Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  “I quite enjoyed the first three positions,” he commented.

  “Yeah, you would. What did you do, fix the deck so the oral sex was up first?” She snickered.

  He glanced down at her face where a bright smile met his eyes. Good, she’d enjoyed herself.

  “You watched the cards being drawn. Impossible to fix.”

  “Uh huh. It’s your damned luck.”

  “And the last, which saw you incapacitated?”

  “Got you a view you’re enjoying.” She looked up her leg at him. He smiled down, at her spread open cunny. She was right, of course.

  She let loose a sigh, “There is one left.”

  “Not until you get the splinter out of my ass.” He shifted, trying to ease the pressure off the nagging sting. It proved a bit uncomfortable. He’d known that bit of wood needed sanding, damn it.

  “You got a splinter? Your curse must be lazy.” She eased her leg away from him. “Good now. Let me see the damage.”

  “My choice to endanger my posterior.” He turned about. Her hands were gentle as she examined his ass. A few moments of that and he’d be ready for that last card.

  “Oh, you big baby! It’s nothing!” She tugged and the bit of wood came free.

  “It was a nuisance, but I didn’t bellow about it. Took care of your leg first,” he replied. “Let’s see what the last card presents.”

  She hadn’t reached her feet yet when he turned it over. He smiled down at it, easy, intimate….

  She shivered, standing next to him. “Getting a little cold in here.”

  “It’s the sweat; this one will help. On the bed, where it’s sunny still.” He held the card out to her. She slumped as she took it. He wasn’t fooled—she enjoyed this play as much as he did, maybe more. He eyed the light at the window while she read it. If he wanted to take advantage of the last bit of the sun’s rays to do the piercing, he needed her to agree, soon.

  Everything necessary waited in a small box, under the table.

  “The Outstretched Clasping Position?” She examined the card. “Well, no acrobatics, looks relatively plain.”

  He knew better. With their height difference, this would prove a challenge. He set the card down and gestured to the bed. She rolled her eyes, and nonchalantly headed for the back. He waited until she was engaged in making herself comfortable to grab the box and see it near at hand.

  She relaxed on the covers; spread her legs, arms held above her head. “No tying me up.”

  “Maybe next time.” He winked and eased down atop her.

  Soft and warm. Her scent rose to surround him. The tart bite of the perfume he’d given her mixed with the earthy musk of the afternoon.

  She’d no idea how enticing he found a woman who took such a casual, almost distant, approach to fucking. Oh, prostitutes certainly were able to embrace a good swing in a hammock and remain uninvolved. But this woman enjoyed this play as play, not professional work. She played with a sweet abandon that hinted at a capacity for a great deal more. He surmised they held different definitions of the word play, along with the steps from play to practice to real passion. What they constantly did to one another approached uniquely sublime pleasure.

  He knew the difference between sex, fucking and making love. He knew they were beyond the first, well advanced into the second, and quickly approaching the third. But he suspected she wouldn’t agree.

  He would bring her there.

  She took a deep breath when he settled between her legs. He clasped hands with her, stretching her arms above her head. He grinned. The tip of his cock nestled barely at her curly nest. She frowned then tried to lift her hips to encompass him. He stayed still, gazing into her eyes.

  He kissed her, slowly lingering over her lips, dancing teasingly with her tongue. He pulled away.

  She arched her body and he slid a fraction into her.

  “Alan!”

  “I like looking into your eyes,” he murmured.

  “Fuck me, you bastard.”

  “I am not, in fact, a bastard.”

  “Son of a bitch!” She again stretched, trying to maneuver him into her.

  He used his weight to keep her from succeeding.

  “My mother, though unpleasant at times, was not a bitch.” Her moving tested his patience. He growled. “You need to look into my eyes, Emily.”

  “Fuck me, Alan!”

  “What will you give me if I agree to your charming demand?”

  “Give you?” She stilled, met his eyes with some suspicion. “What do you want? You already have me here, in your bed.” She tilted her head at him, blew a strand of his long hair away from her face. “I won’t spy for you.”

  He sighed. “I have no need of a spy, love. No, I want our dream, Emily. I want to see it come true.” He lowered his gaze, glancing at her breasts, then back to her eyes.

  She swallowed and turned her face to the side.

  He tightened his grip on her fingers when she tried to slide one hand away. She took a deep breath.

  “Alan…okay, I admit I like the idea. I’m not sure of the reality. I used to talk to Tom about it. I’ve always thought it would be an interesting thing to do.”

  “And your husband didn’t agree?” He found that puzzling. What man wouldn’t be titillated by adorning his woman with dainties?

  “He worried it would become infected, hurt me, be noticed.” Her voice communicated some sadness.

  Ah, not a matter of finances.

  “Ah, you weren’t worried about those concerns. You were more daring. You are more daring, Emily. And it won’t infect. I have a cream from Mama Lu.” He bent to kiss her, this time pressing deeply into her mouth, tilting his hips so that he slid a fraction further into her. He turned his mouth to one side, whispered, “Say yes.”

  He teased her, withdrawing, slipping out, and returning.

  She moaned. “But what if I pass out?”

  He laughed, not unkindly, and locked eyes with her. “I will catch you.”

  Her body relaxed, signaling acceptance, and his heart soared at this show of trust. And she nodded. He tilted his head at her, and she whispered, “Yes.”

  He squeezed her hands and pushed deeply into her. He kept hold of her hands, stretched her further while she parted her legs wider, wrapped them around his hips, and began her litany of curse words, keeping rhythm with his energetic thrusting.

  ***

  Less than an hour later, Emily glanced down at her right nipple in wonder. It wasn’t difficult. It hurt a little bit, but his hands were gentle and quick. And the ring looked wonderful. She flicked at it with one finger. He’d slathered it with the cream from Mama Lu, and it instantly cooled, the bite of pain faded. Within ten minutes, it appeared totally healed up.

  Magic. Captain Jezebel knew whereof she spoke.

  It made her think seriously about the entire situation regarding Silvestri and his curse. She sat on the bed, watching him clean up from the piercing. What if it was more than talk, or a matter of coincidence and superstition?

  A part of her, she realized, believed it wasn’t real. Now, that part needed to reconsider.

  She took a chance. “Alan. You genuinely are cursed?”

  “Oh, yes. I am cursed.” He turned to look at her. “You doubted?”

  “Yeah. I did. All the magic stuff.” She smiled crookedly, admiring his legs. Strong, tan. Bare feet. She enjoyed looking at him, and found herself squirming. Again.

  He moved about the cabin with total confidence. Sure of his balance, knowing where everything was. He’d reach for items without looking for them, place things without concern of where they’d land.

  She was such a klutz, even in places she’d known most of her life. He was much more graceful than she. He set a bowl carefully in a box and closed the lid, then turned and strode back to the bed. He sat down next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Yes. I am cursed.”

  “How?”

  For the first time, real concern entered her mind,
not only curiosity. He turned his head to look into her eyes. “It’s a pathetic story. At fifteen, a beautiful woman offered me everything I thought I wanted. I said yes. The trick was played on me—to have everything I wanted and never pay for it. Ha!”

  She swallowed. “You pay. You pay every three days. Alone on this ship. Jezzie said it wasn’t always three days. And that it will grow shorter.”

  “Hush. I am not alone. You are here.” He laid a finger at her lips. She sighed and said nothing further. Silently, he rose, dressed, and turned to the door. He paused. “Emily, will you make me a book from the red paper to match the blue? I will be back with a meal after I check on the ship.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Can I go outside?”

  “No. My crew thinks I keep you here against your will. You move out to the deck and your safety is compromised. Stay.”

  She nodded, actually understanding and not wanting to enlighten his crew with her real status. He didn’t trust them, not fully, and therefore, she certainly wasn’t going to either.

  Making the book would give her something to do, besides think about more sex—or how he must feel about his curse. He left the room and she pulled out her work bag. And argued with herself the entire time.

  You care about him.

  No, I don’t. It’s just that the sex is good.

  It’s more than sex.

  You’re lying to yourself again.

  No, I’m not.

  None of this is real. I’m going to wake up back in Vallejo.

  You don’t want to….

  “Shut up!” She viciously sliced too deeply into the paper and scored the table.

  Damn it.

  ***

  He was not ready to discuss the inevitable shrinking of his allotted time as a normal man. There should be no more acceleration of his curse until the anniversary of his birth. He had a few more weeks to bring it to an end.

  After the meal, she handed him the new red book and apologized for damaging the table.

  He waved away the apology and turned to another subject. “I assume the crew of the Quill has told you of the celebration in Tortuga?”

  “Yeah. Everyone is talking about it. They’re planning what to wear, visiting tailors, hauling out more jewelry and sparkle than I’ve ever seen! It ought to be a real treat to see them dolled up that way.” She chuckled.

  He tilted his head toward her. “And you? Some lovely gown? You will wear the pearls I gave you?”

  “I guess. I’m having a shirt made, and figure I’ll buy a skirt.”

  “Mrs. Pawes, that won’t do. The entire island will sparkle and shine. You need something impressive.” He knew the tailors of Nassau and could get back there and make sure she shone.

  “Why? Impress who? I’m simply an old wom….”

  He shot to his feet and strode away from her. Her insistence on seeing herself as useless and worn out grew tiresome! With a growl, he turned to stare at her.

  She’d stopped talking and looked away from him. Slowly, she lifted one leg, followed by the other and rested them at the very edge of her chair. Her arms wrapped around her calves. She swallowed. “Alan, I am old. It’s a fact. No one is going to be impressed by me. If I wore a fortune in precious stones, the sparkle would impress them. Not me.”

  “Balderdash! My God, woman! What is wrong with you? Don’t tell me I am the only man who wants you? All those lusty lads on the Quill? None of them have followed you with their eyes, slid up next to you on deck, helped you with lines? Done your fetching?” He strode back to stand directly in front of her.

  He recognized a fire in her eyes, even though a tear dripped down her cheek. She let go of her legs and stood up, pushing at his chest. “Don’t tell me those young men see me as anything more than a mother! If they help me, it’s because of that! They do not want to fuck me!”

  She screamed that last word.

  He snickered, turning away. “Yes, they do.”

  “If they do, it’s because men want to fuck every woman. Any woman that is handy!”

  “Oh, how stupid!” He gazed at the ceiling of the cabin.

  “I am not stupid.”

  “Oh, yes, you are. You are stupid, blind, and a liar.” He spoke to the fourth ceiling beam from the right.

  “What?”

  He heard her stalk up behind him before she poked him. “I am not stupid!”

  “Yes, you are.” He turned and loomed over her, gripping her shoulders before she stepped away. “They want you. They dream about you. Wonder what secrets your body holds. What it would feel like to lie atop you, gaze down into the depth of your deep, brown eyes.”

  Another tear ran from her right eye.

  “Precisely the way I dream of you, when you are not with me.” He spoke slowly, weighing each word with meaning and worth. Damn it. He did dream of her.

  “But…but you aren’t…you…,” She stumbled over words. “I mean, you don’t…” He strained to hear the word, but she said it. “…count. Oh, hell.”

  “I don’t count? Because I’m not young? I’ve fucked hundreds of women, am more experienced than most of those young men will ever know, and I want you. Desire you. Find you impressive each time I see you. Save for at this moment. Your blindness on this issue is not impressive. I count, Mrs. Pawes. So. Do. You.”

  She silently wept. No sobbing, no sniffing, only tears, while she appeared to study his face, his eyes, his lips, his chin…. She lifted a hand and lightly touched his jawline. Her fingers lingered along the bone, stroking the scruff as if it were silk. It felt good. Intimate.

  “I’m sorry. You count—I know you count.”

  “And?” He waited for her to say it.

  “I’m trying to count. But I don’t know how to.” She inhaled quickly, close to breaking down.

  “Why don’t you know this?” he whispered. “Who beat you down? Who dared to leave you this uncertain of yourself?”

  This husband of hers? He’d kill the man if he weren’t already dead.

  “No one, Alan. Only me. And life. Where—when I live isn’t kind to women my age.”

  “You live here now. Believe me when I say you are desirable. I find you…irresistible.” He covered her hand with his, eased it from his jawline to his lips. Pressed a kiss to her palm. He kept his eyes on her, looking for her to believe him. He needed her to believe him.

  To trust him. To….

  No. Not love. He wouldn’t risk that. Not yet.

  He dropped her hand and turned away.

  “Alan? Did I do something wrong?”

  Damn, he would undo her confidence! He took a deep breath. “No, no. Not you.” He quickly turned to smile at her. “Come to bed with me. I will prove to you what I say is real.”

  He wiped the tears away. “I want to spread your legs, Emily.”

  She looked away quickly, almost blushed, snorted.

  Something crossed her face, but it was impossible to interpret. Disappointment? Grief?

  A shout from the deck called eight bells, midnight. The night was already too far gone! There was never enough time.

  She turned and walked toward his bed, untying her robe to drop it across the covers. This strange woman from another time and place slid between the sheets, then turned to wait for him.

  The blood roared to his head. To tell her! Explain! Plead with her! She lifted a hand, cradled her breast, and pinched the nipple. “Too bad you don’t have another ring.”

  Words fled. At her side in a moment, his hands trembled and his clothes dropped to the deck.

  When she welcomed him, held him close with a divine comfort while he sank into her, his soul trembled and a shiver ran up his back.

  ***

  He woke her hours later with a great shout that set her heart stuttering. She shot up, reaching for him. He shook, shivering as though encased in ice water.

  “Alan?”

  He turned a blind eye toward her voice; the last candle in the cabin shed enough light for her to see the sweat on his br
ow.

  “Alan?” She wiped his face with a corner of the sheet.

  He moaned.

  And shivered again.

  She pulled the covers from where they’d fallen at their waist, making certain he was covered, and cuddled close to him. She lightly shook him. He flinched then violently jerked.

  “Captain Silvestri!”

  What the hell was going on? Was he sick? Was it his heart? A sudden fever? What the fuck should she do? “Wake up!”

  He started awake, turned his face and stared at her. “I felt them. I felt them all.”

  “What?” She touched his face. Was he delirious?

  His eyes darted past her to the window at the stern, about a foot away. Before she said another word, he covered her body, arms wrapped around her, and buried her underneath him.

  “Quiet!” He hissed.

  She froze, feeling a chill when his sweat dripped onto her. Since when was sweat icy? Her mind wrestled with the idea. Did he spy something out the window? Or was it just a night terror? She’d never experienced a nightmare so vivid it broke into the waking world, but she’d read about them.

  He trembled again then slowly relaxed. He moved off her, placing himself next to the window, his front to her back. He quieted her questions.

  “I sometimes have hard dreams. Nothing more.” He kept his arms around her, legs entwined with hers. The covers were tight around them. It seemed an oddly desperate bit of protection, or a clinging to keep her close?

  He kissed the back of her head and murmured reassurances until the length of the day overcame her unease and the motion of the ship lulled her back to sleep.

  The next day, the ship returned to St. Marteen. He diverted every query she raised and made certain she left the ship unobserved, straight to a boarding house.

  “The Quill will return tomorrow. I will see you again, soon.” He nearly bruised her lips with the strength of his farewell kiss.

  While he walked away, she sighed. Tall, confident, and scared to death of something.