Scotland: The Year of Our Lord 1749
Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer.
Is this close enough, Grandfather?
"Ye should have slipped away while ye had the chance, Changeling," he whispered against her ear. "Why are ye still here?"
He did not think she would answer, but she pushed herself up on her elbows, her words muffled by the bedclothes as she tried to find a position where she could breathe without ripping the hair from her head. "Can a woman no' wish to share the pleasures of a man's bed without a reason?"
"Many a woman can and does, lass, but you've no' the look of a whore about ye."
"Must ye question whatever fortune throws your way, then, Ewan? 'Tis an old and honest profession, I've heard."
"I question everything. 'Tis why I'm alive." He lifted her hips, kneeling between her splayed thighs, rubbing his cock slowly down the cleft of her ass.
"The children." She thrust her ass back against him, hard. "Many a woman tires of being alone. But 'twas the children that won my heart to ye. A man who cares so much for the wee ones canna be all bad."
"No man is all bad. Nor all good." He slipped his cock between her folds, its weeping head so close to where he wanted it. "No woman is all bad, Riona. Ye feel so good to me now. What do ye want from me, Changeling? What do ye need from me?"
She thrust her ass higher, her voice a muffled sob.
He slipped his finger into her, probing her liquid heat. "I didna quite understand ye, lass."
He wanted to laugh. Would have laughed, except that he needed her so badly he was shaking as he slid his swollen cock into her tight, wet sheath. Her muscles clenched around him, fighting him, as if trying to both hold him frozen in place and draw him farther in at the same time. He'd have moved slowly, made this last as long as possible, but she thrust her hips back at him hard, burying his length to the balls.
Had he thought her helpless like this? She was not. True, she couldn't reach him with her hands, but she rolled her hips, the inner muscles of her thighs helping her to squeeze him so hard he could not find the line between pleasure and pain. She set the pace, squeezing and releasing, pushing and pulling, driving him to pump deeper, harder, faster, until the bed beneath them groaned shrilly with each thrust. Had it not been anchored to the cabin floor he was sure it would have launched itself across the room.
His balls ached with the need for release, drawn up hard and tight so that each slap of her ass against him squeezed them against the curve of her thighs, her tight, hot cunt so wet that her fluids washed out with each inward thrust, to run down over his balls in an agonizing tease. She fought his bonds now, trying to tear her hands loose from their bindings. He knew what she wanted, but he would not grant that release. Not yet. Not yet.
"Captain's quarters," he reminded her. "Captain's rules. Your hands stay bound."
She cried out, sobbing in frustration, but her hands ceased to fight their bindings. As a reward he slipped one hand under her, teasingly close to her mons, then changed direction, capturing a swaying breast to pinch the nipple sharply between his thumb and forefinger.
A long, convulsive shudder wracked her body. "Ewan!" She drew out his name as if it were a curse. In and out, in and out, savoring each stroke. Slower. Deeper. Harder. Faster. He rolled his hips from side to side, varying the directions of his thrusts until he hammered into her from every possible angle.
"Ewan!" she screamed again.
He abandoned her breast to bury his fingers in the steaming heat of her soft fleshy folds, his fingers working her clit in time to his thrusts, teasing, coaxing, demanding. When she broke again, his name on her lips, he followed her down as she collapsed, his seed washing over them both in a raging torrent.
Too much. Too much need, too much anger, too much pain, too much desire. Too much of everything, and nowhere near enough. He could possess her body, but never her soul. He cuddled her in his arms, wiping the hair away from her face, bending his head over her shoulder to kiss her tenderly. "Do what ye must, Changeling," he managed as he fought to keep his eyes open. "I'll die now a satisfied man."
"You're a fool, Ewan MacKenzie," she scolded as she let go of the small lock of hair that had kept her wrists bound. She rolled in his arms as her wrists worked free, reaching not for her knife, but instead tangling her fingers in his hair to pull his head down to hers. Her kiss was soft and gentle and fierce as her temper, soothing and scalding all at once. "Go to sleep, Ewan. You're safe with me this night."
His arms tightened around her, the need for what she could not give him as fierce as any gale that had ever raged on the seas. She would kill him. He knew it. Maybe not tonight. Perhaps not with her knife. But one way or the other, this wisp of a Changeling would be the death of him yet.