My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  “Well, what?”

  “I don’t bite.”

  “Oh. I was waiting for you to make the first move.”

  “I have. Your gown is conveniently unfastened. Or had you not noticed?”

  She looked up and stuck out her tongue at him.

  “Do that again and I’ll forget I’m trying to adhere to decorum.”

  “Decorum?”

  “Aye, Majesty. We’re aboard your ship. I was waiting for you to initiate this . . . this cruise.”

  “And here I thought you were going to play pirate and plunder me,” she said, prettily. He laughed, and she pushed her hands beneath his shirt, spreading her palms over the taut muscles of a chest that was perfectly suited to the span of broad, capable shoulders upon which so many decisions had rested, so many lives had depended.

  She stepped back, away from him, and allowed him to undress her until she stood before

  him in only her chemise, and then, not even that, her hair streaming over her shoulders and down her breasts. Very gently, he reached out and pushed the silky masses back over her shoulders, baring her lithe body to his admiring gaze.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, watching the dusky peaks harden with desire as she stood

  proudly before him. Then, with infinite care, he leaned forward and, his hands anchoring her hips, lightly kissed one nipple . . . then, the other, his breath warm and moist against the sensitive flesh. She took a deep and shuddering breath, and rested a hand against the top of his head. And then he looked up into her eyes and splayed his fingers over her still-flat belly, his smile one of wonder and awe. “And to think that a life grows within you . . . a child. My child. Our child. . .”

  She flushed. Her breathing grew shallow and looking down, she saw that her nipples seemed to jut toward him, beckoning him. She also saw that he was hard and swollen beneath the

  confinement of the breeches, and felt a desperate, aching need deep in her womb.

  “Gray . . . stop delaying. I swear, you won’t hurt anything by making love to me.”

  He smiled faintly, just enough to raise crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He laid his hand between her breasts, letting their warmth envelop his fingers as her heartbeat thumped beneath his palm. Then he spread his hand, his thumb gently touching, stroking, caressing, one hardened nipple.

  “There's a difference between delaying and savoring, my dear.”

  “Of course.” She looked down at his swelling tumescence. “But how you can be so patient is beyond me. I mean . . .doesn't it hurt?” she said, playfully.

  “Doesn't what hurt?” He followed her gaze for the briefest of moments. “Oh, that? It’s fair to killing me. But”—his grin spread—”I’m a patient man.”

  She rested her fingertips against his hard thigh, and then, let them walk slowly, teasingly, toward the hard bulge beneath his breeches. His breathing begin to quicken.

  “Shall I test that patience, Admiral?”

  “Ah, love . . . you can test anything you like.” His attention was on her breasts, and she sighed with pleasure as he cupped them in his hands, testing and enjoying their weight, his warm, callused palms creating myriad sensations that centered themselves deep in the pit of her belly and began to make her squirm with need. He bent his head and dropped kisses on each pouty crest. “But do keep in mind that I intend to test your patience as well, Majesty.”

  She gasped then, for his tongue had slipped out to taste one hardened nipple; she caught her lip between her teeth as she felt the slick, warm, wetness of his mouth, the gentle nip of his teeth, the feathery heat of his breath against her skin. His hands were hard and warm as he cupped each soft mound, pushing it up so that he could taste and lick the sweet buds that capped it. The combination of sensations was wildly erotic, and he knew it; she had a feeling that her admiral knew a lot of things about her, about women, and that this playful contest to see who could hold out the longest was one she could never win.

  Oh, Gray, if I could marry you this morning, I would . . .

  Her fingers crept the final inch to his arousal, hot and throbbing beneath the breeches.

  “You’re determined, aren’t you?” he murmured, his breath hot against her breast.

  “I will win, Sir Graham. I’ll have you on your knees and begging for mercy within the next five minutes.”

  “I daresay I like the sound of that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, yes, love. This is one battle I would not mind losing.”

  Oh, you'll lose, she vowed, even as he slipped his hand around her back, one finger tracing the groove of her spine, down, down, before he spread his hand and skimmed his palm out over the curve of her bottom, caressing it, rubbing it, until it was all she could do not to purr like a cat.

  Her breasts tingled, and she moaned a little as he grasped a lock of her hair, rubbing the silky tress over first one still-wet nipple, then the other. She began to burn inside, down below, and of their own accord her hips thrust toward him, seeking him, where he sat.

  Her naked thigh encountered his breeches. The sensation of her own flesh meeting the

  coarse fabric was wildly erotic, and she began to doubt her own boastful words about winning this contest, any contest, with this man. The admiral knew what he was about. Even now, his hand was roving out over her bottom and down the back of her thigh, moving back up again . . .

  now his skilled fingers were dragging gently over her slit, slipping between her cleft, until she felt her own moisture beginning to flood against his fingers. A pulse began to beat in her temples, and her mouth went suddenly dry; it was all she could do not to push him backward onto the cushions and have her way with him.

  But no. She, too, wanted to savor. She wanted to feel the heady joy and rewards of her own power. She wanted to stretch his so-called patience to its very limits—and break it. Her fingers found the buttons of his drop front, slid them through their holes, and his arousal—hot and full and hard—spilled into her hands.

  The admiral groaned.

  She cupped him between her palms and began to rub. Hard.

  “Maeve . . .”

  She felt wicked, powerful, alive. He bent his head, rested his brow against her belly, and a moment later she felt his warm breath against her navel; his hands, hot with need, pressed against her bare bottom, pulling her hips toward his mouth, pinning her between them until her knees began to shake and she feared she wouldn't be able to stay on her feet.

  She tried to resume her own ministrations—but he, cleverly, had made it impossible to reach him with such close contact. And now his lips were moving against her belly, and she felt the warm kiss of his tongue as it came out to trace and lick little circles around, then below, her navel.

  This was going to be one hell of a contest.

  But two could play his game!

  Breathing hard now, she tugged his shirt up and over his head and tossed it aside, letting her fingernails linger against the darkly tanned shoulders, the tattooed anchor that only emphasized the hard bulge of bicep beneath.

  He looked up at her, his dark eyes wickedly inviting, intensely pleased, beneath the lengthy fringe of his lashes. “Still think you’re going to win, Majesty?”

  She gave a slow, confident smile. “I know I’m going to win, Admiral.”

  And then, defiantly holding his gaze, she put her hand against his chest and, feeling his heart beginning to pound beneath her palm, pushed him forcefully back, until his splendid body lay angled across the cushions. He watched her intently, bringing his arms up to cross them behind his head, his hair spilling over his wrists and framing his swarthy face; a shaft of English sunlight drove in from the salt-glazed stern windows, gilding his handsome body, picking out the definition of muscle, tendon, and bone.

  “I could look at you all day,” she murmured, softly.

  “The feeling is mutual, my dear.”

  Maeve stepped closer. “But I think I'll do more than just look.”

  He only smiled.
And waited to see what she would do.

  His legs were loose and spread, his arousal hard and hot against his belly, and this time he made no move to try and delay her ardent attentions, but gave himself up to the inevitable. She moved between his legs and dropped her hand to encircle him, letting her thumb rove over the velvety knob, back and forth until a slick pearl eased the friction and made it slippery. A sheen of moisture glazed his brow and his eyes darkened with desire, before his long, long lashes swept down to veil them. Maeve smiled, thrilling to the feel of her own power. Oh, this was costing him, and costing him dearly. Back and forth she moved her thumb, slowly increasing the pressure until his body tensed and a helpless groan escaping his parted lips. Then she relented, tracing feathery fingertips over him and feeling him swelling even harder, larger, into her hand.

  His dark lashes draped his cheeks now, and he turned his face against his wrist, where veins and tendons stood out in high relief.

  “You win, Maeve,” he managed, his lips barely moving. “And I am . . . delighted . . . to

  concede defeat.”

  “Not yet I haven't,” she said wickedly—and sinking to her knees, took him gently into her mouth. His whole body went stiff and he sucked in his breath on a harsh gasp. She circled him with her lips, with her tongue, pulled him deeply into her mouth until he filled her. She heard him cursing softly, felt him driving his elbows into the cushion, but still he did not break, did not allow himself release. She sucked and pulled at him harder, enjoying the hot taste of him, feeling her own need burning between her thighs as passion escalated. And still, he kept himself under control. Oh, such fortitude! Where, she wondered, with the part of her own that could still think, was the admiral’s mind that he was able to exhibit such mastery over his own virile body?

  She cupped his sacs in her hands, lightly stroking him, and began to drag her nails up the inside of his thighs while she loved him with her tongue, her mouth, her lips. His groans changed to curses, his curses back to groans, and he drove his hand into her hair and gripped it in a way that was almost painful.

  Even an admiral could not hold out forever.

  “Sweet God above, Maeve—”

  She suckled him, harder.

  “Maeve, please,” he said hoarsely, and the taste of him filled her mouth, “I . . . am only . . . a man—”

  She lifted her head, saw his face pressed against the curve of his wrist, the dark lashes lying against his cheeks and a lock of his hair fluttering near his mouth with every burst of his labored breath. Slowly, she stood up and running her tongue over her tingling lips, looked down at him in triumph; he turned his head and his eyes drifted open, the navy depths glazed with desire.

  “So, do I win this test of patience, then, Admiral?”

  His eyes swung into focus. Sharp, intent, steady focus. And then his lips curved in a slow, wicked smile that made her realize she was in over her head, here.

  Far over her head.

  The smile grew wicked. “Obviously . . . not.”

  She climbed up beside him, the thick masses of her hair sliding down between their bodies as his big, powerful arm went around her neck and drew her down atop him. She felt the hard length of his body against hers, his arousal stabbing against the soft, wet curls of her womanhood, the damp heat of his chest beneath her breasts; then his tongue plunged into her mouth, plundering it greedily, savagely.

  He broke the kiss and rolled over, pinning her beneath him, his arms massive, twin pillars on either side of her head and his arousal already poised at the junction of her thighs. Anchoring his hands in her hair, he kissed her lips, her face, her throat, his lips leaving a shivery trail of fire as he moved lower and lower.

  “I’m going to kiss you, as you kissed me,” he murmured, his breath hot, now, against her

  belly, “and you are not going to be able to hold out as I did.”

  Dear God, she didn't want to. And then she felt his tongue circling within her navel, licking the sensitive skin there, moving lower, and lower still, until his lips were against the edge of her feminine curls and his hands lay hot against the junction of her thighs, gently coaxing them wide.

  “Open for me, Maeve.”

  She did. And then she cried out as his head moved between her legs, his thumbs spreading

  her wide, and the first skilled, hot stabs of his tongue met her slick and molten flesh.

  Maeve arced upward, her lower lip caught between her teeth in sweet, searing agony as he

  began to lick her with relentless strokes, slowly, steadily, over and over again. Her hands caught and twisted in his hair, knuckled against his skull, and she began to tremble, to convulse, as sobs came choking out from a place deep inside the back of her throat. She was almost there . . .

  almost—

  “Come on, dearest,” he murmured—and then, drawing her engorged bud deep into his

  mouth while he laved it with his tongue, he plunged both thumbs far up into her cleft and began to stroke her inner walls, deep, deep inside.

  Maeve gave a harsh cry and came hard against him, her body convulsing violently and her

  belly clenching into a savage, twisting knot as sobs tumbled from her throat and wave after wave of climax swept down on her; dimly, she felt him moving up to cover her, to lower himself down to her, his mouth hungry and hot against her own as he guided himself to her slick entrance and began the timeless motion of love.

  She was lost. She knew it even as his mouth drove against hers, his tongue ruthlessly

  plundering its depths; she knew it even as his strokes grew strong, deep, perfectly controlled and masterfully orchestrated; she knew it even as he put his weight on one arm and with the other hand, reached down to rub and thumb her entrance at the same time he was sliding in and out of her, bringing her rapidly toward a second stunning precipice.

  There had never been any contest between them. Faster and faster he moved, building the

  rhythm, taking her with him on a spiraling, breathless climb to the clouds. Her breath came in short, hard pants and gasps, and she felt her release building, climbing, peaking—

  With a last, driving shudder, he impaled her to the very hilt of himself. She arced up to meet him as her own release came hard and fast, his hot seed pulsing within her and tears of joy and love streaming down her cheeks. And when it was over, and the admiral lay in her arms, belonging to her and no one but her, she thought of what it might be like to be married to him, and making wild, uninhibited love like this for the rest of her life.

  “I guess you win,” she murmured, against the salty skin of his shoulder.

  “Nay, Maeve,” he said, still breathing hard. “We both do.”

  She felt his lips curve in a smile against her throat, the brush of his lashes tickling her skin.

  He held her for a long time, keeping his weight on his arms so as not to crush her. Then he raised himself up on one elbow, idly playing with a damp chestnut curl as he smiled down at her.

  “Maeve.”

  “Sir Graham?”

  “Marry me?”

  She reached out and touched the dimple in his jaw, the arching black brows, the plane of his cheek. Sighing, she looked into his eyes, determined but twinkling behind his thick lashes, and shook her head. “Gray . . .I need time to think, to make sure I’m making the right decision.”

  “When will you know, then?”

  “I don’t know. Soon. For now—for now, I think I’d prefer to have another contest of

  patience.”

  And then, as she squealed in delight, he went about ravishing her once more, and this time it was indeed the admiral who lost the contest.

  Chapter 32

  He was the scourge of London.

  No pirate who’d ever swung a cutlass this side of Jamaica had ever looked more formidable.

  Dressed in a billowing white shirt and breeches, with a patch over one eye and a kerchief around his throat, Sir Graham Falconer, Knight of the Bath, Rear Admiral of the White, s
avior of the season’s richest convoy, and now, fresh from a long and stuffy meeting with his crusty old superiors at the Admiralty in London, stared up at the open window of Maeve’s hotel room, two stories above his head.

  He held a grappling iron in one hand, its long rope in the other, and a gleaming dagger

  between his teeth. God help him if anyone saw him engaging in such outrageous behavior. But hell, if this little performance didn’t convince Her Majesty of the lengths he would go to get her to the altar, then he feared nothing would!

  He was tired of waiting.

  And he was beginning to find he wasn’t such a patient man after all, not where she was concerned.

  Her crew had remained in Portsmouth with Kestrel, but for the sake of appearances, Orla had checked into a room with Maeve, and he had taken a neighboring one. It was not an

  arrangement he intended to keep. Oh, hell no. He had no intention of sleeping alone.

  Just as he had no intention of allowing her to dally anymore with regard to this whole

  marriage business. She’d damn well give him an answer tonight—or, he’d carry her off to Triton and have his own flag-captain marry them, and amen to that!

  Aaaaarrrh, me pretty!, he thought with sudden, reckless glee, warming to his role and beginning to thoroughly enjoy himself. “I shall have ye, yet!”

  He looked up at the square of golden light directly above him. A shadow passed before the window. Good. She was still awake . . .

  And now, for the proposal to outdo all marriage proposals . . . pirate style.

  A noise sounded behind him. He whirled, but it was only a cat, staring at him in fright.

  He removed the knife and bared his teeth, making the face he'd used on Colin’s pet.

  The animal hissed, and shot off into the darkness. Gray laughed. Then, narrowing his eyes in concentration, he put the knife between his teeth once more, tightened his hand around the rope, and began to swing the grappling iron in a wide, powerful circle, focusing on the sill two stories above.

  One last circle, and he let the grapple go.

  Chunk! The iron claw found purchase and he froze, waiting to be discovered.