Page 77 of Echo in the Wind

She raised her arms and he lifted the thin chemise over her head.

Taking one rounded breast into his hand, he gently cupped the ripe mound, coaxing a moan from her throat. “You are just as I thought you would be, my lady, soft to the touch, sweet to the taste.”

“Joanna,” she whispered, grasping his shoulders.

“Joanna,” he returned, loving the sound of it on his lips, “you will be mine this night.”

“Yes…” she whispered.

“Trust me with this.”

She splayed her hand on his chest and ran her fingers through the black curls. “’Tis soft.”

He heard the nervous tenor in her voice, her touch that of a virgin’s first acquaintance with a man’s body. Yet she seemed to delight in learning it. “Beneath your skin I feel hard muscle.”

She had no idea.

Pulling back, she moved her fingers over his ribs and down his side. “There is a scar, more than one. Wounds from a sword, Sir Pirate?”

“And other pursuits,” he said with a chuckle. He placed her hand on his rigid flesh. “Your touch affects me, my lady.”

“Joanna,” she murmured and, with tentative strokes, moved her fingers gently over his hard length. Her delicate touch inflamed his desire for her.

“If you keep touching me like that ’twill soon be over. You have much to learn. Let me initiate you in the ways of lovemaking.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, he slid his hand down her belly, touching gingerly the scarred flesh. Then he pulled her to him and tenderly kissed and licked her breasts. The musky scent of her skin mixed with the floral smell was a heady mixture, making his blood pound in his veins.

She made small noises that told him her body was responding. He had been ready for her since she walked through his door. But he would be patient this night, allowing her fear to be consumed by her rising passion.

He held her close, keeping her warm as he slid his hand past the scarred flesh to the nest of red curls he had glimpsed when she lay wounded on his bed. He felt her shiver at his touch. “Open your legs for me.”

When she complied, he dipped his finger into her center, wet with honey he would taste before the night was through. Slowly, he circled the place that would bring her to her peak if he allowed it, but he had other plans. For her first time, he wanted to be inside her when the moment of ecstasy came.

She panted out her breaths, matching his own, and moved her hips against his hand. Her nails sank into his back, her body telling him she was ready. On her own, she let her knees fall to the side, making way for him.

He kissed her as he centered himself above her. With a single thrust, he was past the barrier and deep into her core.

She shuddered and tensed. He stilled, their tongues entwined as their bodies.

She was so close to her peak her muscles were already beginning to clench around him. He retreated, then advanced, coaxing her passion to its crest.

Their bodies grew slick against each other.

“Ah…” she moaned, raising her hips to meet him as he drove deep, her core pulsing around him.

The storm came upon him, violent in its power. He rode the crest of the wave until, with a groan, he gave into its depths.

Locked in her arms, he allowed himself to drift, feeling a fierce possessiveness for this woman. He did not sleep nor did he roll from her, but stayed inside her, kissing the damp, salty skin of her neck, prolonging their union as long as he could.

He was still hungry for her.

The sun had not yet risen when Joanna stirred in his arms, slowly coming awake. The candle had burned to a nub and the room was cast in shades of gray. She turned her face on the pillow to see him, feeling his warm breath on her face. Still asleep, his face was partly covered by his long black hair. She brushed an errant strand from his forehead and thought of their long night of love when her fingers had been tangled in those same locks.

A pang of guilt rose up to accuse her for what she had done. She was now one of the fallen. Yet she would not have missed Jean Donet for anything. What would he think of her now? He had known her as a smuggler, then a lady, but what was she to him now? Merely a conquest?

She had loved his body, his touch and their joining, surprised at how little pain there had been. She had no one to compare him to, of course, but she couldn’t imagine a more considerate lover. He had been tender, even romantic. She had felt… loved.

He had made her a woman, giving her a night she would never forget. In turn, she had given him her body and, she was quite sure, her heart. In the hours he had taught her about the physical side of love, she sensed his feelings, though unspoken, were there in his touch. Surely he felt more than mere lust. It was all very well to be desired, but even a mistress would want a man’s love.