The Pleasure of His Bed. Donna Grant
his body, although her demure expression didn’t fool him anymore. “You know what to do,” he rasped.
Sofia nipped her lip. Then she fumbled with his fly buttons as though half afraid of what might spring out at her. “I would so love to lie back, sir, spreading my thighs in invitation. But wearing these manacles limits my—”
“Who said you were getting any pleasure? This is your punishment for defying me.”
Her brow flickered as she scooped his member out of his pants. Demurely she licked her lips, contemplating the swollen shaft that pointed like a flushed sword. Somehow Sofia managed to look penitent, like a novitiate in a convent kneeling to pray, even as she opened her mouth to suck him. Her raven hair drifted forward as her warm lips closed around him, and Damon grasped both sides of her face.
“Ohhhhhhhh,” he moaned. “Most women have no idea how heavenly this feels. How much a man enjoys…”
“Mmm,” she replied. Up and back she stroked him, dragging her moist lips over his inflamed flesh. When she tipped her face slightly, Sofia appeared to be savoring this pleasure as much as he was…up and back as her tongue swirled around him.
Damon sighed languidly and grabbed the nearest chair to keep his balance. He didn’t want anything to interrupt this fine, fine sucking…a working-over like he’d never before received, even from the most experienced trollop.
“Oh, Sofia…don’t stop. My God, don’t you dare quit licking and—” Damon rocked forward, curbing the urge to shoot down her throat. She deserved to do without, just as he’d threatened, yet as he accelerated toward a climax, Damon could think of more satisfying ways to fulfill his need.
“Get up,” he whispered. “Sit on the edge of the bed and rock backward.”
“Yes, captain. Whatever you say, sir.”
Her deference wouldn’t last, but Damon was too needy to tease her about it. The chain between her feet scraped the plank floor…such a chafing weight it must be…yet his pity remained unexpressed as Sofia followed his order.
Down she sat, and back she fell, raising her legs so her skirts slithered around them. Once again she wore nothing for nickers. Anytime she bent over in the galley, she might expose herself to Comstock.
The thought crazed him. Damon imagined the cook’s randy thoughts, the way old Jonas would itch to get inside this young, lovely woman, and he grabbed Sofia’s ankles. He slipped his fingers inside the iron leg cuffs to keep them from cutting into her tender skin, and then he lunged.
Sofia gasped and rose to meet him. They thrust against each other, and as he raised her legs as high as the irons allowed, Sofia writhed. Her desperate expression drove him on, and as his need crested, Damon prayed neither of them would cry out…alert the crew that he’d slipped away with her before they’d reached the open sea.
He shot his seed with a force that left him breathless. The minx beneath him rose to take in his full length, grimacing at the brink of climax.
“Damon, please—slap yourself against me and—”
Her wish was his command. He bucked against her hips, making a randy, wet sound as their bodies shuddered in opposing thrusts. Her muscles clenched, and he held her tightly against his thighs to bring her to completion.
Where had he ever met a woman who loved this give-and-take as much as he did? Even from a submissive position, Sofia gave and gave, making it seem like he couldn’t take enough.
Making him realize he was as much her slave as her captor. A dangerous idea, indeed.
Damon eased out of her. Sprawled on his sheets, with her dark hair splayed about her face and a look of utter contentment, Sofia Martine was the most fetching thing he’d ever seen.
But he couldn’t send her to her galley chores smelling of spunk. Even old Comstock had his limits. The cook might think of ways to bait Sofia if he caught a whiff of what she’d been doing, even if he couldn’t consummate his fantasies.
Damon went to his washbowl and dipped an end of his towel into the water. Each gentle stroke made his lover’s body quake with aftershocks as he cleansed her. So responsive she was, he felt his need flaring again.
He wiped himself and buttoned his fly. Still Sofia lay with her legs raised and her feet dangling, so the chains rested on her bare backside. Her eyes closed as though she intended to nap, awaiting his return later in the day.
And wasn’t that a fine fantasy?
“Off to the galley with you now,” he murmured, but it hardly sounded like an order. “And if we don’t eat the most delicious dinner my crew has ever consumed, you’ll tell them why. Lord Havisham mentioned that you assisted your mother in his kitchen, so don’t pretend otherwise.”
It took six days—six days!—to convince the captain he must raid the supply of spices aboard the Lady Constance if he wanted tastier meals. Jonas Comstock, set in his ways about how to cook for rough-and-tumble sailors, refused Sophia’s advice about using a bit of cinnamon on the dried apples or a sprinkling of herbs in his tasteless stew—until she had refused Damon Delacroix the spice he craved in his bed. The quickest way to a man’s heart might be through his stomach, but making him change required pain where he’d hurt the most.
The captain had never really enjoyed Comstock’s cooking, so after he and Quentin Thomas swung aboard Lord Havisham’s ship for a chat with Captain Cavendish, Delacroix returned with a generous tin of the seasonings Sofia had requested.
The results were immediate. As she peeped from the hole in the galley wall to where the sailors bent intently over their tin plates, their smiles and sighs of satisfaction made her grin. Conversation was forbidden during meals, to prevent arguments while the crew was packed into such close quarters, but the utter enjoyment on their faces spoke volumes.
An uneven thunk…ka-thunk announced Comstock’s return from the table. His plate clattered into the dish tub as he stopped behind her. “Well, the squeaky wheel gets the oil,” he muttered, “so it seems you’ll not be peeling potatoes or washing dishes anymore, missy. If you weren’t the captain’s…courtesan, I’d have something different to say about that.”
The captain’s courtesan. The phrase had a nice ring to it, even if Jonas had basically called her a whore. Sofia looked through the peephole again, hiding a smile. When Damon Delacroix spoke, everyone aboard his ship listened or faced the consequences.
“It was never my intention to upstage you, Mr. Comstock,” Sophia said quietly. “I was doing the job I was given, and I used the resources at hand. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that mutton stew more for the rosemary and thyme I put in it. You wiped your plate with my fresh bread and then took more. Twice!”
“Hard-tack biscuits is plenty good enough,” he muttered. “We’ll see how the men likes it when we runs short of supplies halfway across the Atlantic! We’ll see how happy you makes the captain then, when he’s got a shipful o’ empty bellies and short tempers!” He barked at Billy and Gasper, the two lads who assisted him, and they scurried to fetch water for the mountain of tin plates and cups that awaited them.
Why was it wrong to feed these hardworking men good food? Did sailors willingly endure stale, overbaked biscuits and bowls of greasy swill for long voyages and short pay? These first days at sea had been enlightening: the cramped hammocks hanging below deck and the secretive skittering of rats there made service at the Havisham house look like a party by comparison. And when she thought about Daphne and Beatrix—the whining and sea sickness her mother must be tolerating—conditions aboard the Courtesan seemed rosy indeed.
Thank goodness her captor hadn’t confined her in a cage in the dark, dank hold of his ship. The stench of unwashed bodies and live animals kept for slaughter would only get worse as the voyage went on. She appreciated her good fortune as Captain Delacroix’s slave and intended to work her magic on him whenever he wanted her.
And for her next trick, she’d make her manacles