Page 15 of The Black Lion
If she had chosen someone else, he might have understood. Drew would thought her lonely and tired of waiting. A mulatto woman living on her father’s mercy in Jamaica had few options and a good marriage proved her best prospect. But for her to marry Will …
Their betrothal and the intimacies he witnessed with his own eyes had led Drew to the only conclusion that made sense: One day Arabella had realized Will wanted her for himself. Maybe being the wife of a carpenter turned seaman wouldn’t be enough for her. Perhaps in Will she had found the life she longed for—a wealthy husband to give her all the things Drew couldn’t.
None of it sounded like the girl he’d known all his life, but time away from Arabella had allowed the idea to implant itself in his mind and fester. There was also the fact that he would never have thought Will capable of treachery, either. He had tossed and turned at night trying to make excuses for her, telling himself he couldn’t be right.
Eventually, his mind won out over his heart and he became resentful. Even so, his vengeance had always included making her his again. She would warm his bed and be his pretty little treasure, the jewel in his crown as the king of the seas and his own little island holding.
Only, as she knelt before him just now, watching with wide eyes as he took the hard, thick length of his cock in hand and stroked, Drew wrestled with his conscience as well as his assumptions.
Either she was telling the truth, or she was a very skilled actress.
He didn’t have time to puzzle it all out now, not with less than an hour beforeThe Sea Lionwould set sail. But one thing he did have time for was taking advantage of her position on her knees and the offering of that luxurious mouth. He ached for her—the touch of her soft hands, the heat and wetness of her mouth, the warmth and clench of her cunny. That last part of her was something he had never taken, hanging onto the noble idiocy of his youth. Drew had wanted her to be his wife first—something he cared nothing about now. Arabella was his and always had been, and now that she was his captive he would use her as he saw fit.
“Open for me, Bella,” he growled, grasping a handful of her thick curls and angling her head to his liking. “Suck me with that perfect, lying mouth of yours.”
To his surprise, she obeyed without a fight, parting her lips and bracing her hands on his thighs. Her tongue darted out to lap at his swollen cockhead. He pulled in a swift breath at the hot strokes as she circled the pink organ, then began licking her way down his shaft. His balls pulsed and ached, his stomach contracting as he strained toward the pleasure while fighting not to spend the moment she enveloped him in her mouth. He had been too long without a woman, having devoted his life to his ship and crew, and now to exacting retribution on those who had hurt him. Pleasures of the flesh had seemed unimportant in the face of all that … at least, until now.
Christ, he had forgotten how good she was at this. Of course she was good at it—he’d taught her himself. Hidden in freshwater coves, or slinking away to the beach at night, Drew had tutored Arabella in all manners of pleasure while preserving her maidenhead, and she’d always given as good as she got.
“Fucking Christ,” he moaned, when she took him into her mouth, enveloping him in grasping, slippery heat. “Yes, just like that.”
He braced her head with both hands, fingers tangling in the coils of her hair, and fucked her mouth without holding back. What need did he have to take things slow and easy with her, to treat her like a lady? She was his, a vessel to be used to his satisfaction, a prisoner to his desires and whims.
She whimpered and groaned around Drew’s cock, rising on her knees to take him deeper and bobbing her head to the rhythm created by his snapping hips. He took one of her dainty hands and wrapped it around his shaft, helping her stroke and suck him in tandem. He squeezed until he was certain her fingers must ache, but she didn’t draw away or flinch. She merely sucked him harder and pumped him at the rhythm he wanted.
Drew closed his eyes and let his head fall back, reveling in the moans muffled by his cock between her lips, the sounds of her gagging and choking when he shoved into the back of her throat. His legs shook and his thrusts became more erratic as the end drew near, the anticipation of it so intoxicating he could hardly breathe.
He held her in place with a tortured groan and thrust deep, release sweeping over him with spasms that nearly doubled him over. She gulped and gasped, but swallowed his seed like a greedy wanton, her fingernails gouging his thighs as she scrambled for purchase in the face of his powerful finish.
Drew pulled out of her mouth with a ragged exhale, shoulders heaving as he fought to catch his breath. She fell to her bottom on the rug, her lips red and swollen, eyes wide and glazed. Tucking his cock away, he swiftly buttoned his fall before reaching for her again. It was time to cast off, so he couldn’t drag her to the bed and live out the rest of what he’d been fantasizing about doing to her. For the moment, she had taken the edge off his need and that would enable him to think clearly in the hours ahead.
Arabella didn’t struggle when he sat her on the edge of the bed, though she did give him an incredulous look as he untied one of the cords tying back the bedcurtains. She appeared half-drunk, her lips still parted, head lolling on her shoulders as he arranged her to his liking before lashing her hands to the headboard. He allowed just enough slack for her to choose to lie back or sit up, but tied his knots so she’d have no hope of escape.
She shifted upright, folding her legs beneath her as he retreated, adjusting his gun belt and reaching for his coat and tricorne. He took one look at her before departing, cursing under his breath at the carnal picture she presented. Undressed with her hair wild about a face softened by desire, she was the picture of every dream that had sustained him during those horrid days aboard theHMS Hannibal.
Turning away, he thundered through the door with a vow to return as soon as humanly possible and make that dream into reality.
Arabella satin Drew’s bed with her back braced against the lion sculpture, her head spinning and her quim pulsing with unquenched desire. Above her, the sounds of the ship being readied to cast off resounded in a thumping of boots and yelling voices. One of the windows hung open, allowing in the calls of the pirate captain.
“Hoist the anchor and the mizzen, and let’s get theLionout to sea where she belongs!”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
“Anchors aweigh!”
Closing her eyes, Arabella let her head fall against the headboard, her mind tossing about like a boat in a storm as she grappled with all that had occurred in less than two days. The ship gave a groan and swayed as the ocean began pulling it out into her depths.
“The night’s far too quiet, Mr. Caesar! Let the sea know who breaches her waters with the call o’ your drums!”
“Aye, Capn!”
This order preceded the rhythmic pounding of drums, a primitive cadence like a war cry piercing the quiet night. The drumming only exacerbated the headache thrumming in her temples, as well as the pulsation of desire between her legs.
As Drew had commanded her to her knees, Arabella experienced a fleeting impulse to fight him—to demand he tell her the truth of what had happened over the past five years, and that he listen to her explanation. However, her need of him had won out, and she became awash in the urge to be close to him in any way she could, touching him, tasting him. Arabella hadn’t realized how starved she was for him, until the moment he’d freed his cock and angled it toward her mouth.
What she really wanted was for him to finish stripping off her clothes and lay her down on this bed for a proper reunion. The past could be washed away with the joining of their bodies and the fulfillment of so many years’ worth of starvation and longing. This would be easier then, for she would truly feel as if she belonged to him again. Just now, she felt like the whore he had named her—a plaything for him to use as an outlet for his anger and lust.
“Hands to the sheets! Hoist the fore and main sails!”
