She trailed her fingers over his ribcage. A swirl of black hair circled his navel and she traced it, amazed that men should have such hair where women did not. She glanced up and saw his eyes were nearly feral now, watching her with half-lowered lids. His look made her breath quicken.
Hastily she lowered her gaze again. Below his navel the hair narrowed to a line that led to the inky curls around his penis. She followed the line with her fingertips, her mouth going dry at her daring. The fine curls wrapped themselves around her fingers as if drawing her in. He rose strong and hard in the space between her hands, but she didn’t touch him yet. Instead she fingered the lean lines of his hips, returning again and again to the center of his manhood, drawing out the anticipation. His breathing had roughened as she played and she thought she heard a low growl.
Only then did she bring her hands together and cradle the prize she found there. She smiled as she held Michael O’Connor’s cock. Oh, it had been so very long and holding a man’s cock was a wonderful thing. He was soft like a fine kid glove, but if she gave a little squeeze, the flesh beneath was hard as a rock. Her fingers didn’t quite wrap around him as she circled him and something feminine inside her quaked. This part of him would be inside her body soon, large and foreign and male.
She inhaled and delicately traced the head of his penis. His foreskin was pulled back, the glistening, swollen head entirely free. At the very tip was a drop of clear liquid and she caught it on her fingertip, bringing it to her mouth to see what a man tasted like.
At her gesture Michael cursed and caught her hand, falling suddenly atop her.
She stared up at him wondering what bedchamber faux pas she’d committed.
He groaned at her look. “I’ll let ye pet and play all ye want—after. Now I need”—he pushed her chemise to her waist, parted her thighs, and settled between them—“to be inside ye.”
There was a flag of red in his cheeks and his mouth had turned dangerous. She could feel his hard cock prodding insistently against her thigh.
He reached between them and touched her, probing and parting her folds. Her eyes widened, watching him as he watched her and touched her where no one else had put a hand save she herself. Her face was hot, she wanted to look away, and she knew she was already embarrassingly, naively moist. Was this what sophisticates did in the bedchamber? She had certainly never done this in her marriage. Did his other women take this type of touch in stride, perhaps with a knowing smile?
The thought of his other women made her mouth tremble and he misunderstood.
“Have I hurt ye?” he asked, his voice like gravel.
He took his hand away and turned with her so that all at once she found herself laying on top of him, her face only inches from his.
He scowled at her. “Ye must tell me if I’m too rough, if I hurt ye. Damn it! I had no intention o’ causin’ ye pain, m’love.”
“Shh!” She pressed her palm to his mouth to stop the fast, angry voice. “You did not hurt me.”
“Then why did ye frown?” he demanded.
“I…” She lowered her gaze. How could she be having this conversation? She with her chemise rucked up, her wet sex against his hairy thigh and his erection still pressed to her belly? This was a mad dream.
“I’m not used to this sort of lovemaking,” she said in a rush before she could think better of the words.
He was quiet for a moment. Then she felt his hand on her chin as he tilted up her head to meet her eyes. His mouth was still hard and dangerous, his face drawn into even more severe lines if that were possible, but his words were quiet if not soft. “Forgive me for a thoughtless lout. Truth be told, I’m not exactly used to this kind o’ bedsport, either.”
Her brows drew together. He’d had many lovers. “But—”
“Hush.” He placed his own far bigger palm over her mouth. “Let me…”
He gripped her bottom with one hand and drew her legs up on either side of his hips, spreading them wide. In this position his cock was pressed intimately against her folds.
“Oh!” Her exclamation was muffled behind his hand, but since her mouth was open anyway, she stuck the tip of her tongue out and tasted him.
He hissed. “Brat.”
She wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought that might be a compliment.
He took his hand away and caught her hips in both hands, arching beneath her. The movement drove his cock over her, rubbing the peak of her sex.
The sensation was exquisite and before she could control herself she’d made a needy, moaning sound.
He grinned, though his face was strained. “That’s it, love. Use me to make yerself feel good.”
She flushed. Surely he didn’t mean—?
But he moved again and she lost all thought. He was driving her wild, driving her into some kind of madness. He helped her to sit up and brace her hands on his chest and she found herself moving against him in a sensual haze. His big penis was against her folds, slick with her wetness, and he moved deliberately, knowingly, making her excitement spiral higher. Surely this wasn’t right. It must be some sort of sin for it to feel this good, but at the moment she simply didn’t care. She bit her lip and ground against him as he held her bottom in his hot hands, and—
And suddenly she was there, racing past the point, flying with dizzying speed. She gasped, her head falling forward, her body convulsing once, twice, three times in quick succession with impossible pleasure.
She opened her eyes, dazed, and saw him watching her with the most satisfied male look she’d ever seen. But his mouth was drawn as well and she realized that his swollen cock was still ragingly hard between her folds.
Sweat was beaded on his upper lip. “My turn.” He lifted her and grunted. “Put me there.”
Her eyes widened and she reached between them. He was hot and wet with her moisture and he was also so very large. She took one look at his face and knew she must at least try though. She moved him, brushing the head of his penis through her sex.
They both gasped.
She found the right spot and guided him before letting go.
He groaned, loud and male, his eyes turned to feral slits.
She swallowed and tilted her hips, feeling the head of his cock breech her. There was no pain, but she felt a stretching at her opening.
“Michael!” she panted.
“Jaysus,” he breathed. His head was arched back, his neck taut with strain.
She bore down, swiveling her hips a little.
He closed his eyes, his mouth open, his nostrils flared.
She pulled back just a fraction and he flinched and flexed his hands on her bottom. She hastily came back down again, watching him as another inch of his length entered her. He looked almost like he was in pain and she felt a sudden power—only she could ease this ache he felt.
She leaned down and brushed her lips gently over his jaw, pushing back with her bottom, taking more of him within her body.
He whispered something under his breath and she sat back, bearing down, gasping, taking the entire length of his cock. She felt stuffed full, her tissues stretched wide over the base of him. He was still, panting, groaning every now and then, his hands twitching convulsively on her buttocks.
Carefully, slowly, she rose on her knees, his cock pulling as it slid from her warmth.
She lowered herself, inching him back inside and he swallowed, his strong throat working. He was such a beautiful man—and he was all hers.
Perhaps she was doing it wrong. Perhaps he really was in pain. She leaned down and brushed a soft, nearly chaste kiss over his lips.
It was as if she’d put spur to him. His tongue was in her mouth, his hips arching off the bed and his hands holding her down as he drove his length into her again and again. His passion was intense, nearly overwhelming and she hung on, determined to ride him out. Determined to bring him as much pleasure as he’d brought her.
Suddenly he pulled from her kiss, his teeth gritted, his head arched back, and he shouted. At the same time she felt the scald of his semen rushing into her.
Silence watched in wonder. She’d never before seen this moment. It was as if he was possessed by a demon or perhaps an angel—some otherworldly being come to give both unbearable pain and exquisite pleasure. Maybe one and the same.
Gently she brushed kisses over his damp face, luxuriating in the intimacy of the moment as he recovered.
Finally his hand rose and he stroked her back with fingers as light as a butterfly. His touch seemed so tender, so loving almost, that it brought tears to her eyes.
Michael looked at her.
She blinked. She was still astride him, his penis inside her, though she could feel it retreating. What did sophisticates do now?
“Come here,” he growled, and pulled her down on top of him.
“I-I should go to my own bed,” she protested feebly. “I’m too heavy on you.”
“No,” was all he said in reply. He wrapped one arm across her bottom and flung the other over his head.
She laid her head on his chest. It was amazingly comfortable to lie on a man. He was warm and she could hear his heartbeat, strong and steady.
For a while she listened as his breathing grew deeper and his heartbeat slower. She’d always enjoyed sharing a bed with William, but what they’d done there had never produced the kind of excitement that Michael had given her. Making love with him was wonderful and wild and very, very pleasurable. Everything and more than she’d dreamed.
Which was why it seemed so strange when she began to cry a half hour later.
Her brown eyes swam with tears, overflowing, splashing down, scalding his hands, his face, drowning him in salty sorrow. Mam wept as Charlie stood over her, berating her, beating her with words and fists, and Mick was too small and weak to stop him.
But then Charlie faded and she lifted her head. Mick saw that it was Silence who wept and he could do nothing to comfort her, to console her terrible, unrelenting grief. For he had been the bringer of evil and death, the wellspring of her salt tears. He’d grasped with greedy hands and in so doing had crushed the very thing he’d sought to hold.
But hold her, he would. She was his, weeping or not, grief-stricken or not. And if he could not comfort her perhaps her hot tears would scald away the poison in his suppurating soul…
Mick woke from the nightmare, his body slick with sweat, and for a moment thought he still dreamed.
He could hear Silence weeping.
Weeping after he’d made love to her.
If he’d had a heart it would’ve contracted in pain then. But since he had no such organ, he reached for her. She was in his bed, finally, and he could not regret it. If he was incapable of love or comfort, so be it. But he could at least hold his woman and feel her tears on his face.
Share in her pain.
“What is it, me darlin’?” he asked, his voice rasping with sleep—or perhaps some new emotion.
She stiffened as he touched her, hunching her shoulder, but he gave no clemency. He was a pirate, after all, and what he took he held and she was his now—whether she knew it yet or not.
He pulled her into his arms. “Sweet Silence, tell me.”
Her body relaxed all at once, as if she conceded defeat. “I lied. All this time, I lied.”
He had no idea what she meant, but he made soothing noises at the back of his throat and kissed her neck. “What d’ye mean?”
When she shook her head again and didn’t answer, he gently turned her face so he could see her.
The sight sent a bolt of iron through his middle. It was just like in his dreams, her hazel eyes bright with crystal tears, her cheeks wet and reddened. “Dearest one.”
She hiccupped and said, “I said William and I had true love. That our marriage was perfect, but oh, Michael, it wasn’t.”
He sighed and laid his cheek against hers. Of course her marriage hadn’t been perfect. Her husband, from the sound of it, had been a stuffy sod. But he was also a dead stuffy sod. He knew well enough that mourning had nothing to do with how kind or unkind the person had been while alive.