The Duke and the Pirate Queen. Victoria Janssen
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him forward. She saw his teeth glint in a grin before he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, on her octopus tattoo, his damp beard rasping softly against her skin as he nuzzled the line where her torso met her thigh. “Your skin is like silk, soft as water, soft as water on my skin,” he murmured. One cheek brushed her cunt, his beard tangling in her hair, pulling with a thousand tiny flashes of pleasure. She dragged his head to her cunt and growled wordlessly, knowing he would allow it, sensing he would even like her forcefulness.
Maxime’s breath steamed over her flesh. Delicately, he opened her lower lips with his thumbs. “Did you know all women look different inside? But you’re all so tender, and slick, and you smell so delicious—” He rubbed her with his nose, then pressed his tongue to her flesh, a sensation soft and wet above and faintly rasping with beard below. “You taste like the ocean.”
Imena panted and dug her fingers into his hair. She might be hurting him. She tried to relax her grip, but couldn’t manage it at first. When she did, she couldn’t drag her hands away from his head, couldn’t stop stroking his hair.
He was suckling at her now, and teasing inside her with a fingertip. She wound tighter, tighter, then shuddered in a brief climax. “More?” he said. He scraped her clit with his teeth, soothed with his tongue, then did it again, and again until she gasped and writhed up against his mouth. Still he continued with the sequence of hard and soft until all at once she came forcefully, for a few moments losing control of her limbs.
Maxime brushed her softly with his tongue as ripples of feeling passed through her, easing her down. When she’d caught her breath again, she released her grip on his hair. Her arms felt loose and relaxed now, at least more so than they had been; she still wanted to bury her fingers in his hair, stroke his scalp and tickle her fingers with his beard. Perhaps it was the way he smiled at her, openly delighted that he’d made her come.
Her chest tightened at the sight, tightened enough to hurt. For long moments, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away from his eyes, creased at the corners with his smile. He was sweet, as sweet as Sanji. She hadn’t expected that. She wanted to curl up against him and lie quietly for a time; she wanted to close her eyes so the sight of his smile wouldn’t hurt her anymore. Instead, she said, “My thanks.”
“You didn’t scream,” he said, stroking her thighs. Her muscles were still trembling, just on the edge of perception. “I think you need another or three.”
He rose higher on his knees and kissed her; she tasted the sea on his lips, and belatedly realized she was tasting herself. She shuddered, deep in her belly, and Maxime caught her to him with one arm. Her breasts rubbed his chest and she abruptly wanted to be lying down, with his weight pinning her. Wanted to hook her thighs around his hips and burrow her heels into his muscular buttocks. Another few moments and her desire would be fulfilled.
She couldn’t do this. It would hurt too much.
She couldn’t make the tide with her employer. She shouldn’t even have glimpsed the merest flicker of a possibility of fucking her employer. Who was a duke. It was a terrible idea, and she’d even warned herself against it before arriving here. It didn’t matter that Maxime was a trustworthy man whom she liked. She had learned her lesson about mixing business with pleasure years ago. She should never have taken her clothes off in the first place.
“Thank you,” she said again. “That was lovely. I’ll send the manifests over as soon as I’ve received them from the harbormaster. Goodbye, Your Grace.”
She was nearly out the door before he called to her. She whirled; he’d scrambled out of the pool and stood dripping on the floor. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It was fun. Thank you. I’ll see you later on—”
He glanced down at the floor. “You might want to put on a robe first,” he said. “No, why don’t I leave? You can stay here, and have your soak. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“You didn’t.” Useless words, when he could see her knees trembling.
Maxime grimaced. “Of course not. If you need me, I’ll be in my rooms.” Imena barely remembered to move out of the doorway so he could leave. He snagged a robe from a hook, wrapped it around himself and exited.
Imena stared around the empty bathing chamber. “That went well,” she muttered.
She ought to have stayed at sea.
CHAPTER THREE
THE WALK BACK TO HIS QUARTERS DID NOTHING to ease Maxime’s agitation. He hadn’t been so maladroit since he was a boy. Imena had enjoyed his seduction, it was clear, but it was also clear to him he’d misjudged how to ease her mind about marriage. Or misjudged something else entirely. Or—
He stopped in the middle of the staircase and glared down at his erection until it subsided somewhat. He might have done better to remain distant, but such a thing was impossible when he was faced with her. He had never wanted anyone so much in his entire life. At least not since he’d been a young man ruled entirely by his genitals.
Resuming his climb, he muttered, “I seem to be ruled by them even now.” Next time—if there was a next time—he would plan. He would make sure to take himself in hand before he saw her, to be able to ignore his own desires for long enough to convince her of his sincerity. Even if he had to take himself in hand several times.
He flung open the door to his rooms, strode in and stopped. Sylvie, a trusted courier of the adjacent duchy, sat cross-legged on a padded hassock, idly selecting from a tray of grapes and other dainties. Her blond hair hung loose to her waist, contrast to the snug riding leathers and matching jacket she wore, which clung to every sleek curve of her body; that lushness balanced nicely with her sharp features and the sarcastic intensity of her expression. He wondered if she was about to cut another swath through his staff. Her visits usually resulted in a string of besotted glances.
Sylvie never had problems with her unending stream of lovers. He should take a lesson from her, and not let a physical act affect his emotions in this way.
“The reports are on your desk, Your Grace,” she said, looking up at his entrance. She popped a marzipan starfish into her mouth. After she’d swallowed, she added, in a more formal tone, “Her Grace the Duchess Camille and her consort, Henri, send greetings.” She took a sip of wine. “Henri said Aimée sends her greetings, as well, though I think this is unlikely, since the child doesn’t yet speak intelligibly, and I doubt she remembers you at all. It has been so many months since any of us have seen you. If you recall, she fell asleep during the ceremony when you were made duke.”
“Have you done putting me in my place?” Maxime asked. “Was there anything specific Camille wished from me, that you couldn’t leave with my aunt or one of the secretaries?” Camille was enough his friend—they’d once been lovers—that she likely would have sent him a detailed document if she’d needed anything from him personally. And Sylvie would have told him before now if she’d carried any queries that could not be committed to paper.
Sylvie sampled a few aniseed comfits, uncurled and rose effortlessly to her feet. “I think you have a sea urchin shoved in a delicate place,” she said. “Has the exquisite captain refused you?”
Maxime swallowed outrage. Sometimes he liked Sylvie’s impertinence. Today was not one of those times. Rather than answer, he passed through a doorway into his office and opened the diplomatic pouch. He spilled letters, reports and other dispatches onto the desk’s marquetry surface. Camille had sent a drawing of her plump baby daughter: her lover, Henri, held the child atop a sleek pony. Maxime reflected that the child might be his if things had been different. In the normal way of things, one duke might marry his daughter to the son of his neighbor, forming local alliances. Instead, Camille’s father had slain both Maxime’s parents, taken their duchy as his own protectorate and kept Maxime as a political hostage. Camille’s father had let Maxime know, in more ways than one, that he would not be permitted to marry his captor’s daughter or even to think himself worthy of her.
Perhaps