Publisher: Stormy Night Publications
Released: August 12, 2016
When a notorious pirate demands a ransom from her family in return for lifting his blockade of the local port, twenty-one-year-old Evelyn Hollywell takes matters into her own hands. Her plan to thwart the lawless rogue quickly goes awry, however, when she is carried off from her home and held as a captive aboard his ship.
Evelyn quickly discovers that while the handsome buccaneer has no intention of doing her any harm, he will not tolerate disobedience, and when she attempts an escape she ends up over his knee for a painful, embarrassing spanking in front of his entire crew. Though the stern punishment infuriates Evelyn, she cannot help wondering what it would be like to be mastered much more thoroughly, and soon enough she is blushing crimson and quivering with desire as he teaches her exactly what it means for a beautiful lady to surrender her body to a dominant man.
Despite her growing attraction to her captor, however, his plans for her remain a mystery. She is to be delivered to a man in Boston, but she knows neither who he is nor what he wants with her. All she can be sure of is that with each passing day she feels less like a prisoner and more like a priceless treasure. But will old enemies or the dangers of the high seas tear her from her lover’s arms?
Publisher’s Note:The Pirate’s Captive includes sexual scenes and spankings. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.
Fury overwhelmed me, like a veil falling over my eyes.
His hold on me didn’t weaken and, in fact, he lifted me even higher against his chest, but my anger burned off the last vestiges of the drug’s stupor and I fought like a tiger. With the back of my heel, I landed a sharp blow to his shin that made him suck in a breath and threw him off-balance. His grip on my arms weakened just a fraction, and I threw myself to one side, freeing one hand. I elbowed him in the ribs and he dropped me. I landed and lightly spun on my heel.
Time seemed to slow down, the way it often does when something life-altering is about to happen. I saw my pale hand swinging up, saw his tanned, bristly cheek, still taut with the vestiges of his smile. There was a single second where I could have diverted my hand, avoided the blow, but I didn’t. I had been held under siege, drugged, and kidnapped, and I had withstood it all. But I would not, could not let him laugh at me.
The crack of my hand against his face sounded like the blast of a cannon. All conversation on the forecastle deck and the quarterdeck had stopped, all movement had ceased, but I was only dimly aware. The seagulls were crying, the boat swayed with the tide, and the man in front of me was furious.
My uncle Richard’s anger was unpleasant, but I’d seen it often enough that it no longer moved me. My father’s anger had been a fearsome thing, but I’d learned to stand strong against it. I’d lived among sailors long enough that I’d seen the roiling, seething anger that some men couldn’t control, and I’d learned to be cautious.
I had never, never seen anger like that which I now confronted.
His eyes boiled, his breath heaved. His arms clamped around me once more, this time painfully tight.
“Oh, beauty,” he told me, his deep, compelling voice slicing through the silence like a whip. “You will regret that.”
… He wrapped one enormous hand around my waist, gripping the small of my back, pulled me into him, and kissed me.
The shock of it broke through the wall of my anger with the force of a cannonball, eradicating it as though it had never existed, and I was lost to sensation.
His lips were hard, bruising, forcing me to yield. I didn’t hesitate. I parted my lips and his tongue reached out to tangle with mine, stroking over me slowly, as though savoring the taste of me, coaxing me to respond in kind. I hesitantly brushed my tongue against his and he growled, actually growled, low in his throat. The feral sound made my belly flip and my knees tremble, but it didn’t matter, because he was there, supporting me. One of his hands remained at my waist while the other moved up my back to grip the nape of my neck, and he lifted me so that only the very tips of my toes touched the floor, and my breasts pushed against the hard, hot wall of his chest.
I ran my hands up over his arms, reveling in the feel of him, his muscles bunched and corded as he supported me easily. And then I did something I’d wanted to do from the first moment I’d seen him. I tangled my fingers in his wild brown hair.
And the kiss grew hotter.
His fingers knotted in my hair and he pulled me back so that I arched against him. The hand at my waist moved around to my belly and then up… and up…
When the backs of his fingers touched the underside of my breast, I groaned. Every part of me was aflame and I ached with need. I couldn’t seem to get close enough to him. Without conscious thought, I lifted my leg over his, ready to climb him, fitting him against me.
The shock of his hardness against my core made bolts of excitement shoot up my spine. He was so hard, hard everywhere, and I… I had never felt so soft…
I had no idea what came next, no idea what more he wanted from me, but I gave myself over to him in that moment. Where he led, I would go.
“…Yet you chose to be reckless. You chose to disobey. And you chose to put yourself completely under my power. So now you will find yourself over my knee.”
Then a moment later, his smile dissolved while the fire in his eyes burned hotter. “Come to me, Evelyn.”
I stepped forward until I was standing between his knees.
He reached out one large hand and lifted the tail of my braid, which had fallen down from the coil I’d constructed that morning. I could only imagine how disheveled I appeared, but Marcus didn’t seem to mind. He carefully carded his fingers through the fine brown mass, working through the tangles, brushing down over my nape, and then across my back, until it rippled in waves around me.
“Beauty,” he murmured.
His hot breath hit the bare skin of my chest and made my nipples pebble beneath the ragged edges of the chemise. I had never felt so tense, so expectant.
Every touch felt like a tongue of fire, branding me, making me want.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer – when surely my chest would explode from the aching need, he stopped. He rested one hand at my waist, while the other rose to wrap around the base of my neck. My eyes blinked open.
“Lay yourself across my knee, beauty.” His tone was as stern and controlled as ever, but I sensed a new tension in his voice and it told me that he was not unaffected.
He wanted, too.
My choice, again. He didn’t want to force me. I held his stare, my breath coming in sharp pants and then… I bent over, allowing his hand at my neck to guide me so that my upper body rested on the bed by his hip, propped slightly on my forearms. I heard his breath leave him in a whoosh, at the same time the muscles in his legs and torso grew impossibly tighter.
He gathered all of my hair into his hand, and then twisted, twining it around his wrist and gripping it in his fist, pinning me in place.
My breath caught.
With his free hand, he grabbed a handful of my skirts and pulled them up, and then he ran his hand up my stockinged calf. He paused when he reached edge of the stocking, his fingers trailing back and forth along the bare skin at the back of my knee. I hadn’t imagined something so simple could be so devastating, but it was.
And then his hand slid up.
I sucked in a shuddering breath as his hand trailed higher, up my thigh, taking my chemise with it.
Dear God. He meant me to be… bare?
It was too late for protests, for objections, for any return of reason or common sense. I could hear Aunt Beatrice’s voice in my head calling me wanton and wicked, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to want to.
And he didn’t disappoint. Up and up and up, while my heart banged against my rib cage, and I knotted my fingers in the sheets, until I could feel the touch of cool air against my backside, and I knew that he could see all of me.
Maisy is an unabashed book nerd who has been in love with romance since reading her first Julie Garwood novel at the tender age of 12. After a decade as a technical writer, she finally made the leap into writing fiction several years ago and has never looked back. Like her other great loves – coffee, caramel, beach vacations, yoga pants, and her amazing family – her love of words has only continued to grow… in a manner inversely proportional to her love of exercise, house cleaning, and large social gatherings. She loves to hear from fellow romance lovers, and is always on the hunt for her next great read.
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