The Black Morass (Pirates of the Coast Book 1) (8 page)

THE BLACK MORASS

CHAPTER SIX

“Pull gently, Maddie
,” Jean Marc whispered in her ear, as she sat between his legs and tensed.  “Now, ease up, but not too much.  Wait.  Stroke it, nice and slow.  You must tease it,
Mon Chou
.  Again.  Now, give it a sound yank.”

“
Oh
, it is so big.”  She squealed as she hauled in her first fish, which spattered her dress with water, as it flopped in the jolly boat.

“It is a black sea bass, and it is very good eating.”  Laughing, he found her delight infectious.

For the past three days, he engaged the society miss in licentious warfare, bringing her to release with his fingers every night, after dinner.  Without prompt, she planted herself in his lap and blossomed for him, and as he anticipated, she yearned for more.  So that morning, when he woke with his usual stubborn erection, he allowed her to touch him.

At first, she hesitated and just stared at his most profound protuberance.  Then she caressed the plum-shaped tip, before grasping him, whole-heartedly.  The result had been satisfying if a bit humiliating, because she no sooner put her hands on him than he fired his cannon.  Afterward, her thoughts turned to food.  Indeed, Maddie was a woman after his heart.

“Shall I catch another one?”  She wiggled her bottom, and his loins erupted in flames.

“No.”  He noted the other boats returning to the
Morass
, and he picked up the oars.  “We have enough for dinner.”

“And afterward, will you teach me more of lovemaking?”  Reclining against his chest as he rowed, she rested her palms to his thighs and squeezed, and he relished her bold behavior.  “Do not forget your promise.”

“You believe yourself ready?”  Ah, his scheme worked perfectly, as he needed her to initiate the seduction.  “You are prepared to yield your bottom?”

“Are you sure that is normal recreation for a man and a woman?”  Angling her head, she cast him a glare of skepticism.  “As never have I perceived of such a thing.”

Of course, she would not have heard of the licentious act, as he wagered no person of gentle breeding ever engaged in the risqué position, given he had to pay his whores extra to indulge him.  But Jean Marc preferred the tight bottom hole to the quim, as arses produced no bastards.

“Are you so accomplished in the sexual arts?”  He snickered at her display of naiveté.  “Like I told you, what happens between us is our business, and if you are comfortable with what we do, does it matter what others think?”

“I suppose not.”  She shrugged.  “And you would be willing to see it through to its honorable conclusion?”

“Indeed, Maddie.”  He snorted.  As if he would forgo the incomparable sights and sounds of her completion.  “No man would leave a lady wanting.”

“Have I your word?”  Again, she shifted, and he groaned.

“You have it.”  And he held back any further encouragement, because he had her where he wanted her.

Fidgeting, she dug her fingernails into his muscles, through his breeches.  Then she sighed.  In his mind, he commenced a silent countdown, as he rowed them to the
Morass
.  Just before they reached the hull, she shuffled and peered over her shoulder.

Biting her lip, she tapped his knee in an impatient rhythm.  “Must we wait?”

“I beg your pardon?” 
Victory
.

“Why do you wish to delay until after dinner?”  Wiggling restlessly, she wiped her brow, and he noted the pink tinge of her cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her bosom.  “Can we not begin immediately, as I am uncontrollably excited?”

“If you wish.”  Despite the lust ravaging his senses and the thrill of anticipation surging in his veins, he mustered an air of ennui.  “But you should probably have your bath, first.”

“I understand.”  She averted her gaze.  “And then you will come to me?”

It was all he could do to allow her private time to prepare for him.  “Yes,
Mon Chou.
”

“And you will not make me wait too long?”  Her look of desperation almost brought him to his knees, as he lifted her to Tyne.

As he gained the waist, he signaled the helmsman, who nodded.  To the first mate, Jean Marc said, “Make sail, and you will take my watch, this evening.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”  Tyne sketched a mock salute.

As Maddie made her exit, he caught her by the elbow and led her to the bow.  “If you are certain you wish to proceed, then I will satisfy you.”  Struggling with some strange affliction, he needed validation from his lady.  “But if you have second thoughts, you need only declare as much, and I will not be angry.”

“But I have made my decision.”  Caressing his cheek, she rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.  “I want to know you, and I am not afraid.  All I ask is that you remove that infernal eye patch, as you know I prefer you without it.”

“Why do you not like my patch?”  He snorted.  “I have been told it makes me appear mysterious.”

“I disagree.”  She whisked a lock hair from his forehead.  “You hide behind it, and while that may suffice for others, I will never abide it, as I wish to know every part of you.”

In a flash, Jean Marc pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard, as he rocked his hips into hers.  An old, familiar hunger flickered and then burst forth, and he rested a palm to the swell of her derriere.  “Then have your bath,
Mon Chou
, and relax, as it will make what comes later much easier for you.  Afterward, I want you to wear nothing but your nightgown, as I would preserve your modesty, for your sake, and your hose with the little blue bows in the back, as I cherish the symbols of your gentle upbringing.”

“How do you—no, do not answer that, as I do not believe I want to know.”  She shook her head.  “Anything else?”

“I want you on your knees, in my bunk, when I arrive.”  For some odd reason he could not fathom, the overwhelming urge to hold her plagued him, so he refused to relinquish her, just yet.  “But you can decline, at any time, and I will stop,
Mon Chou
.”

“I understand.”  She nuzzled his chest.  “But as I already made clear, I have no intention of declining, as I want to be close to you.”

In that instant, he released her.  “Then go, now.”

#

Rinsing the last of the soap from her body, Madalene gazed at the paintings on the wall and frowned.  While she never claimed any expertise as an art critic, she considered the crude renderings amateur, at best.  Grabbing a towel, she stood.  As she dried off, she stuck out her tongue at the naked woman and the couple engaged in some strange activity.

Never would she have considered giving herself to anyone other than her husband, but since he agreed to do the honorable by her, which meant it was time to plan a wedding, she had no reservations.  No, he was not what she envisioned in a spouse, but she never imagined traveling to Port Royal, surviving a pirate attack, and journeying with her own personal marauder with questionable taste in illustrations.

Then she strolled to the bunk, studied the position, and wondered if the image depicted what Jean Marc intended to do to her.  It was then she noted the signature in the bottom right corner, which consisted of the simple initials, JMC.

“Jean Marc Cavalier, pirate painter, extraordinaire.”  She giggled.  “What else do you do, my bawdy buccaneer?”

Nervous anticipation drove her to the corner, where she stored the bags with her personal items.  After fishing out the hose he requested, she donned the silk and checked the position of the blue bows.  She pulled a white cotton nightgown over her head and sat on the mattress to await his arrival.

Biting her lip, she glanced at the pictures, huffed a breath in frustration, and yanked down the offensive representations, as she required no audience, real or otherwise, for the games to come.  Twiddling her fingers, she checked her appearance in the mirror he used when he shaved.  She collected her brown curls atop her head, assessed her profile, frowned, and freed her locks.

Seconds ticked past, and she paced.  When footsteps loomed in the outer passage, she shrieked, ran to the bunk, and adopted the pose he commanded.  Behind her, the door opened and closed.  And then there was silence.

“Where are my paintings?” he asked, and she wanted to scream.

“I propped them against the wall, near your locker, as I do not like them.”  How could he bicker over a couple of scraps of canvas, when she awaited his pleasure?

“You find fault with my work?”  His tone hinted at more than a little irritation.

“They are so primitive.”  She jumped when he rested his hand to the small of her back.  “Can you not paint something nice, like fruit or flowers?”

“Fruit or flowers?”  He inched the nightgown to her waist, baring her bottom, and the air was cool against her fevered flesh.  “Grab a pillow, lie forward, and rest your head,
Mon Chou
.”

Following his direction, her new posture left her exposed and vulnerable, and she buried her face in the cushion.

“You hide from me.”  He placed the briefest kiss on the back of her thighs.  “Are you ashamed?”

“No.”  She shook her head and turned to the side.  “I am not sure what I feel.”

In that, she spoke the truth, as so many sensations speared beneath her flesh, unfurling, fanning out, searing every part of her, and he had yet to touch her where she wanted his attention most.

“And you still want to surrender your arse to me?”  To her exasperation, he made no contact with her.

“
Yes
.”  Simmering, aching with need, she moaned.

“This is oil, Maddie.”  Massaging the slippery substance into her skin, he finally caressed her derriere, and she hummed in appreciation.  “It will make the first time much easier for you.  But before we begin, I must have your promise that you will stop me if I hurt you or you change your mind.  Now, tell me you understand, else I will go no further.”

“I understand.”  Drowning in passion, awash, inundated, she yielded in that moment, though he knew it not.

And so he embarked on their new and enticing endeavor, driving her, inciting her, luring her into his world of unbridled debauchery with a series of salacious strokes and kisses in unmentionable places, and she pined for him.  When he parted her bottom and smoothed the oil along her cleft, she tensed, and then there was decadent pressure, foreign yet beguiling.

Jean Marc grasped her hips and thrust, and she cried out from the shock, as opposed to pain.  As he entered her, he stretched her, filled her, possessed her, and stripped her of any fragment of civilized behavior, and she reveled in the intimate invasion.

In unwavering submission, she spread wide her legs, and he curled about her and played an arresting accompaniment with his fingers at her core.  So she held naught back from her man, and in the giving she received steadfast acceptance, encouragement, and incomparable satisfaction, and Madalene soared higher, farther, and faster than she ever thought possible.

With her pirate captain, she altered, she changed; she became something altogether different.  No elegant façade born of years in study, no polished garments, no polite manners, no mask shielded her carnal cravings.  For him, she functioned as a sensate being, pliant, adaptable to his yearnings, and resilient, to be cast and recast in the image he desired, and in so doing, Madalene found herself.