to cry. Powerful thighs flexed and contracted as he strained on his toes and worked his muscled arm. And his noises… Those hungry grunts, trapped behind clenched teeth, sent a million shivers up and down and through my body.
Leaning into his impassioned strokes, he was in plain view of the moon and the endless roaring sea. Oh, I envied those waves. He pleasured himself for them, gripping and jerking his long swollen rod.
Earlier, I’d felt the thick length of it through his breeches. But to behold it in the flesh, to feel the weight of it in my hand… My fingernails bit into my palms as bolts of liquid heat pulsed through my blood and leaked between my legs.
His breathing came faster. Mine came harsher. Moisture broke out on my forehead. More trickled down my thigh.
Impressive in size and manner, he loomed on the balcony, absorbing shadows and taking up space. The muscles in his back bunched and played with the dim light, his body smooth and hard, glinting silver like the sea in the moonlight.
Watching him, I felt too little, too delicate to accommodate all that strength and terrifying authority. But I would. I would fit him inside me and wrap myself around that broad chest, those muscular legs, that hard, hungry cock.
And if I stood here another second, I might do something embarrassing like force myself upon him.
Fisting my hands, I slowly retreated and crept back to bed. There, I lay on my side, facing the wall, and listened to him grunt, stroke, and moan his way to release.
The sound of him coming set off a mini-orgasm through my core. I shuddered and shook with my hand over my mouth, trying with all my might to calm myself.
By the time he returned, my eyes were closed, and my breathing had resumed an even tempo. But with my body still on fire, I didn’t think sleep would find me again.
Until his hand sank into my hair.
He caressed my locks in a soporific rhythm, flowing with the undercurrent that rocked the creaking ship. It was my undoing.
I fell with him, deeply, tranquilly into perfect slumber.
Over the next two nights, he repeated his erotic performance on the balcony, unaware that he had an audience. I watched from the shadows as he grunted and trembled and squirted his seed into the wind. Then I fell asleep to the soothing cadence of those cock-stroking fingers in my hair.
Sinful. Resplendent. Undeniably wrong. I could spend an eternity with him like that.
But alas, the sun rose each morning, bringing with it his severe, tedious countenance. He spent the daylight hours elsewhere, leaving me alone with my needlework and pent-up frustration. In the evenings, he avoided conversation, and I thereby escaped more spankings.
On the fourth day as his captive, I finished the gown.
At last, I could leave his cabin.
I woke before dawn, dressed quietly in the dining cabin, and waited for Ashley to emerge. As I tightened the laces I could reach and re-straightened pleats, my spine felt taller, my chin angling higher.
The alteration of Ashley’s frocks was the best idea I’d hatched since boarding this ship. Extravagant, brocaded fabric covered my frame from breasts to feet. Practical, sturdy material. Yet so elegant in detail. And something I hadn’t noticed until now… The dazzling blue threads matched the color of his eyes.
I couldn’t wait to see his reaction, to watch his gaze devour the gold-embroidered whorls that edged the deep-cut bosom, the dramatic tuck where my waist greeted my hips, and the skirt full of turnings and windings that accentuated my curves.
I loathed constricting garments, but this morning, I felt fashionably feminine. Sensual. Better than ordinary.
The reflection in the window caught my eye, and for a poignant moment, I saw the image of Lady Abigail Leighton. Golden hair blazing in the sunrise, huge cerulean blue eyes, regal features, delicate lines… Was that really me? It couldn’t be. My mother had been such a gorgeous woman.
Doubt swarmed in, heavy and sticky, clinging to my skin.
Graceful garb, tamed curls, and proper posture didn’t change what I was.
Pirate whore.
His mockery didn’t hurt me. I was, by my own will, a pirate. And by aristocratic standards, a ruined whore to boot. I owned that.
What had injured me with Ashley had been his timing. He’d told me I was beautiful, touched me with interested fingers, melted me with heated looks, coaxed tendrils of my trust, and… Rejection. He’d hit me right when he knew it would hurt me the most.