When her throat was raw from screaming, he rose above her, tearing at his shirt, unbuttoning his trousers with trembling hands. A roll of thunder shook the ship with a deep vibration, and Catherine knew a shock of fear at the thought that should the glass shatter, should the metal bands give way, there would be nothing beneath them but the sky and the cold oblivion at the bottom of it. He knelt between her legs, his body lean and muscular in the flickering gas light and the eerie darkness of the storm beyond. She lifted her hand, traced the hard curve of his belly that urged her fingers toward his gentleman’s prominence, and he gripped her fingers, curling them around the thick, hard flesh. Her hand beneath his, he helped her guide him to the slickness at her center. She showed him no resistance, so he slid inside with a burning stretch.
There, too, was something surprisingly perverse; yielding her innocence should have been a somber, heady thing, but once he was buried deep she was glad to be done with it. What was purity and chastity when compared the weight of him lying inside of her, stroking slowly out, every inch of him teasing every inch of her and leaving her whimpering and wanting until he drove back in again?
Her legs splayed around him, still trembling from the exquisite feast he’d made of her, until he urged her to loop them about his back. He slipped in deeper; she moaned. He ground against her; she held her breath. It seemed his every movement was designed to torture, then entice her, bringing her body to a heightened awareness, then higher and higher, until she panted, begged, screamed for him to let her crash down. Then, as certain as if the glass really had given way, she plummeted, her fingers digging into his back as that once terrifying abyss embraced her. He pounded inside of her, lifting her hips up, pumping faster and faster, finally jerking free to trap himself between them, his spurting shaft rocking against her engorged cleft.
Breathing hard, he leaned up on his elbows. “You’re going to think me terribly rude, but I never asked you your name.”
It took her a moment to remember what her name was, let alone if they’d been properly introduced. Her body felt like a piece of boiled twine, all soggy and unraveled, but in the best possible way. She didn’t care if the clouds cleared around them and they found themselves perched above an appreciative crowd outside of St. Paul’s, she was not going to move. “Lady Catherine Stelling. You may kiss my hand, if you’ve the strength to lift it.”
He laughed, and his laughter rumbled against her like the thunder outside. “Pleasure to meet you. Christopher Valentine.”
“Oh, the notorious seducer of women?” Her eyes widened. “The man who leaves a trail of broken hearts and jealous husbands in his wake?”
“Not as often as you would imagine.” He bent his head to kiss her. “I find that having a woman onboard a ship is—”
“Bad luck?”she supplied for him.
His mouth broke into the most beautiful, bashful smile she could have imagined. It fairly made her chest ache. “I was going to say frustrating, because they always get in the way. But will you stay a while, anyway?”
“A while?” She tried in vain to mask her disappointment. Then, his smile widened, mischievous, and a dimple appeared in his cheek. She was simply helpless in the face of male dimples. “Oh, all right. But you mustn’t break my heart. I’ve already been put aside once. I find it dreadful.”
“Well, then it’s good for you that I have an opening on my pirating crew,” he said, tracing a lazy circle around her nipple with his forefinger.
Emboldened by the casual intimacy of his touch, she wriggled her hips against him, the answering pulse of his flesh growing more insistent against her mound. “And it just so happens, I have an opening for a pirate.”
“And the filthy tongue of one,” he scolded with a bark of shocked laughter.
The storm did not last forever, and they reluctantly rose to dress, him in his clothes and her in an enormous shirt they found in the poor captain’s stolen locker. Christopher gave her his belt to sash the yards of fabric about her waist, and she thought she looked rather like a pirate, with her tousled hair and rolled up sleeves.
Standing at the helm, Christopher put his arm out to her, and she stepped into his embrace, taking hold of the wheel with him. He leaned close to her ear, all of the skies opening before them as their cloak of gray dissipated into a shower of rain onto the fields of England below. “And where shall we go next, my lady pirate?”
“Somewhere…” She considered for a moment, and kissed his cheek. “Somewhere else I have never been.”
About the Author
The alter-ego of USA Today Bestselling Author Jennifer Armintrout, Abigail Barnette was born during a conversation with author Bronwyn Green, who encouraged Jennifer to develop an elaborate fantasy persona-- complete with nom de plume-- under which to pen erotic romance. Abigail enjoys long naps in fairy-filled glades, running through corridors in tragically romantic haunted castles, and drinking goblet after goblet of spiced wine.
Abigail loves to talk to her readers and can be found at [email protected].
Also Available from
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www.resplendencepublishing.com
The Pirate, the Bride and the Jewel of the Skies Page 3
