Page 23 of Paid to the Pirate

Charlotte-the-wanton stirred an almost painful desire to toss her limp body onto my bed. To make her cry out from my cock the same as she had from my crop.

I shook my head, equally entranced. I’d been so focusedIbarely noticed the cabin around me. I could have been standing above deck, off the ship entirely, or somewhere on a beach in the bright afternoon, and I wouldn’t have noticed anything but Charlotte.

Another emotion swelled in my chest, something like protectiveness. Whatever was happening, I had stay in control, for her sake. And for my sake, I couldn’t take her to bed.

She might gut me in my sleep.

I’d have never thought her capable but she’d proved willing to do many things I’d never before believed.

Charlotte hung from the beam, limp, head resting on one arm for support.

I could release her and restrain her to my bed.

Scratching my stubble, I questioned,but was that a part of her plan?

No, I’d already commanded it -- she needed to sleep in the brig. But not half-naked. Fumbling through a trunk, I found my softest shirt. Charlotte didn’t move. Whatever strangeness had seized her, it was as all-encompassing as the night before. I’d wager that if I dipped my hand inside her breeches, I’d find her dripping down her creamy thighs.

I adjusted the strain in my own breeches.Who was being tortured again?

The fantasy of applying ointment to her marks flashed through my mind but I dismissed it. She didn’t deserve the relief and I couldn’t handle rubbing my hands all over her breasts without throwing her onto the bed.

Damn her to hell.

Scratch that. I was the one probably headed in that direction.

I chuckled.But what would be my hell exactly?Because it looked a lot like this, right now. Charlotte, half naked, and me unable to touch her.

Watching another man touch her,came the infuriating thought.

I’d kill him,I vowed, even though Charlotte was the one I should want to murder.

Adjusting my waistcoat, I determined three things. One, I’d deposit Charlotte in the brig. Two, I’d find some rum above deck. And three, I’d drink until I passed out. A fine plan indeed.

When I cut her ropes, I braced and, sure enough, she collapsed into my arms.

“Charlotte, can you hear me?”

She moaned her reply through pink, parted lips.

“I’m going to put this shirt on you,” I explained, guiding her to the bed. “Lift your arms.”

Incapable of obeying even the slightest command, I had to hold each delicate arm aloft while I slid the garment over her battered torso. Her brow furrowed slightly in pain but smoothed once the garment lay flat.

My eyes flicked down to her breeches and I didn’t like the access they blocked. Depositing Charlotte on the bed, I rummaged through my drawers until I found an old skirt that would fit.

Hers. I’d moved it from our old ship to this one. For a time, it had smelled like her. Until the salt of the sea faded the scent, as it did most things.

With Charlotte in a daze, I slid her breeches from her legs and buttoned her into the skirt, denying myself the glimpses between her legs that I desired, because I couldn’t torture myself any more for the evening.

Realizing she couldn’t walk, I scooped her up and carried her out of my cabin, careful not to smack her head against the doorframe or the walls of the ship’s tight hallways. Throughout, Charlotte hovered in a strange state between sleep and wakefulness.

Conks was thankfully absent when I reached the brig. I didn’t want his accusing eyes and couldn’t explain what happened to Charlotte anyway. Using my foot, I slid the prison door wide.

Charlotte didn’t stir, even as I maneuvered her into the hammock. Before I could change my mind, I stripped my waistcoat, balled it into a makeshift pillow, and wedged it beneath Charlotte’s head. Her eyes had closed, leading me to believe she’d fallen asleep.

Until under her breath she murmured,“Colt.”

Captivated, I brought my fingers to her face, tracing her cheekbone and the outline of her lips. She sighed, parting her mouth like an invitation.

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