Page 14 of Hot Buttered Rum

Chapter 8

I lifted my arms intending to do a nice long stretch before climbing out of bed and getting ready for work, but my fist stopped on a bearded chin. I sat up with a start and hit my head on the edge of a porthole. The man attached to the bearded chin squinted up into the harsh daylight pouring through the same porthole.

I glanced down. My nakedness quickly reminded me where I was. “Hey there, you.” I snatched the corner of the blanket and yanked on it in an attempt to cover myself. I managed to cover one breast and used my arm to cover the other.

Turner sat up on an elbow and a teasing smile crossed his lips. “You do remember last night when you, without hesitation or modesty, dropped your robe for me?”

I pushed my salt-stiffened hair back behind my ear. “Yes, well that was because I was lightheaded from a hot bath.”

His laugh shook the tiny room. “Ahh, the ole’ intoxicated by bubbles excuse. I like it. Makes me wish I had a bathtub right here on the Pickled Pepper.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Pickled Pepper? That is not exactly a prestigious or even menacing name for a pirate boat.” The second the words left my mouth, I felt my cheeks redden from embarrassment.

“Pirate boat, huh? Is that how you see me? A pirate?”

“No, of course not. How silly. I’m just teasing you.” I quickly looked around the room to find a new topic. The corner opposite the bed held an old wooden desk that had been bolted to the floor. Maps and what appeared to be a logbook sat on top of the desk. All the items were held in place by shell-shaped paper weights. “Do you keep count of your catch in that book?”

“It’s required by law.”

I nodded. “Yes, of course, that makes sense. We wouldn’t want one, lone fisherman to drain the seabed of lobsters.”

“I’m hardly in danger of that with my eight traps.”

I looked around for another topic since the last one was short lived, but the sparsely appointed room was lacking in interesting objects. Other than the incredibly gorgeous man stretched out next to me. His muscular chest brought back the vivid details of the moments before I dozed off.

I stared down at the wool blanket, and my throat tightened. “You saved me from the water.” I lifted my eyes to him. “And you warmed me to keep me alive. Thank you.”

“Nothing any red blooded pirate wouldn’t do.”

“And humble. Red blooded and humble.”

“Yes, but you don’t know if my motives were pure. We scalawags are sort of known for saving wenches and taking them for our own.”

“Guess my pirate comment is going to stick around for awhile. I hadn’t meant it as an insult.”

“None taken.” He reached across the blanket and trailed his fingers along my arm. It sent a shiver through me, but I was no longer the slightest bit chilled.

“As I’m sure you know, pirates have sort of been morphed into romantic characters in books and movies.” I began my ramble, not completely sure where it was leading or why I’d even started it. But I was fairly certain it had to do with the way his dark blue eyes were holding me as if I’d been pulled into a magnetic field. “Although—” I continued unabated, even though I sounded annoyingly garrulous even to my own ears. “I’m sure the real guys were far from romantic or, for that matter, good looking enough to grace a book cover.”

Turner flashed his teeth and pointed at them. “I don’t think they had choppers like these either. But then Blackbeard and Calico Jack probably didn’t come from a family of dentists.”

“Ah, that explains why you look as if you should be in a toothpaste commercial. Very nice, by the way. You have a fantastic smile. And I’m not just saying that to keep from walking the plank either.”

“Now what kind of pirate would I be if I made a beautiful wench walk the plank? A stupid one, that’s for sure. Nope, a smart pirate always takes good care of his treasure.” Turner scooted up to his bottom, and the blanket shifted down to the waistband of his briefs. That was when I noticed the distinct bulge beneath the blanket that hadn’t been there a few seconds earlier.

A decent woman would have quickly climbed off the bed and plucked up the discarded, wet clothes strewn across the floor. But after last night’s little episode, I’d given up the right to be labeled decent.

I stared down at Turner. Every inch of me was stirred physically. Decency was highly overrated, as far as I was concerned.

Turner’s fingers trailed lightly over the back of my hand as I clutched the blanket against me. He pinched the blanket between his thumb and forefinger. “What do you suppose a pirate might do if he had a beautiful, naked lass in his bed?”

“I—uh, I’m not sure.”

He tugged the blanket from my grasp, and it fell away from my breasts. “I think that’s what he’d do. But then I’m not completely sure because I’ve only been a pirate for a few minutes. I’m improvising.” He sat up, took hold of my face and kissed me.

The one kiss was all it took. My body reacted instantly. I knew there was no argument my mind could come up with to turn off the flow of heat. Traces of his touch from the night before had lingered all morning and every intense sensation returned.

With our mouths still locked together, I relaxed into his arms. The bed was hard and it creaked with every movement, but with the way his hand caressed my back, it was easy to ignore. There was no hesitation from either of us. I wanted this as badly as him. It was one weekend, I told myself. On Sunday afternoon I would drive back toward the city, back toward my dry, logical, highly successful life. I’d return to my drafting desk with only the memory of Turner’s kisses. But for now, I was going to take in all of it, his touch, the scent of hair, the taste of the salty sea on his skin.

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