Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (31 page)

She drew a shuddering breath. “Because Ilya has lost her partner. Also, I’m crying for you. Because you can’t.”

“Hell no. Men don’t cry.” He lifted the bottle and took another swig, grimacing as it burned its way down to his gut. He hated the stuff, but right now he needed the oblivion it would bring. “Besides, thought you’re pissed at me.”

“I was. Not any longer.

“Should be,” he muttered. “I’m a bad man, bunny.” And a stupid one.

“You’re not so bad.” She shifted nearer and separated the bottle from his hand.
 

“Am too. Won’t even miss the bastard. Jus’ one o’ my crew.”

“That can’t be true. There must be things you will miss. Tell me something you liked about him.”

He scowled at his empty hand and then let it drop. It landed on her leg instead of his. He left it there, gripping her thigh, soft and firm and warm. So warm.

“He was damn good w’ a laser cannon.” There, that was positive, but shied away from emotion—a maelstrom waiting to suck him in like a quasiball arena goal.

She nodded, and he focused on her with an effort. So pretty. “Y’look different. Where you been?” Her wealth of hair was coiled and pinned up on her head, giving her a regal look. Reminded him of something...but he didn’t recall what and who the fuck cared anyway?

She touched her hair uncertainly, and he saluted her with the bottle. “Looks real pretty, bunny. S’phisticated, like royalty, thass it.”

She took a sip of the whiskey, and choked. “Tell me something else about Var,” she managed, her voice a husk of sound.

Memory stabbed his chest again. He grabbed the bottle back. “He wass funny. We’d be in a tight corner, and Var’d say somethin’ so fuckin’ casual, make the rest of us laugh. Gonna miss that.”

He took another drink.

Zaë stole his bottle again. Then she put her soft hand on his and carried it to her lap. “What else?”

Joran sighed, his chin sinking to his chest. “He loved his woman. Treated her like a presh-presh...like a jewel, even though she’s tough ‘s any man.”

She nodded, and then reached up to push his hair back from his face. He leaned into her hand, closing his eyes. She was so warm and soft—alive.
 

“What else?”

She was also fucking relentless—she’d settle for nothing less than his guts laid out on a tray for her to poke through. He opened his mouth and then choked, emotion boiling up hot and sharp. His eyes blurred, and he squeezed them shut.
 

“Damn you,” he choked. “He was a friend. And now I gotta get along without him. So stop askin’ me. Just...stop.”

She rose up onto her knees and he pulled her close, his cheek in the soft valley of her breasts. He flexed his fingers, gripping her soft ass, her slender waist.

“I never told him,” he groaned, the words burning clear from his gut. “Never told him how much I...I cared.”

Her slender arms closed around his head, and she held him close, her cheek on his hair.
 

Joran turned his face into the delicious cleft between her breasts, the thin fabric of her dress sliding against her curves. He sucked in a breath full of her scent, warm woman and clean skin. Sweet forgetfulness. So much better than the hot ache burning behind his eyes or the wetness that had escaped them.
 

The collar glinted on her throat as he lifted his head enough to look up. She felt good. A man would have to be dead not to be aroused by holding her. He flinched as he remembered that a good man
was
dead, and would never again feel his woman soft and warm in his arms.
 

But he himself was alive, and he needed to forget. Couldn’t go back, couldn’t bring Var back, but he had a pretty, sexy woman in his own arms, and this he could feel. This he needed. He let the brandy float him along on a current of impulse, of something he understood. Lust, pure and simple.

“C’mere.” He pulled her astride his lap, flush against his body. Her soft curves fit just right against him, and when he stroked down his hands down her back, her dress slicked over her skin, a fragile barrier that revealed as much as it concealed.

She lifted her hands and then set them lightly on his upper arms. Her long lashes concealed her eyes, but not the flush that bloomed under her skin, or her stuttering breaths. Not fear? That he couldn’t bear.

“Look at me, my Zaë,” he coaxed. When she obeyed, he relaxed at the look in her blue eyes—shy warmth. He nuzzled her face, his nose beside hers, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, her lashes flicking his cheek like butterfly wings. “You smell good. Sweet and clean.”
 

He cocked his head, and lifted one hand to cup the side of her head. His palm cradling her soft cheek, he touched her lips with his thumb, reveling in the damp satin of the plump curves, in the way her grip on his biceps tightened, her short nails digging into him.

He grinned to himself, betting she didn’t even know she was doing it, or that she was moving her lower body sinuously against him, her soft belly and the firm mound of her mons rubbing against his cock. His cock liked the attention—a lot.
 

Desire heated in his chest and arrowed in every direction, especially down, tightening his balls and surging into his cock. It began to stiffen. She might be an innocent, but she wasn’t unwilling.
 

Without a word, he leaned in and kissed her mouth. So soft and yielding under his, her lips clinging to his, her breath gasping in and then sighing out warm and damp to mingle with his. He sipped at her lips and touched the tip of his tongue to their sleek inner edge. She tasted of whiskey and sweet, spicy woman.
 

And she made a sound in her throat when he did this, a tiny hitch of excitement.
 

He kissed her again, harder, his tongue sliding between her lips to play, while farther down, his fingers delved into the cleft of her ass. He’d touched her there before—searching her. Had wanted to do much more then, and again when he spanked her. Wanted to do a whole fuck of a lot more now.

Hells, he’d had dozens of women, beautiful, sensual women who knew every trick and enjoyed all of his, and she was driving him to the edge as fast as than any of them.
 

This was just a little fun, a bit of sweet in the bitter. But her mouth opened under his, and when he licked into her mouth she made that sound again, and pressed her breasts against his chest, full and soft. He groaned inwardly as his cock responded, swelling against his soft pants with painful eagerness. It wanted in
now
, to hells with his responsibilities.

He lifted his head just enough to speak. “Put your arms around my neck.”

Her eyes opened, her lids heavy. “Hmm?”

He smiled against her mouth. “Put your arms ‘round me, sweetness.”

Her eyes widened. Gazing into his eyes, she slid one arm slowly up, then the other. He pulled her close enough to nudge his cock into the soft notch of her thighs.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, my.” Her hands gripped his neck.
 

Joran groaned, flexing his hips to drive himself against her, sweet torture.
 

“Oh, my Zaë,” he said into her mouth. “Gonna have you. Teach you what your body’s made for.” What did it matter if he hadn’t intended to take it that far? She was willing and he sure as hells was.

She made an soft, eager sound, and he kissed her again, harder this time, holding her close as he mimicked fucking her with his tongue, the slick fabric of her dress sliding between them, his cock hardening to the point of near pain as arousal surged in his groin.
 

He was so hot, and he craved release so badly he was aching like an untried boy. His mouth was watering to taste more of her, too. Gathering handfuls of her dress, he dragged it up her legs, and over her ass.
 

“Off,” he muttered, nipping at her chin, then licking the shallow cleft there. “Wanna touch you all over—taste you.”

“T-taste me?” she asked, but her voice was muffled as he seized the opportunity to tug her dress up over her torso, and then her arms, which lifted obediently.

He tossed the dress aside, and looked at her, grasping her fluttering hands and holding them aside so he could unfasten her bra. It slid back on her arms, leaving her breasts bare. They were round and full. Her nipples were pink as her lips, and the tips were long and distended, just right to latch on to and suckle.

“So pretty,” he approved, his hand following his gaze to cup one of her breasts. It filled his palm, soft and firm and warm, her nipple furling like a bud under the caress of his calloused thumb. He palmed the other, and then slid one hand around her bare back to pull her up to his mouth.
 

He licked her nipple into his mouth, and sucked strongly, with a groan of pleasure. The other one tasted just as good, and perhaps best of all was the way she arched and trembled in his grasp, her eyes wide and shocked, her voice breaking on a series of breathy little moans that said she liked what he was doing—a lot.
 

Her little panties were hardly any barrier at all to a skilled pirate like him. He cupped her mons in his hand, reveling the heat and softness, the paradise waiting just inside.

“You wet for me?” he asked her, tipping back his head back to peer up at her. However, there were two of her, so he let his head fall back against her breasts, so sweet, and fumbled with his pants. “Gotta have you, my Zaë.”

“Wait,” she breathed, tugging at his hands on her. “You’re very intoxicated. Perhaps you should—oh!”

Groaning with relief as his cock sprang free, he pulled her down. “C’mere,” he mumbled. “Jus’ like that, yeah.”
 

She moved on him, the lace of her panties and the smooth, hot silk of her inner thighs grazing his cock, and he was lost, release pumping through him in hot jets of relief.

Then he fell back on the divan and into the dark haze that enveloped him.
 

Chapter 19

Joran woke the next morning, with a pounding head and a fire in his belly. Lifting his head enough to look around him, he saw that he lay on the divan, a coverlet thrown over him, still wearing his shirt and pants from the day before, although both were open.
 

A long hair tickled his nose. He swiped at it, and the movement sent nausea rumbling through him.

Groaning, he threw back the covers, raced into the lav, and vomited. When his stomach was finally empty, he straightened with a groan and squinted at himself in the mirror. Augh, he looked as rough as he felt.

He found and cautiously sipped a mint digestive gesic. That seemed likely to stay down, so he cleaned his teeth and headed into the showerdry, where he stayed for a long time, the hot water pouring over him like tears as the events of the day before flooded back.
 

He’d made contact with the slaver. And their leader was dead, but so was Var. Ilya’s fury at Joran for causing his death was nothing on his fury at himself—and at Cerul. Combined with guilt for being such a fool, and even worse, a trusting fool, it was a heavy yoke and a painful one.
 

And one he had shared with Zaë. He grimaced as he recalled his behavior. A little fuzzy, but he remembered pulling her dress off and fondling her…then he’d obviously ejaculated. Not in her, he hoped to God. Please, don’t let him have taken her virginity in a drunken haze. That was too low to contemplate.

Clean and dry, he yanked a clean pair of pants and a shirt from the closet and walked through into the main room to face the day and the consequences of his actions.

Zaë sat at the counter, a mug of coffee steaming before her. She wore a long pale blue dress that rippled around her bare feet like water. She’d had it on yesterday, but her hair was different. Now it hung down her back in damp curls, her face freshly scrubbed.

He scanned her, looking for any sign he’d traumatized her. She looked at him with wide solemn eyes, her lips parting and then primming together as if she wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say. She looked away. Color washed into her cheeks, leaving them rosy. For some reason, that show of vulnerability settled him. She was the one who needed reassurance now, not him.
 

Joran walked to her, and didn’t stop until he stood close. He wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her to him, her head tucked under his chin, her side against his torso. He leaned his face against the top of her head and breathed in the scent of warm, fresh woman and his own soap. It smelled good on her.
 

Also, he was used to women who smelled of heavy perfume, liquor and even smoke from the hookahs some of the crew liked to relax with. Women who would have cried on him last night and then wanted to be held, instead of the reverse.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice still husky from sleep. “For listening to me last night.” For dragging his grief out of him so he had to deal with it, like lancing a pocket of infection. For allowing him the relief of drunken release, whether incomplete or…more. He could have conveyed this to Marzolle in a few words. But how the hells did a man say all that to a woman like this one?

She nodded, her hair rubbing his skin like silk. He gave her a squeeze, appreciating her silence and then enjoying the resilience of her little waist under his hand.