The Black Morass (Pirates of the Coast Book 1)

by Barbara Devlin

  “I did.” Another notion formed in his brain, one that would benefit his strategy and launch his seduction.

  “Shall I feed you?” She dragged her chair closer to his.

  “Yes.” He slapped his thighs. “But you will do so from my lap.”

  Maddie stood stock-still, her spine almost as stiff as his cock, and then she blinked. “Of course, Jean Marc. Whatever you require.”

  After scooting the dish to the edge of the table, she stepped about his legs and then settled herself, gasping when he cupped her bottom. Whereas before he had avoided her prying gaze, now he met her stare as she brought a heaping spoon to his lips. When he trailed his tongue across his flesh, she studied his mouth and returned to look him in the eye, and only then did he take what she offered.

  And so commenced the dance.

  With each successive portion, her breath quickened, and a sheen of perspiration formed on her brow. To ignite the flames of passion, he alternated bites, taking turns serving her, and a faint blush colored her cheeks, as she shifted her hips and pretended not to notice his rock-hard erection. Tugging at the bodice of her unremarkable yellow frock, she tensed her buttocks, re-deposited the bowl on the table, framed his face, and kissed him.

  For the umpteenth time, Maddie shocked him.

  It would have been so easy to direct her unschooled movements, but something about the way she touched held him in check. Her teeth grazed his lips, and her glittering blue gaze flared with unmistakable awareness, as she all but demanded his surrender, but he resisted the urge.

  Instead, he reveled in her sweet attack, in her untutored and clumsy caresses, as she tried to rouse him, but he clenched his fists at his sides, else the exchange would be over in a matter of minutes, and he would draw out the tender assault. Madalene reached for him with every part of her body, arching her back, pressing herself against him, twining her arms about his neck, spearing her fingers in his hair, and yanking off his leather patch. In opposition to her characteristic elegant mannerisms, she was far from gentle, but he wanted no benevolence from her, and he remained complacent in the face of her aggression, until telltale quivering shook her frame.

  Only then did Jean Marc invite her into his mouth with a flick of his tongue, and she responded in kind. It was as if her sails caught wind, as she lurched and bolted, deepening her invasion, licking, suckling, and nipping, signaling her growing ache with a whimper, beckoning with a strangled cry. And that was when he rested a palm to her calf, but she conveyed no notice.

  So he traced tiny circles along the sensitive inner surface of her legs. At her knee, he delayed, he lingered, he took his time with her, and still she displayed no acknowledgement of his salacious advance, so he proceeded.

  At last, he grazed the delicate little curls that surrounded the entrance to paradise, and she gasped, but he swallowed it. Now he unleashed his hunger, let it envelop her, lead her, and drive her. Given her lack of protest, he touched and parted her most intimate flesh, and it was then Maddie broke their kiss.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Hovering at the point of no return, his voice came to him as if through a dense fog, and he scarcely recognized his tone. On the verge of triumph, he hesitated, and it took everything inside him, every ounce of strength to deny the enticing glory she manifested. Desire sparked, flared, and spread beneath his skin, as an unquenchable flame, and he longed to brand her as his. But despite his base urges, despite the overwhelming craving, he turned his attention to her and an approval he never imagined pursuing.

  Shaking her head, she whispered, “No.”

  In that instant, Jean Marc plunged and took his lady with him. As he took the helm and steered them into the storm, he seized her lips. With his tongue teasing and darting, he lured, caressed and inflamed, while he worked magic with his fingers at the apex of her thighs. He journeyed beyond the confines of time and space, soaring into a world all their own.

  Too soon, Maddie twisted and turned, stretched long, and went rigid in his arms. Jerking free from his kiss, she met his questioning gaze with a wide-eyed stare, and in her blue depths he spied the wonderment of virgin completion, as she serenaded him with a series of precious yelps and sobs, before collapsing, relaxed, spent, and vulnerable in his embrace.

  And that was the time to act, to push her onto her belly, on the mattress, and take her bottom. Awash with insatiable lust and gritting his teeth, he thrust her to her feet, unhooked his breeches, freed his length, grabbed a napkin from the table, and shot his seed into the square of linen.

  #

  It was late, and Madalene tossed and turned in Jean Marc’s bunk, given his insistence that she avail herself of his hospitality, while he occupied the hammock. She knew what kept her awake, what held her in thrall, but she understood it not. In the dark, and beneath the covers, she revisited the strange series of events that led to the heated exchange after dinner and wondered how the buccaneer took command of her body so completely. How he uncovered and connected with something new and exciting she never knew existed within her.

  Beneath the sheet, she slid her hand down to the place he wreaked havoc and touched herself, but nothing happened. At last, she sat upright.

  “Jean Marc, are you awake?” Unseeing, she held her breath.

  “Of course. How could anyone sleep with all that noise you make?” He snorted. “What is wrong, Mon Chou?”

  “What did you do to me, earlier?” Just posing the question gave her a shiver of delight, and she elaborated no more, as she suspected he knew exactly what she referenced.

  “I pleasured you.” He chuckled. “I set you free, Maddie. Why do you ask?”

  “You cannot be serious.” She kicked loose from the blanket. “Can you explain it?”

  “I gather you have never encountered anything like it.” Did he have to use that arrogant tone?

  “Did we make love?” Folding her arms in front of her, she pondered the consequences of her behavior. “Am I spoiled?”

  “No, we did not make love.” Given his response, she sighed in relief. “There are many different ways to achieve completion without the deflowering, and what I did with you is but one. No one need ever know of our games, unless you tell them.”

  His reply, simple in its affirmation, sent her reeling, as she wanted to know more of his many different ways. “So I retain that which is owed to my future husband?”

  “Indeed, you remain intact.” At his rejoinder, she collapsed into her pillow.

  “And can you expound upon what you did to yourself?” That was what she wanted to know most. “As a particular part of your anatomy does not always appear so…angry. But it perks up when I wash your back, and I know not what to make of what I witnessed this evening, but I must confess you fascinate me far more than you shock me. Are you surprised, and do you think me a low woman?”

  “I could never think ill of you, Maddie.” She was so glad he said that. “What you express is a natural, human desire, and there is no shame in your curiosity. Indeed, our bodies were made for pleasure, and what I did for you I did for myself. But there is nothing wrong in sexual fulfillment, and never let anyone tell you otherwise, because such desire often is fleeting. It is to be treasured, thus you should celebrate what you experienced.”

  Oh, she was, in silence.

  “And what if I wish to partake of more?” She prayed he would not make her provide specifics.

  Several seconds ticked past, and Madalene, wound tight as a clock spring, feared she might explode. Stretching her legs, she ached in that spot at the apex of her thighs, and she longed to savor his touch, but she lacked the courage to invite him to her bed. But the hunger spiked and speared through her veins, charging every nerve, spreading, fanning the flames of desire.

  “There is something we could try, but you must be certain, Mon Chou.” How could he maintain a calm demeanor, when she wanted to scream?

  Threshing and flailing with newfound passion, she clenched her jaw. “Believe me, I have never been more certai
n, Jean Marc.”

  “If I indulge you, I must have your word that you will stop me, if you become frightened or wish to cease the activity for any reason.” He had to be joking.

  “Know that you have it.” She imagined his fingers between her legs, playing her as a finely tuned fiddle.

  “Then we will begin your instruction, tomorrow.” Tomorrow? But she needed him now.

  After a few minutes, a soft snore emanated from the hammock, and she expelled a rush of breath in frustration. With her fist, she punched her pillow, rolled onto her side, and she doubted she would sleep a wink.

  THE BLACK MORASS

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Pull gently, Maddie,” Jean Marc whispered in her ear, as she sat between his legs and tensed. “Now, ease up, but not too much. Wait. Stroke it, nice and slow. You must tease it, Mon Chou. Again. Now, give it a sound yank.”

  “Oh, it is so big.” She squealed as she hauled in her first fish, which spattered her dress with water, as it flopped in the jolly boat.

  “It is a black sea bass, and it is very good eating.” Laughing, he found her delight infectious.

  For the past three days, he engaged the society miss in licentious warfare, bringing her to release with his fingers every night, after dinner. Without prompt, she planted herself in his lap and blossomed for him, and as he anticipated, she yearned for more. So that morning, when he woke with his usual stubborn erection, he allowed her to touch him.

  At first, she hesitated and just stared at his most profound protuberance. Then she caressed the plum-shaped tip, before grasping him, whole-heartedly. The result had been satisfying if a bit humiliating, because she no sooner put her hands on him than he fired his cannon. Afterward, her thoughts turned to food. Indeed, Maddie was a woman after his heart.

  “Shall I catch another one?” She wiggled her bottom, and his loins erupted in flames.

  “No.” He noted the other boats returning to the Morass, and he picked up the oars. “We have enough for dinner.”

  “And afterward, will you teach me more of lovemaking?” Reclining against his chest as he rowed, she rested her palms to his thighs and squeezed, and he relished her bold behavior. “Do not forget your promise.”

  “You believe yourself ready?” Ah, his scheme worked perfectly, as he needed her to initiate the seduction. “You are prepared to yield your bottom?”

  “Are you sure that is normal recreation for a man and a woman?” Angling her head, she cast him a glare of skepticism. “As never have I perceived of such a thing.”

  Of course, she would not have heard of the licentious act, as he wagered no person of gentle breeding ever engaged in the risqué position, given he had to pay his whores extra to indulge him. But Jean Marc preferred the tight bottom hole to the quim, as arses produced no bastards.

  “Are you so accomplished in the sexual arts?” He snickered at her display of naiveté. “Like I told you, what happens between us is our business, and if you are comfortable with what we do, does it matter what others think?”

  “I suppose not.” She shrugged. “And you would be willing to see it through to its honorable conclusion?”

  “Indeed, Maddie.” He snorted. As if he would forgo the incomparable sights and sounds of her completion. “No man would leave a lady wanting.”

  “Have I your word?” Again, she shifted, and he groaned.

  “You have it.” And he held back any further encouragement, because he had her where he wanted her.

  Fidgeting, she dug her fingernails into his muscles, through his breeches. Then she sighed. In his mind, he commenced a silent countdown, as he rowed them to the Morass. Just before they reached the hull, she shuffled and peered over her shoulder.

  Biting her lip, she tapped his knee in an impatient rhythm. “Must we wait?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Victory.

  “Why do you wish to delay until after dinner?” Wiggling restlessly, she wiped her brow, and he noted the pink tinge of her cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. “Can we not begin immediately, as I am uncontrollably excited?”

  “If you wish.” Despite the lust ravaging his senses and the thrill of anticipation surging in his veins, he mustered an air of ennui. “But you should probably have your bath, first.”

  “I understand.” She averted her gaze. “And then you will come to me?”

  It was all he could do to allow her private time to prepare for him. “Yes, Mon Chou.”

  “And you will not make me wait too long?” Her look of desperation almost brought him to his knees, as he lifted her to Tyne.

  As he gained the waist, he signaled the helmsman, who nodded. To the first mate, Jean Marc said, “Make sail, and you will take my watch, this evening.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Tyne sketched a mock salute.

  As Maddie made her exit, he caught her by the elbow and led her to the bow. “If you are certain you wish to proceed, then I will satisfy you.” Struggling with some strange affliction, he needed validation from his lady. “But if you have second thoughts, you need only declare as much, and I will not be angry.”

  “But I have made my decision.” Caressing his cheek, she rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. “I want to know you, and I am not afraid. All I ask is that you remove that infernal eye patch, as you know I prefer you without it.”

  “Why do you not like my patch?” He snorted. “I have been told it makes me appear mysterious.”

  “I disagree.” She whisked a lock hair from his forehead. “You hide behind it, and while that may suffice for others, I will never abide it, as I wish to know every part of you.”

  In a flash, Jean Marc pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard, as he rocked his hips into hers. An old, familiar hunger flickered and then burst forth, and he rested a palm to the swell of her derriere. “Then have your bath, Mon Chou, and relax, as it will make what comes later much easier for you. Afterward, I want you to wear nothing but your nightgown, as I would preserve your modesty, for your sake, and your hose with the little blue bows in the back, as I cherish the symbols of your gentle upbringing.”

  “How do you—no, do not answer that, as I do not believe I want to know.” She shook her head. “Anything else?”

  “I want you on your knees, in my bunk, when I arrive.” For some odd reason he could not fathom, the overwhelming urge to hold her plagued him, so he refused to relinquish her, just yet. “But you can decline, at any time, and I will stop, Mon Chou.”

  “I understand.” She nuzzled his chest. “But as I already made clear, I have no intention of declining, as I want to be close to you.”

  In that instant, he released her. “Then go, now.”

  #

  Rinsing the last of the soap from her body, Madalene gazed at the paintings on the wall and frowned. While she never claimed any expertise as an art critic, she considered the crude renderings amateur, at best. Grabbing a towel, she stood. As she dried off, she stuck out her tongue at the naked woman and the couple engaged in some strange activity.

  Never would she have considered giving herself to anyone other than her husband, but since he agreed to do the honorable by her, which meant it was time to plan a wedding, she had no reservations. No, he was not what she envisioned in a spouse, but she never imagined traveling to Port Royal, surviving a pirate attack, and journeying with her own personal marauder with questionable taste in illustrations.

  Then she strolled to the bunk, studied the position, and wondered if the image depicted what Jean Marc intended to do to her. It was then she noted the signature in the bottom right corner, which consisted of the simple initials, JMC.

  “Jean Marc Cavalier, pirate painter, extraordinaire.” She giggled. “What else do you do, my bawdy buccaneer?”

  Nervous anticipation drove her to the corner, where she stored the bags with her personal items. After fishing out the hose he requested, she donned the silk and checked the position of the blue bows. She pulled a white cotton nightgown over her head
and sat on the mattress to await his arrival.

  Biting her lip, she glanced at the pictures, huffed a breath in frustration, and yanked down the offensive representations, as she required no audience, real or otherwise, for the games to come. Twiddling her fingers, she checked her appearance in the mirror he used when he shaved. She collected her brown curls atop her head, assessed her profile, frowned, and freed her locks.

  Seconds ticked past, and she paced. When footsteps loomed in the outer passage, she shrieked, ran to the bunk, and adopted the pose he commanded. Behind her, the door opened and closed. And then there was silence.

  “Where are my paintings?” he asked, and she wanted to scream.

  “I propped them against the wall, near your locker, as I do not like them.” How could he bicker over a couple of scraps of canvas, when she awaited his pleasure?

  “You find fault with my work?” His tone hinted at more than a little irritation.

  “They are so primitive.” She jumped when he rested his hand to the small of her back. “Can you not paint something nice, like fruit or flowers?”

  “Fruit or flowers?” He inched the nightgown to her waist, baring her bottom, and the air was cool against her fevered flesh. “Grab a pillow, lie forward, and rest your head, Mon Chou.”

  Following his direction, her new posture left her exposed and vulnerable, and she buried her face in the cushion.

  “You hide from me.” He placed the briefest kiss on the back of her thighs. “Are you ashamed?”

  “No.” She shook her head and turned to the side. “I am not sure what I feel.”

  In that, she spoke the truth, as so many sensations speared beneath her flesh, unfurling, fanning out, searing every part of her, and he had yet to touch her where she wanted his attention most.

  “And you still want to surrender your arse to me?” To her exasperation, he made no contact with her.

  “Yes.” Simmering, aching with need, she moaned.