Page 44 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

When she didn’t move, he stretched the hammock around her to support her back and head, pulling her forward so she sat right at the edge, sure to tumble out in the least ladylike of puddles.

“You’re shivering,” he said, draping the plaid around her.

“I’m not,” she lied, and his dimple deepened.

“What will you say if you want me to stop?” he asked, leaning towards her on his knees.

“Stop,” she whispered, and he drew back, hands in the air.

“Go,” she giggled, and this time when he grinned, he transformed into a mischievous schoolboy with ridiculously tousled hair.

He tugged at the string securing her breeches, and then lowered them, his eyebrows lifting in delighted surprise when he found she’d fashioned a pair of smalls for underneath. He grinned naughtily, reaching for the next drawstring.

“Will there be another pair, I wonder?” he teased. “Even smaller than these?”

“Stop,” she said, and he froze. “Will you be disappointed if there isn’t?”

“Nothing about you could ever disappoint me,” he said earnestly, and what was left of Maggie’s bones melted right out of her body.

“Go,” she whispered, and he lowered her drawers and clicked his tongue with a smile.

“What a shame.”

Then he slipped her legs over his shoulders and ducked his head under the plaid, kissing up her leg and behind her knee and along the crease of her hip, all her most ticklish places, making her squirm.

“So impatient,” he murmured, placing a steadying hand on her low belly. She tried to be still—so still that he poked his head out from under the plaid. “Understandable, when your pleasure’s been ignored for so very long. Were I your husband, I’d attend to you every day. Twice on Sundays.”

Maggie had the vague thought that such a promise might get her to a kirk on Sundays again. Her stomach flipped over and over, as though the hammock were swinging wildly instead of being held still by Bash.

And then he kissed her where he’d touched her before, and she heard herself whimper as her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Shh,” he whispered, nipping at the inside of her thigh, and she put an arm over her face to smother her moans just in time, for the next moment he licked up the length of her and she gasped aloud.

With one gentle hand he spread her while the other ventured up to find her breasts, which she quickly unwrapped beneath the plaid. As he licked lazy circles around her most sensitive spot, he mirrored the motion with a featherlight finger around each breast, and she pulled the blanket tight against her face to muffle her panting.

The same tingly tension which had built within her the prior week began to hum inside her head and inside her core, and she pushed herself wantonly against him, which seemed to encourage him for soon he was holding onto her bucking hips, flicking her torturously with his tongue until she was jerking against him, vibrating from tip to toe, riding the crest of an endless wave and drifting far out to sea.

Chapter Eleven

Tasting Maggie was better than Bash had ever imagined, and he’d imagined it plenty—first in theory, with nameless, faceless women from the docks, and then approximately fifty different times with Maggie since the moment he found her hiding in the hold.

It was amazing, but it was also a careless, stupid thing to do, especially so early in the night with the ship all in an uproar and the lantern still lit.

At first, he thought he heard the nosy cat coming to investigate, and he chuckled against Maggie’s bucking pelvis. Then his brain caught up to his ears, recognizing the tread of man-sized boots. Eager to bring the girl to her peak, he dismissed all caution and simply hoped the boots would pass on by.

When his curtain was yanked unceremoniously aside and a second lantern shoved in to blind him, he had blinked up into the disappointed face of his mentor. Thank Christ he’d had the foresight to throw his tartan over Maggie, or else Dutch would be in on the greater part of their secret, instead of merely disgusted by his lack of restraint.

After a painful moment in which he took in the scene and digested it, Dutch had whisked the curtain closed once more leaving Maggie none the wiser, and Bash had channeled all his adrenaline into finishing her off quite thoroughly. He was grateful she’d been too deep in the throes of passion to register the interruption, because apart from that, it was ecstasy made flesh.

He shifted her boneless form ninety degrees and joined her in the hammock, tucking his aching prick away from her and drawing her bottom into his lap, her naked, sweaty back against his chest. He’d never thought of himself as starved for touch, but he craved the contact with her and burrowed his face into her neck as she recovered her senses, reveling in the feel of skin on skin.

Guilt lapped at his conscience for lingering in bed with her when it was past time they planned tomorrow’s raid, but he would rather pretend it wasn’t happening for just a little while longer. Dutch wasn’t shy. If he felt strongly about it, he’d have stayed, no matter what Bash was doing.

“Thank you,” Maggie panted, and it made him smile all over. Even his toes were smiling.

“My pleasure,” he murmured, and she giggled. “What?”

“Mine actually, I think,” she said, arching her neck to kiss his shoulder.