Page 21 of Breath From the Sea
He was relentless, thrusting harder and faster as she climaxed, allowing no time for recovery, compelling her body into another crescendo of pure bliss.
“My God, love…” he growled, thrusting hard, deep for a final time, and shuddering from head to toe.
They remained motionless, Antónia wrapped around him, Titus still deep inside her.
And then he languidly withdrew, his forehead pressed to hers, his shallow, shuddering breaths mingling with her own. Her heart still pounded fiercely against her ribs. Could he hear it?
Titus cleared his throat, then walked to a wooden chest and lifted the lid. He pulled out a basin, pitcher and a cloth. Without looking at her, he poured water into the basin, dipped the cloth and wrung it out, and then he brought it to her.
“To wash,” he said, sliding the cloth along her inner thigh.
Antónia shivered, placed her hand on top of his, taking the cloth. Though they’d just shared their bodies in the single most passionate and delicious episode of her life, him washing her felt entirely too intimate. And yet… she liked it.
But no matter how much she liked it, she shouldn’t. That was what always got her into trouble before. Sharing too much of herself too soon. Falling hard, fast and not having enough air to breathe when her heart was crushed. So, she took the cloth and washed herself, hopping down from the desk to ring it out in the water and rinse once more.
“A drink?” he asked.
She nodded, wondering if he’d pull the bottle of liquor she’d found in his desk or pour her something more civilized like a glass of claret. This was no civilized union and she much preferred the whisky.
“Whisky?” he asked.
Antónia smiled. “And here I thought ye might be of the stiff English sort.”
Titus chuckled. “I am English and plenty stiff when I need to be.” He winked and she let out a shivery giggle. “But I do enjoy a good whisky. In fact, this one is Irish.”
“Is it really?”
“Aye. From a distillery in the north. I confiscated it. Seems ironic I’d share it with you now.”
Antónia walked confidently forward. “I shall consider it property returned.”
Titus chuckled and pulled the bottle from his drawer. Both of them still fully nude, he poured them each a dram in small wooden cups. She watched the way his muscles rippled beneath his golden skin with his movements, keeping her fingers tightly to herself instead of reaching forward to touch. Antónia had always pictured the snobbish English captains as soft-bellied and pale. But Titus Graves… He was an enigma. A delicious paradox. And a damned fine lover.
“To our arrangement,” Titus said.
“To a captain who thoroughly reviews his manifesto.” Now it was Antónia’s turn to wink.
They both drank, in one full swig.
“Another?” he asked.
“How else does one drink whiskey? Surely never only one.”
“You’re an intriguing woman, Antónia.”
“Ye’re not as boring as I would have predicated,” she retorted, swallowing the next round, and reveling at the burn as the liquor made its way down her throat. “This is good. How much did ye take? I might have to add in a bottle of this with the ring.”
“That would require thrice and not twice…” he drawled, his eyes roving over her figure.
Traitorous as her body was, it tingled in all the right places. “I suppose we are allowed to make addendums…”
“Aye, if two parties make an agreement, then those two parties are most assuredly allowed to make changes if both should agree.”
“Indeed, Captain Graves, indeed.”
He clinked his glass to hers and they each drank again.
“Shall we eat first, Pirate? I’d hate for your second performance to be deterred by deprivation.”
“Let’s be honest, Captain, ye’ve left me famished for certain, but I feel anything but deprived.”
