The Maid and The Cook

by Eris Adderly

  When he drew back to look at her then, the raw need in his eyes all but set the air in the room on fire. Something inside her chest felt as though it was being crushed in a tight grip. Brigit knew she wanted far more than his mouth on her today. And for more days than today.

  What is this? These feelings?

  A delicious vibration of fear trilled up her spine, but not for anything John Bone might do to her body. No, of that she wasn’t afraid at all.

  As though someone brave and self-assured had taken command of her body, Brigit shifted her bottom up onto the top of the pile of grain bags and fisted her hand into the centre of Bone’s shirt, pulling him towards her even as she leaned back to support her own weight with her other arm.

  She moved her knees wide apart and curled her feet around the back of his thighs as he stepped into the brazen space she’d made for him. Their eyes remained locked as Brigit made plain with the language of her body how very ready she was. He leaned in to kiss her again, and some inner voice told her there ought to be words. She needed to tell him.

  “John,” she said, stopping him before he could close the last of the distance to her lips.

  “Brigit.” His words came at a rasp, eyes on her mouth, loathe to delay what they both so obviously wanted.

  Liquid tension burned between her thighs, and she wanted him to know it. To hear what he’d done to her. Brigit reached back through years of living in the less desirable parts of a city, of hearing rough men speak using language she wasn’t supposed to know. She found the most shocking, wanton thing she could think to say to him and said it, nearly shattering in disbelief at the sound of the words on her own tongue.

  “I want you to fuck me.”

  The sharp intake of breath from the man was almost a gasp at hearing her say such a thing. He wedged the firm heat of his erection tighter between them, almost bruising the splayed flesh of her sex, even beneath the layers of skirt and shift.

  “Is that what ye want, Brigit?” he asked, his tone quiet and dangerous, the question spilling into her open mouth as he ground himself against her. “Ye want me to fuck ye?”

  His hands were at the fabric of her skirts, gathering it up as he spoke. They were toying with one another now, the teasing words mere ornament. The maid and the cook had agreed upon their destination long ago.

  “No, I don’t want it,” she said, slipping nimble fingers to the fastenings of his breeches, not to be outdone. “I need it.”

  He sprang free with a growl at her words and she had her hand on him for the first time, just as he got the last of her hemline tucked up to her waist. The air in the pantry curled over her skin, drawing her attention to just how wet she’d become.

  And him! She could hardly circle her fingers around his girth, but she plied him with appreciative strokes all the same, pleased to hear him hiss through clenched teeth at the slide of a soft hand over his throbbing heat. Brigit tugged him closer and he followed her lead, moving his hips in to rest the length of his cock over the slick temptation she offered.

  “What is it ye need now?” he teased, sliding himself along her entrance, nudging the plump tip against her aching little nub. It seemed he enjoyed her filthy mouth as much as she’d hoped, and now he wanted to play.

  I can play.

  “I need your cock inside me, John,” she said, watching his jaw tighten in response to her bawdy suggestion. Brigit felt him twitch against her and she tilted her hips, working to tempt him into forfeit. “I want you to fuck me,” she repeated, growing bold.

  Her words proved too much for the cook and she melted in relief when she felt the blunt velvet of him burrowing into her, though only a fraction of the way, not all of him as she wanted.

  “Is this what ye want, pretty girl?” He tormented her with only a shallow push in and out, stretching her entrance but never sheathing himself, and more, she didn’t wince at his endearment now. The look on his face, the pain of careful restraint, told her he might actually mean what he said. It was maddening, and her feet pressed at his backside, trying to urge him forward. It appeared she would need to play along.

  “Yes, John, please!” She didn’t even need to feign desperation. He needed to stop toying with her and—

  “Oh!”

  She was full.

  More than full. Stretched, overflowing.

  “John!”

  “Christ, Brigit!” He held himself still, thumping into the luxury of her core.

  With her weight on one arm, she slid her other palm up beneath his shirt. She needed to touch him. Her fingers splayed over his chest, passing over the warm expanse of muscle there, the dusting of hair, the hard line of his collarbone. The swollen lips between her thighs kissed up against the seat of his shaft and something inside her sucked at him, begging for what she wanted.

  He gave it to her.

  It was slow at first. Excruciating. She felt every slick, hard inch of him draw out and then deliberately revisit each nook and ridge inside her on the tortuous way back in. Again he did this. And again. The man had the patience of a mountain and she didn’t know whether to call this treatment cruel or indescribably perfect.

  She found herself writhing under him, urging him to end the torment and take her, to let go and assault her with his cock the way she wanted. The whining noises she was making brought a low chuckle from the man between her legs and he buried himself to the hilt in response, stopping his movement entirely.

  “Oh please!” she whimpered, squirming.

  How can he be so calm?

  His hand came up and with a few sharp tugs like he’d done the night before, he brought the sleeves of her dress away from her shoulders and the stiff wrap of her stays lower around her ribs. Her breasts jutted free now, the bones of the garment pressing them upward, nipples tight and dark, as eager as the rest of her for John Bone’s attention.

  Back arched and still completely within her, he brought his face to his new prize and took one of the tense little buds into his mouth. He suckled at her, slow and sweet, as though he meant to heal a wound with the pull of his lips and teeth. Her head lolled back as she gave over to whatever he wanted to do.

  Moments or hours later, she didn’t know which, he shifted over to the neglected tip on the other side, and with that began to move his hips again. Brigit nearly fell apart.

  Her hand was on the back of his neck, cradling his head as he bent to his task, and her heels were pressing into the small of his back, as if she needed to make it any clearer what she wanted. Somewhere in the lusty haze of tangling limbs, one of her slippers had fallen off.

  He was pushing into her now at a more satisfying pace, some of his earlier restraint wearing thin. Brigit arched into his movements, leaning back further to take in more of him. Her breast bounced away from his mouth in a wet pop once she’d stretched beyond his reach, and with that distraction ended he stood up straighter and brought his hands to her hips. With the delicious press of his thumbs at the crease where her widely parted thighs met her hips, Bone found leverage and began at last do what she’d asked. He began to fuck her.

  She watched him bite at his lower lip in concentration as the working muscles of his thighs and backside slapped his body against her greedy pussy. More, she delighted in his eyes on her tits as they bounced with the rhythm of his thrusts. She brought her own hands up and cupped them, tugging at the nipples, squeezing them high and together for his enjoyment. The strained groan she got in response told her she’d guessed correctly what a man would like to see.

  His pumping had taken on a measure of ferocity now, and she had no idea how he was managing to keep up such a forceful pace with his leg as it was. There was no time for thoughts like those, however. Brigit felt her own bottom flexing as she pushed herself back against the driving of his cock, working up a promising friction between her most sensitive pearl of flesh and the curling nest of hair at the base of his shaft.

  Oh yes, this was good. Spinning flashes of pleasure began to jar up from the place he
grazed at her, bursting like flowers of lightning over her belly. If only she could just tilt herself so—

  “John, I’m—aughhh!”

  Brigit came around him with a wild cry before she could even tell him what was happening, though doubtless he could tell. Her walls spasmed and clutched at the driving length of him, and the building tightness in her loins exploded and danced around the rigid flesh of what she realised might be her first real lover.

  The pulses of release wouldn’t stop, and when he angled his hips to spear at her from an even shallower angle, the head of his cock found some new node of pleasure to kiss at the bottom of each thrust. Her delight shifted into another key altogether.

  She began to laugh as the fluttering surged out around him again, and nearly wept when the release went on and on. A new rush of moisture spilled from her body and she felt him tense and begin to drive into her with a fury, the signal given that he could now have his pleasure, as well.

  He brought himself inside with deep, vicious strokes, and her thighs parted wide, welcoming his final push for satisfaction.

  Brigit felt him grow impossibly hard, his movements jerky and erratic for a wild disconnected moment. Then his hips flew back leaving her suddenly vacant, humming.

  The cook growled out a curse and she looked down in time to see the fat pink head of his cock pushing through his fist. His body seized up and a jet of white, hot completion arced over her lips to splatter and pool above her mound. A second spurt followed and then a third, which didn’t quite make it onto her swollen pussy, and these he accompanied with further satisfied bits of profanity.

  She lay there limp and sated, and Bone steadied himself with one palm on the bulkhead above her, his chest heaving, and throat moving to wet itself again. What this said of her she didn’t know, but Brigit had never felt more accomplished in all her life.

  When his eyes opened again and found hers she couldn’t keep a smile from splitting her face. He grinned back and let out a short rumbling laugh as they both worked to catch their breath.

  Several more weeks to Nassau? I don’t know if that will be enough time at all.

  Brigit held her skirts up out of the way and teased her new lover with a knowing smirk.

  “I think we’ve a bit of a mess on our hands, Mr Bone.”

  “I think we do,” he answered with a serious nod but a tone that shared her jest.

  Oh yes, several weeks would be just a tease. She wanted this pirate for much longer than that.

  * * * *

  The second night she shared his bed came earlier than the first. Once they’d served the evening meal and tidied the galley for the next day, they were both far too weary on their feet to do anything else. The afternoon’s exertions at the back of the pantry proved enough to send them to his bunk early. That meant no sneaking in while the bulk of the crew was already asleep.

  He still had his back to the open space of the hold, but after a day of Platt’s tongue-wagging—as he’d directed, to be sure—quite a few of the men who made their way in to find their hammocks had lewd taunts for John and his new bed mate.

  “Has he let ye see where he stores the meat then, girl?”

  “What o’ those tits? Will there be fresh milk for breakfast?”

  “You shown her you still have two good legs, Bone?”

  Brigit lay facing him tonight and her hand went to cover her open mouth at the jabs of the sailors. Her wide eyes told him she was stifling laughter, though. He shook his head and rolled his eyes with a smirk. This was how men spoke, and the appearance of one young maid wasn’t likely to change it. At least she wasn’t scowling.

  He took the hand she held to her lips and caught the pads of her fingers up between his teeth, nipping at her. She wriggled closer to him in the dim light and he stole an arm around her waist.

  For some unbelievable amount of time they did nothing more than stare at each other, each marvelling in their own way at the day’s developments. John felt like some fool boy who’d never been hip to hip with a woman. As though it were still 1696 and he’d explode after a few quick thrusts or turn all red and flustered after seeing a pair of tits.

  Brigit’s fingertips flirted over his mouth and the side of his face, moved to have a playful tug at the braids of his beard. He couldn’t help but smile at her. She said nothing but her hand moved over his shoulder, and then down to squeeze at his arm, as though confirming for herself he was real.

  The light touches were somehow waking his cock back up, if it could be believed after his wild spending earlier. It throbbed to show its readiness again as she leaned in to brush a light kiss over his lips. There was no tongue, it wasn’t fiery or demanding, just a display of her newfound comfort in his presence. Yes, all sorts of dormant notions had been flickering back to life since Blackburn had flung this girl into his care yesterday.

  John circled his fingers around her wrist and brought her hand down between them, settling it on his hardness and learning a new way to raise her brows higher.

  “Do ye see what ye do to me, lass?” he whispered, low enough that none of the settling men in the hold might hear.

  She chewed at her lip and gripped him through his breeches, tucking herself closer against his body. Her slight nod and the question on her face drove a low chuckle out of him, though.

  She wants to know if ye expect her to do anything about it. Can ye imagine? Here in the hold, half the crew milling around?

  “No, no,” he assured her with a smile, barely audible. Pulling her hand back to his waist, he shifted more to his comfort. “Sleep, lass.”

  With a final kiss, she relaxed against him, tucking her head under his chin. The maid smelled far better than a cabin full of men and he concentrated on telling his prick to go to sleep, as well.

  John mused to himself that he might just be able to convince her to remain with him after Nassau, if fate allowed him a few more days like today. The question was, would Captain Blackburn permit either of the two new women to remain aboard? The good thing about being cook, though, was that a body heard all of a ship’s gossip. He’d simply keep his ears open and listen for which way the wind blew. If the captain wanted to put the widow ashore, perhaps John could make a case for keeping Brigit on as help.

  She made some small sound and nuzzled her face into his throat. Yes. It seemed there was far more work to be done around the galley of The Devil’s Luck of late. Not a man could be spared. Or woman. A young one. From Cork.

  He slept.

  * * * *

  III

  Blades and Madness

  “A taste for adventure is by no means a masculine monopoly.”

  – Lloyd Alexander

  “Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.”

  – Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi

  * * * *

  The thread drew taut again as she raised the needle above the line of her eyes. Brigit tugged at it to make the stitch tight before jabbing through the heavy fabric to start another. Instead of having her help him with the meal today, Bone had set her to sewing pudding bags. She was on her third of the four he wanted.

  She sat on a low stool, the same one the cook had used that first night when he pulled up to feast between her thighs, doing the work he was relieved to give over, under the claim that his fingers were always too large and clumsy for proper needlework. They hadn’t seemed clumsy when they—

  “Ow!”

  Bone’s head swivelled to see what her noise-making was about. “Can I not trust ye to be alone with a pudding bag without hurting yerself, lass?” His tone teased, but his features did hold a hair of concern as he slipped into the pantry.

  “No,” she called after him, pulling the fingertip out of her mouth, “It seems you can’t. Perhaps I’ve pricked my finger to keep myself awake.”

  That was certainly true enough, with all the daydreaming she’d been doing. Brigit assessed the tiny wound and, as it appeared to be no longer ble
eding, went back to sewing the sides of the bag together.

  “Whose prick are ye fingering now?” he asked with a grin as he emerged from the storage room with an armful of small jars.

  “Beast.” She shook her head at him and returned his smirk. Brigit was growing to enjoy the salty familiarity that had arisen between her and this cook.

  Familiar, and yet …

  Yes, she thought as she drew the line of stitches along, here was a man who made intimate jests with her, who’d seen more of her body than any one other man, and here she sat knowing hardly anything about him. Perhaps he could be persuaded to talk a bit more today.

  And what do you want to know of him? He may not want to be peppered with questions, girl.

  Brigit watched Bone busy himself about the galley. By most respectable standards he was a bit of a knave, if one considered the way he’d approached her two days ago. She hadn’t pushed him away though, or spurned his advances, and he had been more than a little interested in her pleasure as well as his own. Even before his own, if she considered the order of events.

  And yet surrounding the relative safety of the galley was a ship full of cutthroats. The Devil’s Luck was well known to be crewed by merciless men, the sort who’d put a man over the side for the weight of a purse. Sailors who had no place in a proper navy. But here was John Bone who seemed only kind; a man who fed scraps to a cat, for pity’s sake. What was he doing among such men?

  There, and now you have it.

  “Mr Bone,” she said, setting down the completed third bag and taking up material for the fourth, “how did you come to sail aboard The Devil’s Luck?”

  “Well now,” he said, nudging about in the belly of the stove with a poker, “Isn’t that a question?”

  Brigit watched as he straightened himself, leaning the poker against the wall of the hull. He wiped at his hands while he appeared to gather his answer.