Page 39 of The Pirate Lord
When it didn’t, when she just sat there staring at him like a startled doe, he slid his hand inside her bodice to cup the soft weight of one breast. He had to touch her. He’d go mad if he didn’t.
That brought a response. “You shouldn’t … touch me … like that,” she breathed, though her nipple tightened into a sweet little pebble beneath his hand.
“No, I shouldn’t.” He flattened his palm against her breast and kneaded it with slow, deft strokes. “But you want me to, don’t you?” He’d make her admit she wanted him if it was the last thing he did. Never again would she accuse him of forcing her.
She turned her face away, but didn’t stop him. “I don’t … I mean, I … I don’t want?—”
He kissed her again, silencing her as he buried his tongue in the sweet hot warmth of her mouth the way he wanted to buryhimself in another part of her. When he had her clinging to him, he reached behind to unhook her bodice enough so he could inch the sleeves of it off her shoulders. Impatiently, he tugged loose the ties of her chemise, then drew the muslin down to bare her breasts.
Although she moaned low in her throat, she didn’t pull away. By God, she was sweet, the sweetest woman he’d ever tasted. As he stabbed his tongue restlessly between her luscious lips, he filled his hands with her breasts, his blood beating a fierce tattoo through his veins.
Her woman’s flesh was so very soft and yielding. And he was hard as iron. When had a woman ever made him this hard?
As she clung to him, he dragged his lips from hers, only to kiss his way down to one satin-skinned breast. Her eyes widened in shock when he took it in his mouth and sucked hard on the nipple. But she didn’t fight him. No, she arched into him, her fingers digging into the bare skin of his shoulders. Her fingernails would leave marks there later, but he didn’t care. He wanted her. Here. Now.
Warning bells sounded in his head. He ignored them. The scent of her, the salty taste of her skin drove him to distraction. He could have resisted her if she’d been the cold English lady he’d expected. But she was a fiery warrior queen who recitedLysistratato rouse her troops. A woman like that he couldn’t resist. He wanted her. She wanted him. What else mattered?
“Gideon! Oh, good heavens!” she breathed as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, wanting to devour them.
“Aye, it’s heaven,” he muttered against her breast. “You’re heaven, sweetheart.” She was an angel, this Englishwoman, whom he craved with every beat of his lecherous American heart. He would have her. He ought to have her. She belongedwith him. And she wanted him. No matter what she said, her body belied her. She wanted him.
He made these excuses to himself as he kissed her again, this time with a hunger that even the pleasures of her mouth couldn’t assuage. He wanted more. He had to have more. In a fever of need, he bunched her skirt up in his hands, drawing it up along her slender calves and past her bent knees.
Sweeping his hands beneath the muslin and over her pale, smooth skin, he fit himself into the vee of her parted thighs. She would belong to him and no one else. No one should have her but him.
He would show her how much she wanted him. He would bring her to realize it, so she could never thrust him away again. And with that jumbled thought, he slid his hand between her legs.
Chapter Eleven
We are no more free agents than the queen of clubs when she victoriously takes prisoner the knave of hearts.
— LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, LETTER, JANUARY 13, 1759
The feel of Gideon’s fingers on her most private place jolted Sara out of her half-dream, and she jerked her mouth from his. “No, you mustn’t!”
His hand cupped her, giving instant relief to the sweet tension he’d built in her body. “Ah, but I must.” His gaze was dark, knowing, as if he realized exactly what she was feeling. “You want me to. Let me touch you. Let me show you how it could be between us.” He rubbed her in a most interesting way, making her feel fluid and hot, like the sun-warmed tropical sea.
“Yes,” she breathed, despite her reservations. She closed her eyes to shut out his knowing expression. An irresistible urge to give in to his deft hands possessed her, coupled with a strange desire to run her hands over his body and do to him what he was doing to her.
As he continued to rotate his palm with unerring accuracy over the place that ached for his touch, she splayed her fingersover his muscle-bound ribs and further in, over his chest, matting down the crisp hairs with her questing hands. His skin, like rumpled velvet, seemed to jump beneath her fingers. Dragging in a harsh breath, he moved one of her hands lower, past his wide belt to cup the hard ridge in his breeches.
Her eyes flew open. His expression no longer looked knowing, but stark, raw, and needy as only a man could look needy. He made a guttural sound in his throat as he thrust his hips against her hand. At the same time, he flattened the heel of his palm against her, and a wave of pleasure hit her at once, so intense she nearly jumped off the trunk.
“Oh, my Lord,” she whispered. Every part of her shook and quivered. Every part of her craved more. Not conscious of what she did, she undulated against his hand, seeking a repeat of the pleasure.
His eyes glittered. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let yourself enjoy it.” He parted her curls with his fingers, then slid one inside a passage that had somehow grown wet and slick, allowing him easy access. “Sweet Jesus, you feel so good.” With an almost animal growl, he crushed her mouth under his once more.
Faintly, Sara heard a noise from somewhere above them, the grating of wood against wood, but she thrust the sound from her mind. Then a voice called down from above, “Cap’n? Cap’n, you down there?”
Gideon tore his mouth from hers and jerked his hand back, a curse rumbling from his lips. “Yes, Silas, I’m here. I’ll be with you presently.”
Shame washed over Sara in buckets as she came out of her sensual fog. Good heavens, her hand was on his breeches! And he’d been touching her with an intimacy only allowed a husband!
As she snatched her hand away, the sound of descending footsteps echoed down to them. “I’ve got to talk to you,” Silassaid, his words punctuated by the clumping sound of his wooden leg on the steps. “It’s about that woman Louisa?—”
“If you come any nearer, Silas,” Gideon barked, “I’ll have you keelhauled, I swear I will!”
The clumping noises halted abruptly. Sara frantically dragged down her skirts, but when she tried to scoot off the trunk, Gideon wouldn’t let her. With firm hands, he held her thighs still.
