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He kissed her, just kissed her, though he wanted more. To kiss her was enough to become lost in fantasy and contentment. The storm did subside a little, at least as it affected his thoughts, for when he kissed her he could only think about her—her soft lips, her pure scent, her hesitant, burgeoning womanhood.
She followed where he led, courageous in this, at least. She was an enthusiastic kisser, her proper, reserved manner only a front for her daring attributes as a lover. When he wove his fingers in her hair and kissed her harder, she didn’t recoil but met him passion for passion. She parted her lips when he probed with his tongue, then nearly bit him as the ship took a sideways tumble.
It did not dissuade him from trying it again, and she answered by squirming against his body, opening her mouth for more. Their kisses became like the powerful ocean outside, seeking, retreating, knocking them sideways. His cock had grown hard as granite. He pressed that hardness against her front, thinking, why not?
“I feel better when you kiss me,” she said as the waves rolled them to and fro.
“Sweet Rosalind. Every kiss from you seems like a dream. You’re beautiful to me in every way.”
In the dark, his fingertips traced what he could not see. Her noble chin, her delicate neck with her pulse beating beneath the skin, so full of life. Her slender clavicle, then the round loveliness of her breasts. One was pressed against him; he caressed the other. Why not? Whyever not at this point? She pressed back against his palm, and he drew his fingertips to a point. Her nipple was hard beneath her staid black gown and her chemise.
“Oh,” she said softly. She sounded delighted, so he gave another brush of fingers across that sensitive place, feeling guilty and lustful, but thrilled beyond measure. She reacted like an angel falling to darkness, her moan both surprised and desirous. He caught those moans in a new foray of kissing.
She reached for his face, clutching his long hair in her fist to hold him near, as if he might go away from her now. He’d sooner die first. As he kissed her, she touched his shoulder, then his arm as if to explore the contours of a man. He made a low sound of approval, wishing her to explore to her heart’s content. They had moved beyond words to pure feeling and connection.
He took her waist and pulled her closer still, pressing his thick rod right against her. Why not? The waves served them now, rather than frightening them, for each peak rolled them together. The storm’s rumble became an obscure, faraway thing, barely audible above her soft, carnal noises and the roaring throb in his cock.
Not that he could take her, not yet. They were not married. It would not be respectable or proper. He did not intend to take her, although he found his hand drawing up her skirts, stroking her long legs as they curled around his. Eventually, he was cupping her bared buttocks, pressing her against him as her hips undulated in agreement. She put a hand at the small of his back, feeling him move against her. She traced it down over his arse and he needed to undo his trousers to relieve the pressure of his erection.
He had to take his pants down to feel her bare hands against his backside. Why not, by God, why not?
He shuddered, pulling her skirts all the way up, positioning himself between her legs, making a wild promise in his head that he would not press inside. He would only rest there imagining how it would have felt to make love to her, if only they’d been married.
Then he discovered the heat and wetness between her thighs. He caressed wherever he could touch, and where he could not touch. He suckled her breasts through the layer of her dress, licked her neck and prayed for sanity because he was harder than he’d ever been. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman, a hundred times more. The promise he’d made to himself went out the window. He was a mad, weak man, and he needed her more than life itself.
“My love,” he murmured, pressing his cock to her wet, hot opening. “My love, my love. I want to come inside you.”
She answered him with kisses. Perhaps she didn’t know what he meant.
He should not. He could not.
A violent wave rocked them together and he thought, why not? We may not be alive come morning. If we must die at sea, I want to die this way.
He guided her hips against his and slid inside her, clenching his teeth at the impossible tightness, the astonishing heat. It was all he could do not to explode instantly, but that would be too fast. He slowed down, caressing her cheek in the dark, wishing he could meet her gaze.
“I love you. Sweet Rosalind. Are you all right? Should I stop?”
“What are you doing?”
Her confusion amused him, but he didn’t laugh lest he hurt her feelings.
“I’m putting myself into you. My sex. My cock. Does it feel good, darling? It’s meant to feel good.”
He moved in her, taking her hand at the same time to show her where they were joined, body to body.
“Goodness. I never…” she whispered. “What will you do now?”
“Lie with you in truth, as a husband with a wife. I’m married to you in my heart,” he said, by way of excuses. He was inside her now. There was nothing for it but to make her feel as much pleasure as him. “I’m going to move, darling. Move with me too. Yes, that’s right. Let’s move together and forget everything else.”
He arched over her on the bed, using his legs to drive into her and hold her safe. The ship took another violent roll. It pushed him deeper within her. She gasped and squeezed on his shaft, moving her hips to try to figure out the mechanics of this enterprise. His secretly carnal girl.
She followed the rhythm when he set it, clinging to him and pushing her hips with as much skill and alacrity as he. It was nearly too much for him. He almost had to tell her to stop, but he couldn’t bear for her to stop or become self-conscious. The unhinged storm had driven both of them to wildness, to a point beyond manners and some arcane definition of marriage. He felt married to her by nature and sensation.
“Yes, please, yes,” she said as he drove deep. “Don’t leave me.”
He understood what she meant, that he must continue doing the thing he was doing no matter the storm that raged. He could feel her tension rising as she became swept up in the climb to completion. How lovely to give her this in case they should not survive until tomorrow. If he died in five minutes, pulled to the bottom of the ocean by a wave with his name writ on it by fate, he would die happy from hearing the sounds of her pleasure and feeling the squeezing sensation of her bliss.
“I have never felt so…ohhh…”
He was pleased to realize her ardor had built to its natural climax. He held her close as she rode to full satisfaction, bucking upon him like an enthusiastic country wench. He let go of his tightly controlled passions and finished along with her, so mindless with delectation he nearly started to sob. It could not feel this good. It could not feel this right. He was either going mad or finally finding heaven. Perhaps he’d already perished…
But no, he was alive, incredibly so. Even when they were both spent, panting in one another’s grasp, he did not wish to break his connection to her. He kissed her, pressing deep to milk the last paroxysms of her climax. He would not have wished for their current peril, but it did bring an edge of uncivilized elation to the proceedings.
They kissed one another, deep, satiated kisses as they recollected themselves. They didn’t speak but only clung to each other on their storm-tossed bed, now their marital bed. Thunder and lightning, rather than a parson, had joined them for eternity. He could no sooner leave her now than leave his own existence. “My love.” That was all he whispered, whenever the wind stopped howling through the wood planks long enough for her to hear him. “My dearest love.”
She buried her head beneath his chin, her lips pressed to his neck.
If they were to die tonight, let them do it in this fashion. He suppressed a groan as the ship spun sideways. “Kiss me again,” she begged, tugging his hair until it smarted. “Please, Marlow. Help me. Kiss me some more.”
