back, cupping her face. “Aren’t you going to even
make a show of protesting?”
She stared up at him and knew this was what fallen
angels looked like. “Protesting?” Did he think she
could actually refuse him? She ran a finger along the
hard planes of his cheeks, down the smooth bridge of
his nose.
“Oui—protesting. ‘No, no, monsieur, we
shouldn’t,’” he said in a high-pitched voice. “And
finally you give in because you are overwhelmed by
my caresses.”
“I am overwhelmed by your caresses. But I might
be more overwhelmed if we were both wearing
less clothing.”
He laughed, as she’d hoped he would. “I like you
more and more,” he murmured. She could feel his
fingers loosening the belt at her waist. “No pretension.
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Now let me see if I can do something about the
clothing issue.”
A moment later, her belt dropped to the floor, and
he pulled her up, taking his shirt over her head. She’d
bound her breasts again, but when he reached for the
cloth, she pushed his hands away. “I’ll do it. You deal
with your shirt.”
“Gladly, mademoiselle. Any other orders?”
She paused in the act of reaching for the binding
cloth. “Oh, am I…?”
“No, no. I’m teasing you. This can be fun, no?”
Fun. She pondered the idea as she unwrapped the
long cloth. It had never been fun with Timothy.
The few times they’d been alone together had been
furtive and rushed. He’d been so intense, so eager
to be inside her. They’d not exchanged two words
during the act.
But Bastien had not stopped talking and acted as
though they had all the time in the world. And she
supposed in a sense they did. No one would dare
interrupt him. But she wasn’t certain she knew how
to have fun in the way he meant.
She heard him inhale sharply and glanced at his
face. He was staring at her, and his expression made
her knees feel weak. She looked down and realized
she had but a thin strip of cloth left and she’d be
bare to the waist. Slowly, she allowed the cloth to
fall away.
He didn’t even touch her, but she felt her nipples
warm and harden under his hot gaze. She could almost
feel his fingers on her, was eager to thrust herself into
his hands.
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But he was not so eager—or if he was, he was in
no hurry. He sat, holding his bunched shirt in one
hand, and studied her. She was not particularly modest
or prudish, but after a moment, she felt herself grow
self-conscious. She made to raise the cloth, and he
dropped his shirt and grabbed her wrists. “No, ma belle.
I’m sorry. I did not see before how perfect you are.”
She made a sound of denial and tried to raise her
hands, but he held them down. With a slight move-
ment, he pushed her back against the pillows and
leaned over her. “You don’t believe me?” He kissed
her mouth lightly, and she felt the lightest trace of his
fingertips on the side of one breast. She arched; heat
jolted through her body.
“No, I don’t believe you. I’m not perfect.”
“Oh, but you are.” He bent, cupped one breast,
and rubbed his lips against the upthrust nipple.
“You’re full and heavy.” He traced the sides and
cupped her underneath as though testing the weight.
“Pink and cream.” He said this against her nipple, and
she bit her lip to stop a moan. “Soft and hard.” He
took the nipple lightly between his teeth and raked his
mouth over her.
Raeven couldn’t help but throw her head back. She
was on fire. Never had she wanted something so much
as she wanted Bastien to divest her of the rest of her
clothing and finish what they’d begun.
“Oh, you like that?” he murmured, suckling her,
which was an entirely new sensation. “What else do
“I don’t know,” she breathed. “But don’t stop
doing that.”
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He chuckled against her, his stubble tickling her
sensitive skin. “Don’t grow shy now, ma belle. Tell me
what you want.”
She met his gaze. “Really. I don’t know.”
A small flicker of alarm flashed in his eyes. “Don’t
tell me you are a virgin.”
She almost laughed at the worry in his voice. “No,
but I fear I am not very experienced. I…” She didn’t
know what else to say without revealing parts of her
life she had shared with only Timothy and which were
too personal to tell anyone.
“Ah.” He was studying her face, his expression
again full of wonder. “Have you ever experienced la
petite mort?”
She raised her brows. “The little death? What does
that mean?”
He grinned. “If you have to ask, you have not had
the experience. I think I know what you would like.”
She raised her brows. “I’d like you to take off the
rest of your clothes.”
“All in good time. But once I remove my breeches,
I find it hard to think of anything but myself. I want
to think about you”—he rubbed her nipple lightly
between two fingers—“for a little while longer.”
He bent to kiss her, and she arched to give him
better access but was disappointed when he bent
lower to kiss her abdomen. She thought of pulling
his lips back to her nipples but resisted when she
felt his fingers on the fastenings of her breeches—his
breeches, really. He didn’t even need to unfasten them
to remove them. They were far too big on her, and he
ended up pulling them over her hips and tossing them
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across the cabin. She watched them land on the floor
then looked back, expecting him to rise over her.
But he was kissing her stomach now, and his hands
were on her hips. She could easily see where he was
going with his explorations, and she tensed, unsure if
she should allow him.
He glanced up at her. “I thought you were feeling
wanton.”
She swallowed. “This might be more than wanton.”
“What did you expect?”
She would never have dreamed of what he
proposed now, but she had to admit she expected
passion. She expected pleasure. She felt his fingers
run along her thigh, resting at the juncture of her
legs. His gaze was locked on hers as he gently coaxed
her legs open and then caressed her lightly but quite
effect
ively. She jumped, and to her shock, pushed
harder against him.
He touched his lips to hers, kissed her cheek, kissed
her neck—all the while sliding his fingers against her
deliciously. “If you like this,” he whispered in her ear.
“Imagine what my tongue will feel like.”
She groaned. She could imagine it, but she could not
speak of it. Instead, when he lowered his head again,
she made no protest and opened willingly for him. At
first she kept her eyes on the ceiling above them. His
breath on her thighs was warm, but she dared not look
at what he was doing. She felt the first light touch of
his tongue, and she could not help but stare down
at his dark head. His hair spilled over his forehead
as he bent to his task. She could not believe she was
allowing this, but then he glanced up at her—a wicked
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gleam in his eyes—and she could believe it. She would
probably have allowed him to do anything.
He touched his tongue to her again, and the last of
her thoughts fled. She could think of nothing but the
mounting pleasure. She’d had a taste of it before, but
then the experience had ended, leaving her wanting
more. She knew Bastien would not leave her that way.
Unwittingly, she arched her hips against him, and
instead of shocking him, he grasped them and pulled
her closer. “Come for me, ma belle,” he whispered
against her.
His tongue scraped against her again, and her world
exploded.
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Eleven
Bastien watched la petite mort rip through her
and thought how aptly the French metaphor fit the
experience. She did look as though she might die.
She’d flung her head back, reached up to cup her
breasts, and arched hard against him. Now she lay with
eyes closed, panting lightly.
He took the moment to study her body. He had
not lied when he told her she was perfect. Men had
many different tastes when it came to female beauty.
He was of the opinion that most women were beau-
tiful in one way or another. He might admire one
woman’s face, another’s legs, a third’s bottom. But
he could not stop admiring every inch and aspect
of Raeven.
Her breasts were exquisite. Like most men, he
preferred large breasts, and hers were abundant. He
did not know how she had ever hidden them so well.
Softly curved, they were almost too large for her small
frame, for she had a tiny waist and slim hips. And yet
her legs were long and muscled. And her bottom—he
would have to turn her over so he could see it in the
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flesh. But he’d had his hands on it, and he knew it was
round and firm.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. The
emerald color was not quite as sharp as before. Her
irises had turned soft and muted, her pupils large. She
gave him a tentative smile. She didn’t smile often,
and seeing the corners of her mouth turn up now, he
couldn’t resist kissing her swollen lips.
“Did I please you?” he asked. He knew he had, but
he had to ask anyway. He wanted to know what she’d
say after her moment of uncharacteristic shyness. But it
had been only a moment. Once he’d applied himself,
she’d come hard and fast and without reservation. He
wanted to please her again. But this time he wanted
to be inside her. He wanted to feel her tighten against
him, feel those breasts thrust against his chest when she
bucked against him.
“Yes,” she breathed. Her voice was low and husky,
and he didn’t think it was possible, but he grew harder.
“I don’t think ‘pleased’ is a strong enough word for
what I felt.”
He looked into her eyes and saw she was completely
serious. If he had not already been an arrogant man,
he would be one now. “That’s only the beginning, ma
belle.” He kissed her lips again. How did she manage to
taste like cherries after more than a day at sea? “I can
show you more pleasure.”
She yawned and stretched. “That’s quite all right.
I’m ready for a nap now.”
One look at his face, and she burst into laughter.
“Oh, you should see your expression, pirate.” She
put a finger under his chin and pretended to close his
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mouth. It hadn’t really been hanging open. At least he
didn’t think it had. “You’re the one who said love-
making can be fun, no?” She mimicked his voice and
accent, and he gave her a grudging smile.
“I didn’t think you had much of a sense of humor,”
he said.
“I guess you don’t know everything about me.”
No, he didn’t, but he thought he would like to.
And if he couldn’t know everything, he’d like to
know much, much more. He nuzzled her neck. “Why
don’t we become better acquainted?”
She pushed him back. “Very well. Why don’t you
remove the rest of your clothes? I feel quite exposed,
lying here naked with you still wearing breeches
and”—she made a sound of dismay—“you haven’t
even taken off your boots.”
“Would you like to take them off for me?” He
took a moment to enjoy the image of her removing
his boots, naked, then he stood, removed them himself
and stripped off his breeches. He would have climbed
right back beside her warm body, but she was staring
at him so intently, he glanced down to see what was
amiss. Had he been wounded in the fighting? Was he
covered in bruises?
He could see nothing remarkable and gave her a
questioning look.
“I suppose I’ve seen naked men before,” she said
slowly, her gaze roving over him. Bon Dieu but he
was feeling almost self-conscious at the intensity of
her perusal. “But I’ve never seen anything like you.”
Women had complimented him before, but the
words had never meant anything to him. He did not
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know why, but he wanted to please this woman, this
Raeven. Perhaps it was because he knew her praise
was rarely given.
He gathered her into his arms, pressing his body
against her warm, soft flesh.
“Your shoulder,” she breathed. “Does it pain you?”
For a moment, he had no idea what she spoke of;
then he remembered the wound Gaston sewed closed.
“Not when I’m with you.” One hand found her
rounded hip, and he fit her to him so she was pressing
intimately against him.
She gasped and whispered, “You don’t waste
any time.”
“I’m eager for you, ma belle. I’ve been waiting many
long months and imagining this moment since I first
saw you in that gown.”
“Really?” She looked up at him, her emerald eyes full
of questions. “Is this how you imagined it would be?”
“It’s better.” He bent, kissed her mouth, opening
her to delve his tongue inside to taste. Her tongue met
his eagerly, her body moving against him as he deep-
ened the kiss. He could feel her trembling beneath
him as he pressed her legs open farther, felt her moist
heat against the tip of his erection.
He moaned. “Mon Dieu, but I want you.”
“I want you too,” she whispered, and that was
all the invitation he needed. He slipped inside her,
sheathing himself in her heat. He could not have
imagined such molten heat or that she would fit him
like a glove. He moved inside her, felt her tense,
adjust, and finally accept him. He moved again, and
she tightened around him.
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With gritted teeth, he held himself in check. “Do
not do that, chérie,” he ground out, “Or this will be
too quick.”
Her response was a moan and to tighten against him
again. He would have to go slowly another time, he
realized. This first time he was too eager—she was too
eager—and so he gave up the soft, slow movements to
thrust hard and fast.
Her eyes flew open at his new pace, and a cat’s
smile crept across her face.
“You like that,” he said, driving into her again. But
she was too far gone to answer. She gripped his unhurt
shoulder then his bicep, and with a cry, her hips rose
to meet his. Their bodies thrust and parried, thrust and
parried, and finally he sank into her and surrendered
to the white oblivion. He’d felt her shuddering release
only a second before, and he thanked God, as he didn’t
think he could have survived her another moment.
Later, when his breathing slowed and he could
think again, he rolled away. Normally, he would
think of some excuse to go on deck, smoke a cigar, or
breathe fresh air. Instead, he gathered her close. She
smelled much better than the men on deck and was
far warmer than the brisk ocean breezes. At least that’s
what he told himself as he burrowed his face into her
hair and lazily stroked her back.
He didn’t doze. He was too aware that Jourdain