Page 46 of Scandalous

“Martín,” she said again, as if it were the only word she knew any longer.

“Yes, chérie? Tell me what you want—I am yours to command.” His hands swept over the front of her shaking legs, perilously close to the spot that had been tormenting her for weeks. His fingers brushed over her chemise, his touch softer than silk.

Her hips jerked against his hand. “Please don’t stop.”

He cupped her sex over the fine fabric, the touch of his hand shocking yet somehow right. Sarah dropped her forehead on his shoulder, a sob of pleasure breaking from her.

“Shh, ma belle, I will give you what you need.” He gently stroked a single finger into her.

Sarah bucked violently and bit his shoulder to keep from crying out.

“You are drenched.” His voice was hoarse, as if he were having trouble speaking.

Sarah felt the same, incapable of saying anything, incapable of thinking anything, incapable of doing anything other than shuddering each time he stroked. Her hips jerked, and her legs shook, and she wanted.

He stroked harder, this time parting the slick, swollen folds and touching something exquisitely sensitive. “I will not hurt you.” The words were a low, hot rumble against her neck while his thumb circled and circled, coming close to the center of her pleasure but never touching it.

“Sarah, I want to give you an orgasm.” He spoke the words into the base of her throat as his hand drove her toward madness. “Tell me you want it. I want to hear you say it—please give me an orgasm, Martín.” Smiling lips curved against her skin, and his hand stopped. “Tell me what you want and you can have it.” A quick flick of his finger illustrated the pleasure he could bestow so easily.

Sarah squirmed against his elusive hand, unable to form the mortifying word he demanded. He pulled away so he could look at her, his flushed skin and enormous pupils proof he was far from unmoved.

“Sarah,” he whispered, his eyes almost black.

The sight of his passion made her brave. “I want you to give me an . . . an . . . orgasm. Please, Martín.” The last word was only a sigh as his hand resumed its magic, his expression a mixture of hunger and triumph and something else she was too distracted to identify.

She watched his beautiful, intent face until an almost suffocating surge of pleasure forced her eyes shut, and every particle of her being focused on one tiny, demanding spot. The intense—almost excruciating—pleasure began to unfurl slowly, and her body stiffened, as if to protect itself against something too powerful to endure. She distantly heard her own voice cry out as another, even more powerful, wave engulfed the first, and another. Until she lost track, shuddering in his arms.

He held her tight while she came apart, murmuring sweet words in her ear. She wrapped her arms around his narrow waist and collapsed against the broad expanse of his chest, sighing with a contentment so deep it must have come from her bones.

A soft laugh rumbled through her. “That was good, eh?” He stroked her hair gently before pulling away to look at her face. His smile was oddly twisted as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, brushing the curve of her cheek with the back of his hand as he studied her, his fingers running up and down her jaw. “It is the least I can give you since you won’t take a dress or anything else from me. Consider it my contribution to your bride’s dowry, something you can bring to the marriage bed. If he cannot make you climax, it will be no fault of your responsive body.” He smiled mockingly and chucked her under the chin as if she were a child.

Sarah flinched back as if he’d struck her, her arms slipping from around his body as she sagged back against the wall.

He straightened his cuffs and cravat while giving her a slight smile and bowing. “I hope you will excuse me, mademoiselle, but I have some business I must attend to on shore.”

Sarah watched him leave without saying a word. What could she say? She stared at the door. Surely he would come back through it and say it had been a jest, or explain what had happened, or why he had done it, or say anything.

She slid down the wall to the floor. He wasn’t coming back. Her temples pounded, and her eyes hurt. What in God’s name had just happened? She flushed. She knew what had happened, but she had no reason why. Because she wouldn’t take a dress from him? Because she wouldn’t take his charity?

The memory of what he’d done—how he’d made her beg—was like a spike through her chest. She couldn’t face the words head on; they were too bright, too painful.

What else had he said? She couldn’t recall everything, but she knew it made no sense. He’d yelled accusations about both Daniels and Graaf, his eyes almost insane with anger—or something else. If Sarah didn’t know better, she would have called it jealousy.

But she did know better. He wasn’t jealous; he was insulted—or rather his pride was insulted. He couldn’t bear the thought she might prefer to rely on some other man, even to borrow money. She laughed, but it came out a sob. How could he be so stupid? And so cruel. He acted like a vicious, vindictive child, lashing out and inflicting pain whenever he felt threatened.

Sarah swallowed back another sob. She refused to cry over him. There was something very wrong with him, and she would not feel shame about what she’d allowed him to do to her. It was clear that making her feel bad—and cheap—had been his object. Sarah refused to grant him that satisfaction. He was hateful. The most hateful person she’d ever known. She’d not felt this much hate since the day she’d been packed in the hold of Graaf’s ship.

A wave of fury coursed through her, almost as strong as the passion she’d felt only moments before. Bouchard hadn’t hurt her; she wouldn’t give him that much power.

Chapter Sixteen

Martín thought he might have to shoot any member of his crew who either approached him or spoke to him. Perhaps they sensed as much from his face, because he left the ship unmolested. He headed toward the north end of town, toward the only place he could think to go when his mind was disordered: a whorehouse.

He snorted. Once a whore, always a whore, apparently. Sarah’s shocked face rose up in his mind, and he stumbled like a drunk, drawing looks from the few people still out and about. He paused by a sturdy hitching post, taking several deep breaths, refusing to think of what he’d just done. Not that he could think in his current state. His brain was not functioning properly, the result of his persistent state of arousal. It was enough to drive him mad. He’d been hard for days—weeks! He became aroused every time she stood close to him while explaining some concept or other. In fact, he found himself frequently pretending ignorance so she would be forced to come closer—to spend more time with him. He thirsted to hear her voice, to smell her, to feel the heat of her body beside his, to—he groaned and snatched his hat from his head, staring blindly at it as he turned it round and round.

It was a well-known fact: a man could not think straight with a hard cock. His brain was permanently befogged. She had turned him into a pitiful wreck of a man, and he would put a stop to it right now. He would take care of his scattered wits the only way he knew how, at the fine brothel he knew was nearby. It was imperative he achieve release with a woman. He jammed his hat on his head and was about to turn down the side street he wanted when he heard his name. He turned to find two small, identical women approaching.

“Did you hail me?” he asked, struggling to keep the impatience out of his voice.