The Man Must Marry

by Janet Chapman

  “You expect me to crew and cook?”

  “I expect you to take orders like the stowaway you are.”

  Sam braced himself against a giant swell that crashed over the side and drenched them both. Willa laughed with delight, and he violently shivered. The crazy woman was having the time of her life.

  “Do you own a sailboat, Willa?”

  “I do now. And she’s a beauty.”

  “Does your father still own the schooner you grew up on?”

  She didn’t look at him. “No, the Cat’s Tail went down in a violent squall a hundred miles off St. Maarten seven years ago. The crew survived, but my mother and father didn’t. The first mate told Shelby and me that Daddy died trying to save Mom.”

  “I’m sorry. I would have liked to have met Captain Kent and your mom. So,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain of standing up, “do we sail all night or find a place to set anchor?”

  “We sail. I’ll take the first watch. There’s a storm forming off the Carolinas and coming up the coast, and I’m hoping to ride this wind ahead of it and be tucked into Keelstone Cove before it hits.”

  Sam staggered to the spinnaker winch. Another day like today would surely kill him. He doubted he’d be able to get out of bed in the morning, much less hoist a sail. He called up the very last of his reserves, released the spinnaker line when he felt the sail slacken, and started gathering it up as it fell to the deck, fighting the wind for control of the cloth.

  Mutiny was beginning to look like a viable option.

  But another mind-blowing kiss might be equally effective. It would definitely go farther toward gaining Willa’s affections than setting her adrift in a lifeboat.

  Chapter Eleven

  Yesterday’s kiss must have been even more mind-blowing than he realized, because he was having one hell of a dream. Sam actually stopped breathing, afraid the naked woman crammed into the small bunk beside him, running her fingers through his chest hair, would disappear if he woke up. Either this was really wishful thinking, or it had been way too long since he’d been laid.

  When she started licking his nipple, Sam sat up with a shout of surprise, only to slam into the bulkhead and fall back onto his pillow with a groaned curse.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” his naked dream woman said in an amused whisper. She brushed her fingers lightly over his temple. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

  “Willamina?” Sam choked out. “What are you doing?”

  “Accepting the offer you made. I don’t like wearing a bra if I don’t have to, so I decided to take off all my clothes and crawl into bed with you.”

  Had he died jumping out of the helicopter, and this was heaven? Or had he landed in hell? She definitely was naked, and he burned to accept her offer, but he worried that making love to Willa right now might actually hurt their chance of having a future together.

  “You’ve changed your mind,” she said, her voice suddenly distant. She started backing out of the bunk. “Sorry. Go back to sleep. It’s half an hour or so to sunrise.”

  “No, wait!” Sam said, sitting up and reaching for her. He managed to catch her wrist and pull her back on top of him. “I haven’t changed my mind.” He wrapped his arms around her when she continued to try wriggling away. “I’m just surprised, is all. I thought you didn’t like me very much.”

  “I don’t.”

  He smiled at that. “Then what’s going on here, Willa?”

  “To put it bluntly, I’m using you. Sometime around three this morning, I finally made a deal with my hormones. I promised to give them free rein for the next four days, if they’ll go back into hibernation the moment we drop anchor in Keelstone Cove.” She shifted on top of him, sliding her naked breasts across his chest—snapping his hormones to attention. “I thought we could use each other for the rest of the voyage. I would put an end to my sexual drought, and you would finally rid yourself of this foolish notion of marrying me.”

  “I see.”

  “And then we’ll both be free to spend the next three months figuring out how to break Abram’s will.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’ve decided that a four-day sex marathon will give us our fill of each other, and when we reach Maine, we’ll go back to…business as usual?”

  “Right. You have a shipping empire to run, and I have caskets to make. But in the meantime,” she said, trailing her fingers in maddening circles over his chest, “we might as well have a bit of fun.”

  Now what in hell was she up to? “I packed clothes and food in my dry sack, but I don’t believe I packed any condoms.”

  Her fingers started dancing across his chest again. “No problem. I’ve got that covered.”

  “You travel with a box of condoms?”

  “No. I’ve simply taken care of it on my end.” She gave his chest hair a gentle tug. “Yes or no, Sinclair. My offer expires in exactly sixty seconds.”

  A warning growl was the only answer he gave, rolling them over until she was lying beneath him. He captured her maddening fingers and pinned her hands above her head, then brought his mouth down on hers when she started to protest.

  He was done trying to figure her out. The lady wanted some fun for the next four days, did she? Either he was the luckiest bastard ever born, or Willamina Kent was even more naive than she was cute. Whether she knew it or not, she had just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire—and sealed her fate.

  Sam used his knees to spread hers, nestling himself between her thighs, and dove his tongue into her mouth when she gasped at the realization that he was also naked.

  And ready. And willing. And definitely able.

  It was all he could do not to slide inside her right then. She tasted sweet, of jam and peanut butter. Willa had obviously eaten a sandwich before she’d crawled into bed with him, apparently in preparation for the upcoming marathon.

  Was there anything sexier than a woman who went after what she wanted?

  Sam broke the kiss and rose onto one elbow, which was as far as their cramped quarters would allow. He moved his free hand over her body while gently rocking his hips into hers. She made soft mewling sounds, wiggling beneath him, and he wished there were more light so he could see her face.

  Giving her a taste of her own sweet torture, he traced a finger up her torso, first over one breast and then the other—paying particular attention to her nipples—and then up over her chin to her lips. She wriggled frantically, her breathing growing labored as she tried to position herself so he was poised to enter her.

  “Patience,” he whispered.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, trying to tug free as she arched into him. “You’re one of those guys.”

  His hand stopped. “One of what guys?”

  “Methodical. Slow. All touchy-feely.”

  Sam forced himself to relax. He had to remember that this was Willamina; anything could come blurting out of that mouth of hers. “Is there some sort of Maine trick I haven’t heard about, where people can make love without touching?”

  Her chest rose on an exasperated sigh, causing her nipples to brush his forearm. “It’s been five years. Get on with it already, Sin—”

  He kissed her to shut her up.

  She tried to push his tongue out, apparently not happy with his kissing, either.

  “Now what?” he asked, wondering if this was ever going to happen.

  “I want you to stop kissing me every time you don’t like what—ooohhh.” She moaned as he eased inside her. “Oh, God, yes! Ohmygod, that feels so good.”

  Finally, something she liked.

  He rather liked it, too.

  He released her hands to prop himself up on both his arms, which in turned freed her to touch him. Apparently, the no-touching rule only applied to him. She dug her fingers into his chest, arching her spine and throwing back her head on another moan of pleasure.

  She was warm and tight, and she screamed so loudly when Sam started moving inside her that he we
nt utterly still.

  “Don’t stop!” she cried, lifting her hips and straining against him. “Move!”

  He moved.

  She screamed again.

  He stopped again. It was taking a toll on him; beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  She actually punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t stop!”

  “I’m hurting you!”

  “No, you’re driving me crazy! Move, Sinclair.”

  Okay, she was a screamer. He kind of liked that, as it gave him immediate feedback on how he was doing.

  Apparently, he was doing quite well, because the moment he started moving again, Willa started in again, her unabashed cries of bliss bouncing around the cramped bunk.

  Sam started to grin, but his own bliss finally caught up with him, and he turned his attention to concentrating on how wonderful she felt beneath him. They fit together perfectly, her beautifully curvy body cradling his, her uninhibited passion making his heart race. He could feel her coiling around him, straining into each thrust, lost in the grip of her building release.

  It arrived on a tidal wave of convulsing heat, her inner muscles tugging Sam to the edge of restraint. He thrust into her hard and fast and deep, gritting his teeth to hold off his own release for as long as possible.

  Willa carried on for what seemed like forever, and when Sam finally lost his control, he pulled out and came on her belly. He collapsed beside her with a groan of satisfaction, cupped her buttocks, and pulled her body snugly against him.

  She stiffened, bringing her hands up to his chest, to push him away. Sam gave a long-suffering sigh. Honest to God, the woman’s moods changed direction more often than the wind.

  “What?” he asked, refusing to let her wriggle away. “Is it also against the rules to cuddle? I thought women liked to enjoy the afterglow. You’ll have to give me a play book so I know what’s expected of me.”

  “I have to go check the sails. They’re fluttering.”

  He lifted himself up slightly and listened, then relaxed back onto the pillow. “They sound fine to me.”

  “And that’s why I’m the captain, and you’re not.”

  He splayed his fingers across her back, still refusing to release her, and toyed with the dimple at the base of her spine.

  She immediately arched to get away from his touch—which pushed her beautifully plump breasts into his chest. Sam kissed the tip of her nose. At least, that’s where he’d been aiming, but he ended up kissing her hair when she ducked to bury her face in his neck. Her cheeks felt unusually hot, and he suspected she was blushing.

  “You’re not fat, Willa.”

  She muttered something against his throat.

  “What was that?” he asked loudly. “Sorry, but my ears are still ringing.”

  She popped up, glaring at him. “Look, I get a bit loud sometimes, okay? It’s not like we disturbed the neighbors or anything. You got a problem with a little noise, Sinclair?”

  His aim was dead-on this time when he kissed her nose. “Nope,” He gave her lush behind a gentle squeeze. “I like that sort of noise. It lets me know I’m doing my job.”

  She snorted, but when she buried her face in his neck again, Sam realized her blush had kicked up several notches. Maybe he shouldn’t tease her, but damn it to hell, she was driving him crazy. Ending her sexual drought didn’t seem to have done a damn thing to mellow her out.

  The RoseWind took a sharp dip into a trough, and Sam cupped Willa’s head to protect her just as his own head slammed into the end of the bunk. “Cuddle time’s over.” He rolled onto his hands and knees above her, straining to see her face in the first shafts of sunrise filtering through the portal. “I’ve never sailed at night before. It feels like driving with blindfolds on.”

  “That’s why they put alarms on the navigational equipment. They would have sounded if we’d strayed off course,” she said. “You get dressed and go check that sail. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  He bumped his head again, since the bunk was no taller than it was wide. “If I’d been expecting company, I would have chosen one of the bigger back bunks.”

  There was enough light for him to see that Willa could sit up without her head touching. She had the blanket tucked under her chin, leaving only her tangled hair and her huge eyes exposed. He was just reaching for his dry sack when he heard her sigh.

  “Do you know why they call it making love missionary-style?”

  What in hell was she up to? One minute, she was sending him away; the next, she was suddenly chatty. It must have something to do with those hormones. “No, why is it called missionary-style?”

  “Because in colonial days, young couples heading out to do missionary work often got married just before they left to sail abroad. Their bunks were no bigger than this one, and the only way they could consummate their marriages was in that position—thus, it became known as the missionary style.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Shelby.”

  “And who told her?”

  “One of the crew Dad had hired for our autumn run down to the Caribbean.” She canted her head in thought. “She was eighteen, I think. I was twelve.”

  “And you knew what she was talking about at age twelve?”

  She lifted that cute little chin of hers. “I might have been home-schooled, but I had plenty of friends in town. And, I’ll have you know, I lost my virginity at fourteen.”

  “You did not.”

  Her chin inched up. “Well, I would have, if Dad hadn’t come below when he did.” She grinned. “Daddy and I were both surprised that Kevin couldn’t swim. Though I don’t think that would have stopped Dad from throwing him overboard in the middle of the Gulf of Maine.”

  Her eyes were focused not on his face but on his chest. He also noticed that her gaze dropped a bit lower every so often.

  The little witch! She was sitting there covered up like a nun, telling him tall tales so she could ogle his body!

  She must have realized the jig was up, for she frowned suddenly, her face bright pink. “I hear the jib flapping. You’d better go winch it down.”

  “Before or after I dress?” he drawled, slowly reaching for his dry sack. Still facing her, he dug around inside the sack, found some clean underwear and pants, and, just as slowly, slid them on. He heard her sigh when he slipped a heavy jersey over his head and tucked it into his pants.

  He turned away so she wouldn’t see his smile and stepped over to the galley sink. He ran a cloth under the water, wrung it out, then tossed it to her. “Here, so you can clean up,” he said, turning to head up the stairs.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped on the step and ducked his head to see her.

  “Why did you pull out at the last minute? I told you I had the contraceptive thing covered.”

  “Let’s just call me cautious, okay?”

  She nodded. “So, you really don’t want to marry me and get me pregnant.” She sighed with obvious relief. “That’s good, because we both know it would never work, anyway.”

  Sam turned to face her. “You don’t think so? Why not?”

  “Because we don’t really like each other,” she said, sounding exasperated that he couldn’t see the obvious.

  “I never said I didn’t like you.”

  “Only because you’re too polite to come right out and say it.” She lifted her chin. “Since we’ve met, you’ve spent half the time laughing at me and the other half wanting to strangle me.”

  He took a step toward her. “What about now, Willa? Can you sense which way I’m leaning right now?”

  Her eyes grew huge, and she clutched the blanket to her throat. She suddenly pointed at the deck over her head. “Something is definitely wrong with that jib,” she said quickly. “Hurry, Sam! If you don’t get it winched down, we’re going to lose it.”

  He hesitated just long enough to glare at her, then turned and slowly climbed the stairs up to the deck. Honest to God, if he didn’t strangle her before they reac
hed Maine, it would only be because he’d thrown her overboard instead.

  Willa slapped the wet cloth to her burning cheeks. Sweet mother of God, was she suicidal? Crawling into bed with Sam Sinclair had been as bright as a four-watt light bulb.

  But who knew hormones were capable of throwing their weight around like that? She’d spent half the night sitting at the helm, dozing off and on, daydreaming and sleep dreaming about Sam’s mouth on her breast. All she’d been able to think about was his offer to go below yesterday. She knew he’d kissed her only to shut her up, but she never should have tried to prove to herself that she was immune to his…his chest.

  She was in such big trouble. Maybe if she hadn’t been living like a nun for the last five years, she could handle a brief, casual affair. But jeez Louise, making love after such a long drought had felt unbelievably, wonderfully good. Hot and heart-poundingly fulfilling.

  She couldn’t remember ever having an orgasm that intense before. It had been…it had…damn, she wanted to do it again right now. But she had to get through the entire day first, because she sure as heck wasn’t getting naked in the daylight, when Mr. Touchy-Feely could also see her. Next time, she intended to cop a few more feels of her own, and not just of his chest, either. The guy had an amazing butt as well.

  That was, assuming there would be a next time. Maybe he wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get naked with her again. Willa knew she wasn’t any man’s idea of a dream lover; she was a tad loud, in a rush most of the time, and worried about her body to the point that the less a guy felt her up, the better she liked it.

  Willa scrubbed her face with the cloth, then reached under the blanket and wiped her belly. Imagine him not believing her about having taken care of the contraceptive. He knew she never wanted children, so why hadn’t he taken her at her word?

  Unless he was only trying to make her think he no longer wanted to marry her and get her pregnant. Or maybe he’d been lied to before by women hoping to buy their way into the Sinclair empire with a baby.