Page 25 of Captive of the Pirate King
Her hands close around my waist, then fumble upward over the folds of my baggy shirt. I hold my breath, willing her not to notice anything amiss.
Gingerly the woman touches my features. “A nice face.” Her fingertips find my mouth. “Soft lips. May I have a kiss?”
The last thing I want is to be the center of attention like this. My skin is crawling with the sensation of so many eyes fixed on me. But as much as I want to back out of the kiss, I need to think about what a horny sixteen-year-old cabin boy would do when presented with the opportunity to kiss a beautiful woman.
The character I’m playing would kiss the woman. So that’s what I do.
I lean in and kiss her—a light, warm press of lips.
She says, “Mmm,” appreciatively and removes the blindfold, interest lighting her eyes. But the minute she sees me, realization and reserve creep into her gaze. She doesn’t want the spotted cabin boy, and I don’t blame her.
“Your turn,” she says lightly, handing me the blindfold and walking away.
Even before I get the blindfold over my eyes, I notice everyone moving away from me, leaving me a wider berth than any of the previous players. It hurts, because as confident as I am in my own worth, part of me still wants to be considered beautiful.
I shut my eyes and tie the blindfold in place, praying that the dancing firelight and shadows will conceal anything suspicious about my figure. Arms outstretched, I shuffle forward as quickly as I can, eager to get this over with. It will probably take a while, given how reluctant everyone is to engage with the strange freckle-faced cabin boy.
The moment I begin to move, my hands slam into a solid chest. Cautiously I feel upward, my cheeks flushing hot as my fingers travel over a coarse shirt. I can feel broad pectorals beneath the material, then thick collarbones, then a strong neck. There’s a jawline coated in thin scruff—the string of an eye-patch, the edge of a bandana, the faint smell of spice and salt—
My heart jolts.
Locke planted himself right in front of me.
He wanted me to catch him.
19
Blindfolded, I freeze, with one hand pressed to Locke’s face. A woman’s voice somewhere in the darkness mutters that it’s not right to stand directly in front of the blindman, that players have to at leasttryto get away. I don’t mention how the women swarmed Locke when it was his turn.
But her words do galvanize me with enough courage to speak, in the hoarse voice I’ve adopted for my cabin-boy persona. “May I have a kiss?”
“My pleasure, Nick,” Locke says.
My face burns hot beneath the blindfold, but I tip my mouth up, and his lips descend, rough and warm. They mold softly and perfectly to my own, and rivulets of bliss trickle through my body, born from that magical place where Locke’s mouth cradles mine.
Whistles and jeers echo around us, but Locke doesn’t stop kissing me. His hand cups the back of my head, and he presses deeper, sliding his tongue along the seam of my lips. But I don’t let him in. I’m liquefied, terrified.
I lurch backward, ripping the blindfold off and shoving it into his hand.
“Your turn,” I spit, and I stalk out of the firelight circle.
Heat pulses between my legs as I walk the beach. My rapid steps carry me far, far from the camp, along the sweep of the cove, toward the point that overlooks the sea. I clamber up the tumble of rocks until I reach the jutting promontory, and there I sit among waving sea grass, with my back pressed to a rock and the silvered ocean spread before me. The moonlight bathes my body, and the sea air breathes on my flushed cheeks, cooling them.
How dare Locke act like that?
At first I thought he was trying to help me, to make my turn quick so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. But then—the way he kissed me—gods.
I touch my mouth, remember the questing of his tongue against my lips.
Closing my eyes, I slip one hand beneath my trousers, into the delicate folds there. I tease myself gently, sliding a finger through, imagining that it’s Locke’s finger, or maybe his tongue.
I don’t know what to make of his attraction to me. He must be drawn to something in me that’s beyond gender—though I can’t imagine what anyone would see in the desperate, furtive thing I’ve become. Or maybe Locke has had his fill of women and wants to try somethingelse. I squirm, picturing Locke pushing inside me in a new, tighter spot. I don’t think I’d like that sort of sex. It would hurt.
Why am I even thinking about this? It’s not as if we could be together without him discovering my secret—and then I’d have no chance of getting back aboard theArdent.
It has been weeks since I pleasured myself, and much longer since I had a man. I lean back against the rock, allowing myself to reawaken, to relax, to indulge the desires of my body. I tantalize myself into a shuddering climax—and it’s delightful, but I want more. I want to be touched, tortured, tempted. I want to be ravaged, soundly and deep, by a man who knows what he’s doing.
Sighing, I pull myself back together and trudge down to camp. In the galley tent, Dez occupies the pallet on which Locke slept last night. I throw myself onto my own pallet and shut out every remaining thought, focusing only on the rush and whisper of the ocean.
