“You’re intent on continuing with this plan?” His jaw clenched around every word. “You wish to torture me.”
“Is it torture watching me like this?”
I hadn’t stopped touching myself, my fingers stirring the slick juices around my opening. It felt nice, as it should have. I’d done this often enough over the past two years, alone in my chamber, wishing for companionship while thinking only of my husband.
But this time, I didn’t have to fashion him in my mind. The sheer scope of muscle laid bare before me made my hand stroke faster, harder, squelching damp, turgid flesh and infusing the space with the sounds of my wetness.
He remained on his knees, his perfect arse resting on his heels as he strained forward, nostrils widening as if scenting the air.
Powerfully built in a way that could only be considered desirable, he was a beast in his prime. His shoulders had deep indentations where sturdy bones met thick tendons. His hands made lethal fists on his thighs, his chest rising and falling, arms tensing, every inch of him smooth and hard-surfaced.
Beneath the thinly woven fabric of his breeches, he was long and contoured, fully aroused and well-endowed, larger than any man I had ever felt between my legs.
A wash of memories rushed through me, funneling heat from my chest to my belly and lower, where fat slicks of moisture gathered and leaked out. It had been a long time since I’d been this aroused, the evidence streaking my fingers and thighs and holding his rapt attention.
So much so, he didn’t seem to notice how he was rubbing his hands on his breeches, scratching his itchy palms. A sure sign he was suffering from more than just a neglected erection.
I paused my stroking and drew a salty finger into my mouth.
He froze, tracking the movement as if carried away in an ecstatic trance. The muscles in his jaw locked, his eyes glowing like cauldrons of molten ore.
Then he blinked. His fingers flew to the ties on his breeches, one hand stroking his bulge through the fabric, as he attempted to free it.
“I wouldn’t do that.” I lowered my arm.
“You want to stop me from touching myself? Shackle my hands, you heartless minx. I dare you.”
“No shackles needed. You see, there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who can eat oranges.” I pulled off my shirt and stood before him, naked. “And those who can’t touch them.”
His palms were already blistering like the sores of syphilis. Except his ailment wasn’t contagious. It was strange.
Honestly, I didn’t know anyone who could break out in a rash of itchy red spots just from touching nectar. Although, I had a man on my gun crew once who fell violently ill when he ate tree nuts.
Priest looked at the sticky residue on my chest and back at his hands, his complexion paling as he made the connection.
“You bathed yourself in oranges.” He glanced down, running his gaze over his bare chest, searching for invisible traces of the toxic pulp. Then his eyes widened in horror, and he raised his fingers toward his face.
“Don’t touch your mouth.” My pulse kicked up. “You haven’t ingested it. Yet.”
If he swallowed even a whiff of the fruit, those blisters would swell in his throat, close his airway, and kill him. At least, that was Ipswich’s conclusion when we told him about the peculiar affliction three years ago. I never wanted to test the theory.
“Only your hands came in contact with the juice. I spread it here.” I gestured at my nude torso. “Just…don’t touch your face. Or anything else.”
I directed my eyes at his groin.
If he put his contaminated hands in his breeches and tried to stroke himself, it would inflame so severely he would lose his arousal. That was the reason I went to all this trouble.
No masturbation. No orgasms. Not until I allowed him to scrub his hands.
Physical and mental torture.
“Give me the water.” He glowered at the wash bucket, knowing relief was well out of his reach.
“Give me the compass.”
Determination fortified my spine as I eased back onto the barrel, spread my legs, and resumed my erotic self-stimulation. “Tell me where you hid the compass, Mr. Farrell, and I’ll wash every inch of your body myself.”
Priest balled his blistered hands on his thighs and set his jaw.
“It’s easy, darling.” Naked from end to end, I let my head fall on my shoulders, arched my back, and worked my fingers between my legs. “Just tell me where it is, and I’ll give you relief.”
“If I give you the compass, I’ll lose you.” His voice grated, thick with agony and dangerous hunger. “You’ll put me ashore on the next desolate beach, and I can’t… I will not spend another day without you.”
“You already lost me.” I twisted my hand, sliding it through my slickness. “If you don’t give me the compass, I’ll finish myself off. Then I’ll call your brother down here and let him fill me over and over until I finish again.”
His low menacing growl brought my head up.
He captured my eyes. “It doesn’t matter how far we fall, how much pain we inflict, or how dark it becomes in the ruin. I’m going to be with you, waiting for you, loving you, forgiving you. I’m never letting go, Bennett. Never.”
My fingers faltered with the hitch of my breath.
When he said things like that, I wanted so badly to believe him. But no words—no matter how achingly profound—could change the past.
“You hurt me.” My voice splintered. “Unforgivably.”
His chin descended to his chest, magnifying the slopes of his proud shoulders as he regarded me from beneath the intensity of his brow.
I was losing my nerve, my arousal, the desire to torture him.
My thoughts had never been so contorted, my tongue so knotted. Dear lord, it was a good thing none of my crew bore witness to my lapse in cruelty. They wouldn’t understand.
“Give me her name.” Needles stung the backs of my eyes.
“No.”
My heart galloped fiercely, but I would not cry.
When it came to secrets, Priest was an impenetrable steel cage. He’d kept his mouth shut about our marriage, and despite my threats, he continued to protect his anonymous lover. He would never break his silence.
“Tell me about the burn scars on your leg,” I said.
“No. Don’t ask again.”
Another secret.
I closed my eyes and curled my fingers, cupping the heat in the valley of my thighs, teetering on the verge of giving up. Sitting here, completely exposed with my legs open… I felt sick.
This wasn’t me. I tortured evil men. Killed monsters without hesitation or regret. But I’d never been a tease. When I offered myself, I followed through on that promise. Anything less was weak.
“Bennett.” His Welsh cadence caressed my bare skin, making me shiver. “Look at me.”
My lashes felt too heavy to lift, but I opened my eyes, not surprised to find the churning storm in his.
How foolish was I to underestimate him? There were no answers in his intractable gaze, no hint of surrender beyond the next thought. There was only this moment and an offer of punishment and pleasure.
“Hurt me.” His eyes gleamed with the command. “Touch yourself. Do it knowing I would die to be your hands, to slide through all that wetness, to experience the heat of your orgasm, to feel it gripping and sucking for more.” He wet his lips. “To hold me at arm’s length and deny me your love… It’s the worst torture.”