bastard to duel.

“Never?” he repeated, and she shook her head, burying her face as though she had aught to be ashamed of. “Then it’s high time someone did,” he breathed, stifling his rage as far down as it would go. “If you’ll allow me?”

She faltered again, just a little, her lips pressed to his heart. “How?” she whispered again, her voice almost imperceptible.

“Is that a yes?” he clarified.

“Yes,” she said, and then, “Yes, please.”

“I’ll stop at your command,” he whispered, and then pushed up her shirt to suckle her breast, licking circles around the little pebble, while stroking her hair, her back, her perfect, round arse.

She responded at once, gasping and arching to meet his lips and his touch, and when he brought his hand around her pelvis and dipped into her waistband, her breathing sped up and he had to kiss her to sequester the tiny moan that escaped.

Over the years, his shipmates had told innumerable tales of lovers and whores, of women who liked it rough and those who required a gentler hand. Bash had listened to it all, learning to distill truth from fantasy. With the softest touch his calloused finger had ever attempted, he petted and stroked his way to her center.

The girl was wet, which he understood to be crucial, and he listened closely for changes in her breathing as he explored, searching for the magic spot men liked to brag of finding, like buried treasure all their own. When he grazed it, she arched into his hand, and he kissed her fiercely to swallow her cries, holding on tight lest she roll right out of the hammock and bring the crew crashing in on them.

He teased her soft curls and the slit beneath them, always returning to the treasure, then receding again when her whimpers grew high pitched, lapping at the spot like a tide-washed shell on the shore. All too soon she began to tremble, and he cupped the heel of his hand against that same delicious pearl, maintaining pressure as she shuddered in his arms until finally she lay still, breathing heavily against his sweaty chest.

Only then did he notice her arm around him and the raw burn from where she must have clawed his back. The sting was a delicious reminder of the ecstasy they’d just endured.

“Is that what it’s supposed to be like?” she gasped.

Bash knew well enough some men were callous and others were fools, but even the selfish ones knew that attending to a woman’s pleasure would only increase his own. How could any husband be so inept with a wife this pretty and full of life?

Had she lied about being married and widowed in some misguided effort to protect her virtue? Was she actually as inexperienced as he, and more so? For his mind was hardly a virgin. A tiny, dangerous thrill fluttered in his stomach.

When her breathing finally returned to normal, she kissed his cheek again and turned to wiggle out of the hammock. Would she sleep on the floor after all that?

“Stay,” he whispered.

“I assumed you’d want…” She trailed off, running her hand down the outside of his breeches. His prick jerked in recognition and she drew back, momentarily startled by the ferocity of his need. Want? Fuck yes. But he’d done that for her and no other reason.

“Stay,” he said again, moving her hand away before he could embarrass himself and foul his breeches.

He could hardly look at her, but her eyes were piercing holes in his skin, so he turned to meet their curious gaze. And then he kissed the hand he’d removed from his very disappointed prick and turned her gently so he could cuddle her close like a pair of perfectly matched spoons, tucking himself away between his legs.

“Mrow,” the cat murmured, padding past his curtain and right up next to the hammock. Bash reached a lazy hand down to stroke the wee beast and pretended to sleep, hoping to conjure a way to keep up their charade forever instead of putting her on the first ship back to Scotland.