Page 70 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Was that the wrong thing to say?” And by God, if he could address it head-on so casually, then so could Maggie.

She turned to face him. “I don’t… typically like to be entered. Especially back there.”

Back there, his lips moved as if to say, but he frowned, not understanding.

Her cheeks burned, very much regretting her decision to be bold.

“In the arse?” he asked suddenly, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

She could have both laughed and cried. “Yes.”

“Is that a requirement? I only meant in the regular way.”

Did he not understand how it all worked? “My courses. I’m unclean,” she explained, and now his brow furrowed.

“Maggie, you’re only you.”

Love flooded through her, fierce and pure, washing away her doubts and fears like a tidal wave unleashed, leaving her newly raw and vulnerable, a scallop stripped of its shell when it washed up on a sandy beach.

“I only thought there might be extra—ah—lubrication,” he fumbled to explain, and Maggie buried her face in his chest, squeezing him tight.

For the first few months of married life, her courses had been her only reprieve from Jeremiah’s attentions. He wouldn’t come near her, as though she were so filthy her blood would stain his appendage forever. But then the more he drank, the more creative he got, and he began to insist she offer her bottom, so he could still hump to his heart’s content while keeping his precious cock clean.

“It was a foolish thing to suggest,” Bash murmured. “Forgive me, Mags, truly. As I’ve said, I’ve no real experience, only the stories of bawdy sailors. It’s not always easy to tell fact from fiction.”

For some reason, as he mumbled his apology, Maggie had never been more aroused.

“It doesn’t repulse you?” she asked, giving him one last chance to disappoint her.

He tilted his head, confused, then shook it and she raised up on her toes to kiss him, a heated, bruising kiss, and he hardened against her stomach once more.

“Will you show me? For science?” she asked, running a hand over his length, making him shudder deliciously.

He peered down at her, his face a mixture of lust and concern. “But you don’t like⁠—”

“Maybe this time I will.”

“I’ve no wish to hurt you,” he said.

“Then go slow.”

He searched her eyes, and finding the truth there, he kissed her again, thirstily, like a man who’d been deprived of water for weeks, and Maggie kissed him back, just as thirsty, a woman who’d been deprived of love.

Gently, he turned her back around so she could grip the railing and whispered, “Hold on. I won’t go in your arse, and I won’t let you fall. Keep your eyes open, you might see a shooting star.”

Then he lowered her breeches just enough to grant access, and her smalls as well, and her bottom felt the nip of the chill sea air for only a moment as he touched her like he had that first night in his hammock. She gasped.

“Try to keep your voice down, Mags,” he whispered, kissing her cheek, and the inside of her neck, and her shoulder, and then closing the chilly gap, pushing up close behind her, his erection bobbing eagerly between her legs.

She stepped her feet further apart.

“Are you certain?” he whispered.

“Yes, please,” she replied, and he entered her only a little, just the tip. This time he gasped, which made her wetter if such a thing were possible.

She had closed her eyes, but she wrenched them open as he kissed the back of her neck and circled her with his finger, all the while drawing in and out at a torturously slow pace.

Maggie clenched the railing and leaned lower, deepening the angle and he hissed, speeding up just a little. The friction was exquisite, as Bash panted, stifling his own moans by burying his face in her hair, while she turned into her shoulder to keep quiet as she rode crescendo after crescendo until at last she broke apart and became one of those shooting stars.