Lord Of The Sea

by Danelle Harmon

  He reached out and tenderly grazed her forehead with his knuckles, traced a path down the hollow beneath her cheekbone, and let his hand drift down her neck.

  Over her collarbone.

  And to the bodice of her gown, such thin, helpless protection against a hand that looked so broad and dark and masculine against the pale blue fabric. A hand that could expertly wield both sword and pistol, a hand that had probably killed, a hand that expertly steered this beautiful ship, a hand that knew how to make a woman ache and tingle in ways that were beyond her most fervent imaginings.

  A hand that was now tracing the edge of her neckline, following the fabric where it lay against her skin and sending heat radiating out from every place he touched.

  Please touch me again, there, Connor.

  She only thought the words, but he must surely be connected to her in some mystical way because she only had to think them before those same fingers that were moving along the edge of fabric were dipping beneath it, sliding between gown and chemise and finding the upper curve of one breast. He knew what she wanted, what she craved, what she dared not ask for shame of being thought a strumpet, and she sucked her lower lip between her teeth as his warm, calloused fingers began moving over her nipple, this time with no muslin between them and the burgeoning peak.

  “Ohhh,” she said a little breathlessly, and clamped her legs shut against the building ache.

  “Awful?” he teased.

  “Not yet, Connor.”

  “Shall we continue?”

  She made a noise that she couldn’t recognize, something between a moan and a reply in the affirmative and closing her eyes, sank back into the pillow. She heard her own breathing growing more labored as he gently rolled her nipple between thumb and forefinger, felt sensations gathering between her clamped legs, felt an alarming wash of wetness down there that was unfamiliar and mortifying and oh, thank goodness that he could not know about that—

  His lips brushed her nipple, and Rhiannon stopped worrying.

  His mouth closed over it, and Rhiannon stopped thinking.

  He began to suckle her, and Rhiannon nearly stopped breathing.

  Sweet torture. She whimpered deep in the back of her throat and arched upward, unconsciously giving him access to her body, willing him to take more of her breast, now throbbing and tingling as though on fire, up into his mouth. He did, laving the nipple with his tongue, tracing circles around it and finally suckling it hard, pulling it deep, deep up into the hot cavern of his mouth and causing that sensation between her legs to become almost unbearable.

  “Ohh, please stop,” she said breathlessly, turning her face away. “I can’t bear this!”

  He pulled back, and cool air swept against her nipple where his mouth had left it wet. “Does it hurt?”

  “No! Yes! It . . . it feels strange, and I’m afraid.”

  The deck moved gently beneath them as the tide began to turn.

  “There is nothing to be afraid of, Rhiannon. Can you trust me on that?”

  “What is this strange feeling, Connor?”

  “It is called desire, my dear. It is perfectly natural.”

  She stared up at him.

  “Just relax, and enjoy this . . . this adventure.” He smiled down at her, and gently palmed the side of her cheek. “Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me you wanted? An adventure?”

  “Yes. . . .”

  “So be brave, my sweet wife, and see where it leads you.”

  She took a deep and shaky breath and willed herself to relax, but a thin layer of perspiration had broken out the length of her spine and her body felt awash in heat and shivers and strange sensations that were not quite pain, but oddly pleasurable. He drew his shirt off over his head and moved back over her, his handsome form blotting out the panorama of stars so far above.

  His hot mouth found her other breast now, kissing it, licking it, until Rhiannon’s toes curled and her breath came raggedly through her lungs. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he reached down, found the hem of her gown and pushed beneath it.

  Oh, it felt good, his hand warm against her shin, her knee, working its way upward toward that shamefully wet place between her legs and carrying the hem of her gown with it so as to expose her legs, and in horror, Rhiannon realized he was going to touch her there.

  He was still suckling her breast. She gasped and shut her legs against him, embarrassed that she was . . . leaking something down there.

  “Rhiannon, dearest . . . open to me.”

  “I’m ashamed!”

  “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  But oh, dear God, she could feel the wetness between her legs and she didn’t understand it, didn’t know where it had come from or what caused it, and the idea that he, her new husband, handsome, virile and eager to please her, was going to find out that she was defective, that she— oh, God, she leaked—was mortifying beyond belief.

  His fingers moved into the wetness, and Rhiannon wanted to die from humiliation.

  And something else.

  “You are beautiful,” he breathed, lifting his mouth from her breast. “So sweet and wet.”

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped as the same thumb and forefinger that had brought such pleasure and strange sensation to her breast, began to move gently into her hot, wet curls. “You have a defective wife, one who . . . one who— ”

  “Is beautiful and precious and making me hard with desire.”

  “Leaks!” she cried.

  At this he just gave a little laugh and began working his fingers within her curls, stroking her gently down there until she began to whimper and moan. His thumb found a hidden part of her deep within the slick wetness and gently rolled it between it and his forefinger, causing her to cry out in delight.

  Was it wrong that she was enjoying this? Oh, dear heavens, how could he like the fact that he had a wife who was all wet down there, who wasn’t what he was surely bargaining for when he married her, who was hot and beginning to perspire and whose hair lay in thick, dampening tangles around her face?

  His head moved lower and she felt him shift his weight, draw his hand away from that private, aching place between her legs—oh, please put it back!—felt his lips gently nibbling the inside of her knee, his teeth grazing her skin and now moving upward, his tongue licking against the inside of her thighs and moving higher . . . higher.

  “Oh,” she said, in something like a sob, “Oh Connor, no, I’m too embarrassed, I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can,” he murmured against the warm skin of her thigh, and she felt his lips whispering higher and higher, getting ever closer to that hot, wet part of her that had become the very center of her existence.

  “Open to me, dearest,” he commanded, and when she took a deep and shaky breath and opened her legs just the slightest bit, he moved his weight yet again to kneel between her legs, put his hands on her bare thighs, and gently, carefully, opened her himself.

  There he remained for a long moment just looking at her, and Rhiannon opened dazed, confused eyes, watching his face for any sign of disgust, disappointment, or horror.

  And found none.

  “You are a virgin,” he said softly. “Of course you don’t know that this is how it’s supposed to be. That just as a man grows hard and large and stiff with desire for a woman, so a woman grows hot and wet, so as to ease his passage into the deepest recesses of herself. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “You are not . . . horrified?”

  “Let me show you how horrified I am,” he said, and still holding her thighs open, he bent his head and resumed kissing the inside of her thighs.

  Rhiannon relaxed into the pillow, feeling the sensation between her legs building, wishing desperately with some part of herself that dared not give voice to it that he would put his mouth there, that he would put his tongue there, that he would bring to that place the same searing, building, pleasure-pain that he had brought when he’d taken first one nippl
e and then the other into his mouth. Surely he must have been able to read this thought too, because in another moment she felt his mouth moving higher, into the warmest recesses between her legs, and daring to open her eyes she saw that his head was there, buried between her thighs, and he was— he was—

  Kissing her.

  There.

  She gave a little cry at the first touch of his tongue to her inner flesh and instinctively tried to close herself to him, but he anticipated it and held her legs wide, pushing them even farther apart as his kisses there became gentle licks, then long strokes of his tongue against her slit, and she was gasping and arching against the blanket, bunched now beneath her, as he relentlessly licked and suckled her. She gasped, her hand anchoring in his hair, her breath coming in half sobs, and little whimpers escaping the back of her throat as she felt his tongue licking and tasting and stabbing. And then his thumbs moved on either side of that swollen, hardened bud down there, opened her even further to his ministrations, and she felt his mouth, hot and wet and warm, fasten upon her there.

  And begin to suckle, hard.

  Rhiannon bucked upward, caught in the first climax of her life, and as she cried out, her body convulsing, her husband caught her cries in his mouth and guided her hand to himself. She gripped him hard as the ache inside her peaked and pulsed, and then lay back, panting, her cheeks damp with perspiration.

  “Put me inside of you,” he said softly. “You are ready now.”

  Fist to mitten.

  “Inside of me . . . ”

  He merely smiled, slid his hands up to either side of her face to cradle it lovingly between his palms, and looked down into her eyes.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  And then he was kissing her once more. She did as he asked, her tiny hand gripping his huge and erect organ and guiding it to that hot, still-throbbing, and oh-so-wet place between her legs, instinctively knowing where it was meant to go. Sighing, her arms came up to wind around her husband’s back as he found her entrance and slowly, agonizingly, began to push himself inside of her. The pleasure-pain swirled within her once more and her lower belly seemed to clench in on itself, building once more to that strange explosion of senses that had left her breathless and near tears just moments before. Rhiannon shut her eyes, tensing with fear and expectation, and felt him kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, his breath now hot and ragged against her temple as he reached down and adjusted himself and lay there, balanced on his elbows.

  “Are you ready, dearest?” he asked, against her flushed skin.

  “I . . . I think so.”

  “It will only hurt for a moment. Then, it will be nice again.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She locked her arms around his back and then felt him surging forward, sliding deeply into her, and then a sharp, piercing pain that caused her to cry out in surprise. He lay still within her for a moment, gently kissing her face, reassuring her and holding himself in check; then, as she recovered from this surprise, he pushed forward once more, expanding her flesh and going deeper and deeper inside of her until she thought she might break.

  She opened her eyes and saw just his bare shoulder, blotting out the stars above.

  He pulled back and began to slide out of her, and instinctively Rhiannon pushed herself against him, not wanting him to leave her, not wanting this to end, and hoping that there was more to it than just this.

  And apparently there was, for a moment later he was pushing back inside her, filling her and stretching her even more deeply this time, and the searing ache inside of her began to build once more; he pulled back again, and instinctively recognizing the ancient rhythm, Rhiannon began to move with him.

  His breathing came hard and fast. The muscles in his great shoulders and arms stood out. She pushed upward to meet each long, driving thrust as he began to build speed and force, and just when she thought she could take it no longer he stiffened, gave a hoarse cry, and plunged into her a final time, igniting the explosion within her yet again until she, too, began to climax and, crying out with the beauty of the moment, clung to him with all the strength in her newly-awakened body.

  For a long moment they lay together, he still deeply within her, his weight on his elbows, his head drooping so that his hair fell upon her shoulder. Her arms were still wound around his back. She felt warmth and moisture running between her legs, and wondered if it had come from him or from herself and found, in the aftermath of bliss, that she no longer cared.

  “Was it so awful?” he finally asked, his breath warm against the curve of her neck.

  “Terrible.”

  “Just goes to show you shouldn’t believe everything you read, Rhiannon.”

  Chapter 15

  Eventually he eased himself out of her. They pulled the pillows together, turned over onto their backs and lay gazing up at the heavens above, his arm comfortably under her head, her body snuggled close to his and her hand resting on his bare chest.

  “You have made me the happiest woman on earth, Connor Merrick.”

  He smiled, turned her against himself, and kissed her hair.

  If there was indeed a heaven, Connor figured he had found it.

  His mind, usually so restless and unable to settle on anything for long, felt content and quiet, and for once he was happy to just lie here without the need to fidget. If making love to Rhiannon could do this to him she was a powerful drug indeed, and he looked forward to a lifetime of such therapy. He drew her close, inhaling the scent of her hair as it tickled his cheek. It smelled of lemons and innocence.

  Beneath them Kestrel rolled gently, rhythmically, reminding him that he had places to go, things to do, a cruise to ready for on the morrow.

  Instead he yawned and blinked hard, trying to keep his eyes open.

  His bride was saying something. . . .

  “What was that?” he murmured, his voice sounding distant and thick to his own ears.

  “I was just saying that I hope you don’t mind taking me back to England for the birth of Gwyneth’s baby,” she said. “I couldn’t and wouldn’t miss that for the world, Connor.”

  “All these babies,” he murmured, watching Cassiopeia rolling back, rolling forth, with the gentle rocking of the ship. His eyes drifted shut.

  “Yes, all these babies,” Rhiannon said, turning in his arms and gazing down at him. “Connor, are you listening to me?”

  “Hmm?”

  “We were talking about babies.”

  “Aye, you said you wanted one.”

  Rhiannon reached down and smoothed a thick lock of curling hair back from his forehead, admiring the shape of his eyes and gently tracing the little crinkles at their corners. She was rewarded with a smile.

  “I do want a baby. Gwyneth is having one, Maeve is soon to have a fourth, and you and I both know there’s nothing that would please your mother and father more than to have another grandchild to spoil.”

  “Yes, they make no secret of that fact. But I think we shouldn’t rush the idea of a family, Rhiannon,” he said sleepily. “There’s no hurry.”

  “Why not?”

  “My profession isn’t exactly a safe one. I’m a privateer. I could be killed in battle, lost at sea in a storm, captured and sent to a British prison. I can’t set foot in England without considerable risk, no matter how much you’d like to go back there.”

  “Do you mean we won’t be able to go back to England to be with Gwyn when her time comes?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said, closing his eyes as she played with another short curl, winding it around and around her finger. “You want to go to England, Rhiannon, I will take you.”

  “Oh,” she said, frowning as she considered the risk at which he was willing to put himself for her sake, and her sake alone. “Then why don’t you want to start a family, Connor?”

  “I’m a privateer. It wouldn’t be fair to a child, or to you for that matter, if something were to happen to me.” He opened his eyes and
looked at her intently before letting them close once more. “I had, and still have, the most wonderful father in the world. While I will never be the man that he is, I can’t imagine growing up without a Dadaí. I won’t do that to any child of mine.”

  “If you’re so certain that privateering is going to get you killed, then maybe it’s time to give it up.”

  “I can’t. Too much money to be made. And there’s a convoy gathering in St. Vincent and ready to sail for England as we speak. I mean to pluck it like cherries from a tree.”

  Rhiannon frowned. A convoy. Fighting. Privateering. British ships. Cannons blazing. People shooting at each other. She felt a deep sense of unease.

  “I don’t like this, Connor. You’ve given me something to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about, my dear. I have the fastest ship on the Atlantic. Going to windward, there’s nothing that can catch me.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Pride goeth before a fall, Connor.”

  He just smiled and said nothing as she played with a crisp lock of his hair that curled obstinately around the top of his ear.

  “Connor?”

  “Yes, love?”

  Love. “Am I your love?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Connor!”

  “I think I need to sleep, Rhiannon,” he said, and a moment later, his breathing grew deep and rhythmic and the arm that curved around her shoulders became heavy. For a long time Rhiannon lay there gazing down at him, the errant curl above his ear still caught in her fingers, the gleam from the thousands of stars above silvering the bridge of his nose, the sculpted curve of his firm, sensual mouth. For if Connor Merrick was beautiful awake and in the glaring honesty of full daylight, here, asleep and under the stars, he was an enigmatic god.

  She thought of the heights he had brought her to such a short time ago and lay her head down upon his chest, listening to his breathing and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. He mumbled something in his sleep, resettled his arm around her shoulders once more, and finally Rhiannon, too, closed her eyes.