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“I want to murder the man who did this to you.”
His bewilderment increased, then softened. There was fondness there as well, under the surprise. “Bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you? And you have everyone fooled.” He dug his fingers into her hair. “Not me, though.”
“Not you.” She kissed the scar softly.
“Anyway, he’s long gone, I reckon. Trafalgar took a fair few of us on either side. Has us still, even those who survived. Now open your legs for me, pirate,” he ordered. “Wider. That’s it.” He settled between them. “Good girl.”
She was still wet for him, and he slid to the hilt, keeping that slow, maddening pace. Sliding deep, pulling back, and then sliding even deeper. She angled her hips up, urging him to go faster, harder. And then his ironclad control finally loosened and he plunged into her, driving her up the mattress, claiming her completely. The sound of their bodies meeting, the sweat gathering at the small of her back, the fierce burn of his eyes, the ruthless rhythm, the gentle hands—it was all Bram, all hers. Just for now.
When his own climax took him, hers followed, chasing each other’s, pulling them up another peak, and another. Dropping them back to the earth sweaty and panting and sated.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Clara did not want to go back to the lavish, extravagant Eastbourne Hall. She did not want silver tea trays and French champagne and thick, luxurious rugs underfoot. She did not want perfume and lady’s maids and waltzes. She wanted to stay right here in this inn that smelled like smoke and roasting meat, with the thin sheets and the cold draft sneaking in under the door.
With Bram.
Her experience was minimal, despite her exhaustive research and writing of naughty books. Even so, she could not have imagined such a night. Her body no longer felt like it belonged to her. It turned toward Bram even now in the bed, even as her brain reminded her that this would not last.
The heat thrumming through her just at a glance of his bare, muscled chest dusted with hair, the line of his jaw, all had a counterargument: if it would not last, she should enjoy as much as she could for as long as she could.
Decorated naval captains did not marry prim spinsters.
But maybe they had affairs with them.
“You’re thinking entirely too hard,” Bram murmured, without opening his eyes.
“How can you tell?”
“I just can. You would have made a decent ship’s coxswain, never deviating from your course.”
She frowned slightly. “Is that what you think?” Staid, predictable.
“Yes.” He cracked one eye open. “And it gives me great pleasure to sidetrack you.” He tugged her closer abruptly, sliding her across the sheets until she was pressed against his naked body. She gave a startled giggle. “That’s my favorite sound.” He nuzzled under her jaw, his beard tickling her sensitive skin. “Well, one of them.”
He slipped his muscular leg between hers, widening her thighs, brushing against the core of her, all while dragging open-mouthed kisses along her throat. She sighed. “That’s another one.”
His fingers delved between her legs, teasing. The sigh turned to a thready gasp.
“Better and better.”
She was already half mad with desire for him, squirming against him, moaning, when his clever tattooed fingers began their exploration in earnest. They were callused from years of sailing, of pulling ropes and whatever else he had done before working his way up to captain. “You feel so good,” he said in his morning-rough voice. She wanted to drink it like whiskey. It burned and went to her head. “So warm and soft.”
She was rapidly losing her ability to focus again. He did that to her. So easily.
Not this time. This time he would moan her name.
She squirmed away, sliding down his body.
“Where are you going, little pirate?”
She kissed each inked swallow, following the thick pelt of his hair down his stomach to his cock, already hardening. The sheets fell over her, a private tent to shield her blushes. She licked his hipbone, then bit it. He jerked, saying her name in a filthy voice that shot heat straight to her quim.
She loved it.
She loved the taste of him, salty and clean, the tickle of his hair over her nose, her forehead. The feel of his soft skin over the hardness of his cock, jerking in response as she gave little, teasing licks to the tip bobbing toward her. When she finally drew him between her lips, he tasted salty and clean. He was smooth, hot under her tongue. He swore as she explored him, the silky steel of this length, the rounded tip, back again. He thrust slightly into her mouth. She moaned in response.
The jut of his hips, stuttering as he worked to control himself. His hands in her hair, just this side of too rough—she loved that most of all. She took him as far back into her throat as she could whenever he groaned her name like a prayer. Filthy again, but devout too.
