“Sea slime,” he responded with a tender understanding, and she nearly laughed, and then the sweetness overrode the pain and she was astounded anew at herself. She had never known a hunger so great; she had never wanted so desperately. Her form shifted and writhed and arched on his own. She stroked his flesh and felt the constriction and heave of his muscle, and the ever-greater fury of his force. She swirled with it, she soared, she reached. Then it seemed as if the entire world exploded deep inside of her and that nothing had ever been so rapturous in her life. She was wrapped in clouds, cocooned among moonglow and stars, seared by the sun. Darkness nearly claimed her, the breath left her. She died, she thought. She touched the sun, and so she died.
She did not die. She closed her eyes perhaps, passed out, perhaps. But she did not die. She shuddered again and again and hot rapture tore through her. She opened her eyes to discover that she had not even left the earth, but lay within the bed still, drenched and slick, entwined with the Hawk. He lay atop her still, and quietly within her. He had not ravished or raped her or used violence against her in any way. She had come to him.
He pulled away from her, coming up on an elbow, smoothing the tangle of her hair away from her face. She wished suddenly that she did not so strenuously fear the dark, for she would have liked to hide her face in the shadows then.
“Regrets?” he asked her.
“No.” Well, perhaps one, for now that ecstasy had quietly given way, she was sore and amazed at her own lack not only of virtue, but of anything resembling restraint.
“I warned you,” he reminded her.
She nodded uneasily. She turned against him, burrowing against his chest. “Please, leave it be.”
He touched her gently, letting her lie against him. She suddenly imagined that love was a grand and magical thing, for it was, perhaps, even more wonderful to lie against him so, to feel the ripple of his muscles and his soft touch upon her as he held her close. This seemed an even greater intimacy.
As did his easy stroke. He did not touch her then to enflame her, but just to idly feel her flesh and soothe her. He rested his bearded chin atop her head and sighed deeply.
“What shall you do now?” he asked her.
She shook her head against him, not knowing what he meant.
“Well, my love, you go to your betrothed. What shall you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“The truth?”
Angry, Skye pushed away. “Tonight…this is not the truth. The truth has always been there, as you have been so quick to tell me! I will not marry him. I will not honor some silly pact made between his father and mine. He does not wish to marry me, either!”
“But he comes for you.”
“What is this!” she charged him, pulling away, suddenly longing for her clothing and eager to be far, far away from him. Something terribly momentous had happened in her life. He had taken from her all that a woman had of her own to truly give, not so much the physical side of innocence, but the very heart of it, too. “Is your cousin your best friend that you must care for his concerns so deeply?”
“We are not friends at all. We are enemies. We respect one another and leave room for negotiation, but he would slay me in the open waters, and I would slay him in turn.”
“Then leave me at peace! I shall deal with my own life.” She tried to pull away in a sudden fury. He leaped atop her, smiling his buccaneer’s leering smile, and pinning her beneath him. “Get off!” she insisted, flailing against him.
“No, lady, I cannot! And I gave fair warning. Forget the future, and answer to the sweet whispers of the night!”
“Nay—”
But her protest meant nothing. His lips seared hers, his body burned against her. She felt the hard swell of his sex and she gasped and strained to free herself, but he sank into her, filling her, and making her one with him. Tempest could not rise so swiftly again! she thought, and yet it did. Soaring, sweet, thundering, savage, it rose like a summer storm, brought her to a sweet and shattering climax, and cast her down softly and incredibly to earth once again. He gave her no quarter and no mercy, now that he possessed her. Still holding her, still entwined with her, he rose above her.
“Say the word, and I will rescue you from the trap of your betrothal. I will say that my hostage is not for sale, but my property and mine alone, now and forever.”
She gasped, stunned by the ferocity of his words.
“I—I cannot!” she cried. She could not! She had discovered ecstasy here, and perhaps she had discovered a man of startling temper and curious honor upon the savage seas, but she could not stay here! Her mind would work but little then, but she knew that she could not be his mistress. She could not stay here.
“So you would marry Lord Cameron!”
“No! Yes, I mean that I could not stay here!” She could not, ever. Not while her father lived. As angry as she might become with him for charting her life, she adored him. He was all that she had in the world. All who really loved her, who needed her. Just as she needed him, and his love.
His eyes were fierce, they were silver, they probed her, they went past her nakedness and tore into her soul. “You little hypocrite!” he told her. “You deny the man, but you would have his position! You would dine at the governor’s mansion and walk the streets in splendor. You cannot manage without your silks and velvets and jewels—”
“How dare you judge me!” she screamed, tearing at his chest. Suddenly she longed to escape him with such a fever she could scarce bear it. “It is not Lord Cameron! I tell you that I will not marry him—”
“You will not?” he taunted.
