IT took Jack a moment to figure out that what was happening was real. And when he did, he fell into Sarah like a man starving. In all of the different ways this adventure played out in his head, he never imagined this.
That wasn’t exactly true. Of course he had imagined this. He had imagined her in his arms a thousand times, making sleep fevered and waking painful. He’d imagined those inches of skin she’d kept hidden from everyone but him, imagined her breasts, her eyes turned emerald with passion. He’d imagined every minute, every second. But he’d never let himself hope for it.
He held her face with his hands, keeping her in the here and now, making certain she would not disappear into the ether, like the smoky Sarah in his dreams did.
Slowly, he pulled her toward him, leaning back against the headboard of Sarah’s bed, the solid thunk of skull on wood reminding him that he was, indeed, in the present. And Sarah was with him.
He grimaced in pain. She pulled back immediately. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? I’ll stop.” Her questions came in such a rush of worry that Jack almost laughed.
“Do not worry. Harder things than the headboard have tried to get through my head.” He grinned at her. “And don’t stop. Stopping would hurt infinitely more.”
She relaxed her worry, giving him a relieved, yet still nervous smile. The smile of the inexperienced. Of the wanting.
If her inexperience gave him pause, then her wanting banished it from his mind. She wanted him. Jack. Not the ghost of childhood adoration, but Jack. And he was not about to begrudge her.
Slowly he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her to him, pressing her against his length. She was not shocked by the hardness she found there. Instead she nestled against it, seeking, urgent.
All of his blood surged to the bottom half of his anatomy.
“Hold on,” he rasped, his voice a desperate grumble. At her confused look, he explained. “If we don’t slow down, this will be over before it’s begun.”
She nodded slowly, then laid a small, shy kiss at the joint of his neck and shoulder.
“That wouldn’t be good,” she agreed, her lips making their way to his ear. “I feel like I’ve wanted this forever. I feel this should last forever, then. Don’t you?”
He breathed out slowly, his mind reeling from the way she pecked at his neck, his shoulder, his ear. “I’ll do my best,” he exclaimed on a breath.
The trick, he decided, was to think about anything other than what he was doing. Think about … tactical ship maneuvers, instead of how her flesh felt beneath his fingertips. Think about climbing the rigging of the main yard, instead of how easily the buttons of her dress came undone, how his hand was moving up her leg, finding its way to the temptation of her garters. Think about cannons firing, again and again, instead of … actually no, don’t think about cannons firing. Ever.
While Jack tried to tame his brain into falling under his control, Sarah had decided that her skin was far too warm, and that the dress that was half off of her already should really be removed in its entirety. She pulled back from him, for the barest of moments, leaving him bewildered and forlorn.
Bewildered and forlorn that is, until she whipped the heavy silk up over her head, and let it fall away to the side of the bed.
He drank her in, drank his fill. She blushed under his scrutiny. “They’re white,” he mused aloud.
“What are?” she said looking down, inspecting herself.
“Your under things. I would have assumed the golden lady wore only a chemise of spun precious metals.”
She cocked her head to one side, playfully. “And I would have thought the Blue Raven had feathers all over his skin. But no, no feathers here.” She came forward on her knees, leaning into his chest, touching him ever so lightly there, where springy, rough curls had been flattened to his chest with the exertions of the day.
She was kneeling on the bed in front of him, doing her best to be seductive, to lure him into her—and having no idea if she was doing it properly. But she figured she had to be doing something right, because she could feel the rapid movement of his blood, his heart, just under her fingertips. She could be this bold, she thought, this carnal—as long as she relied on some of the sophistication she had earned in the past few months. Since she had decided on this course of action, that this was her right, then she simply had to do it right, as well.
And her plan seemed to be working—until she lost her balance, and ended up crushed against him. He fell back sideways, catching her against him so they lay together crosswise on the bed. And then, he laughed.
She was mortified.
She ducked her head against his arm. Hid herself from his view. Even as his hands came around her, soothing, she still stayed down.
“What is it, love?” His eyes came down and found her where she hid.
“Nothing…” she replied. “I ah, I slipped.”
“I noticed. I caught you.”
“You laughed,” she said, in a mock accusation.
“Because it was funny.” Jack slipped his hand up her leg, finding that spot where here garters still hung on, proud and steadfast. Gently he slipped his fingers beneath it. “And because it is you.”
She shot an eyebrow up at that.
“Don’t you see, Sarah? All this time—you don’t have to be perfect with me.” The knot of her garter came free with surprising ease. “In fact, I would much prefer it otherwise.”
“How did you do that?” she asked, her skin burning beneath his touch.
“I’m very good with knots. Now where was I?” he mused playfully, as his hand worked its way to the other garter. “Oh yes. I much prefer the Sarah who falls out of trees. And the Sarah who kisses strange men in theatre cupboards—”
“As long as that strange man is you,” she returned saucily, as her second garter found itself untied and her stockings were dragged down to her ankles.
“Yes, I much prefer that as well. I prefer the Sarah who isn’t trying so hard to be in control of her life that she forgets to live it.”
She raised an eyebrow, and her knee, to better accommodate his removal of her stockings. “I much prefer the Jack who isn’t angry.” He shot her a glance. “The one who’s found that maybe the path he’s taken has ended but there are new ones available.”
His brow came down. But she continued. “And I prefer the Jack who listens to me, even when I’m trying to control everything, much to my detriment. The very serious Jack who could stop a girl’s heart in his cadet uniform—”
“You liked me in my cadet uniform?” his smile came up, wicked and inviting.
“You have no idea what that uniform did to the Forrester girls, did you? My goodness, it stilled my ten-year-old heart more than once, I assure you.” She giggled—whether it be from the expression on his face or the way his hands had moved up her thigh underneath her chemise, she could not be sure. But either way, it felt so wonderful to laugh. To be free to laugh with him. With Jack.
Which he must have surmised, because he began to laugh, too. Softly, a chuckle that was born of mirth but still in awe of his luck. Of his life. He brought his free hand up to her face, brushing a tendril of hair behind her ear.
“How did we get here?” he murmured, laying a kiss on her temple.
“Crookedly,” she replied. “But here we are, all the same.” Her voice became a breath, a caress against his ear. “There is nowhere else I would rather be, Jack.”
His gaze came to hers then, intent, serious.
And there were no more words to be said. All that had happened before and all that would happen hence, hinged on this moment, and there was nowhere else they wanted to be.
He dipped his head and kissed her, with reverence, but soon lost all caution. Lost himself in the sensation of her skin, even the silk of her chemise feeling rough by comparison. Clearly, it had to go. As did his boots—how the hell had they stayed on his feet so long? Clearly Sarah had the same idea, because in a rush of movement, she leveraged herself up and began to pull at his boots. Jack could only watch as she struggled, her full body exposed to the light, finally freeing the boots from his feet, thudding to the floor on the other side of the bed without care for the attention the sound could draw.
Her eyes met his with a smile, and Jack stared. She was naked. Gloriously, wonderfully naked, her hair still pinned up in a ridiculously sleek arrangement that had his hands itching to let it down, let it drape across her shoulders in a golden curtain, reaching the tips of those high, upturned peaks…
“I lied,” he breathed. Her smile faded into a question. “You are perfect,” he answered.
The look she gave him convinced Jack that his trousers were as extraneous as his boots had been.
He lurched up to meet her on the bed, grabbing her about the waist and pulling her to him. They fell back together, Sarah under him protected from the air, from the world. His trouser buttons were undone, by him, by her—it didn’t matter, it was lost in a frenzy of movement and feeling that burned their minds into one single being, both intent upon the same purpose. And when he finally sprang free of his trousers, it was as if Jack himself came free of his moorings, and he gave up on trying to distract his mind with thoughts of yardarms, daily bells, and the undulations of the sea (which did not work), and for the first time, let himself sink slowly into bliss.
She opened for him naturally, her body knowing things her lady’s education had left out. This was what she wanted; she knew it to her core. Her nerves were raw, on fire. Her body slick with need. His fingers danced in places she barely allowed her fingers, bringing her past thought, only to action. She wanted it—wanted him—so much, she held herself back from stopping him when he nudged himself inside of her, and the pain she knew would come.
She froze beneath him, which brought him out of his passion-fueled haze.
“I’m sorry,” he said, raining light kisses down on her face. “I should have been gentler.”
“It’s … it’s all right,” she breathed, her voice slightly strained. “When … when I was engaged, my mother told me about it. I knew it was supposed to hurt.”
“I bungled it,” he cursed.
“No! It’s just … well, rather obviously, it’s my first time.” She thanked the gods above that relatively little light from the candelabra penetrated their cocoon of bedclothes and draperies, else he would see that she was blushing everywhere. But instead, he looked off to the side, and said something that shocked her to her core.
“Mine, too,” his voice was barely more than a grumble.
“Truly?” she said, once she finally found her voice. “But, no, that can’t be.”
“Why can’t it?” He shrugged—well, as much as one could shrug when on top of another person. “I’ve been on a ship for nine years. There were no women on deck. Trust me, I looked.”
She smiled slightly at that. “But you’re…” She wanted to tell him that he was too handsome, too well formed to be without female company, but somehow it seemed wasted. He was too beautiful, too resplendent in his uniform. He should have had a woman under each arm every day. And she would’ve believed it if he told her as much. There was no reason to lie … therefore, he had to be telling the truth.
Bewildering.
“Surely you had opportunities…” she ventured. “You came ashore occasionally.”
“I did,” he agreed. He thought for a moment about the dusky, sloe-eyed beauties of the Indies, whose colorful garb wrapped tight around feminine forms, giving Jack plenty to dream about on long nights at sea. And he thought about the doxies of the London ports, tied and pushed and painted into what men were supposed to want, their skirts always itching to come up. A drink or two and any man could lose themselves in a raised hemline, Jack included. But … “But none of them,” he ventured, trying to explain to her, to himself, “none of them had any light.”
“Oh,” she breathed. It was as if that light that he spoke about began to emanate from her being, making her feel warm and safe … and loved.
“Well,” she said, moving her body, nestling against him, “how will we know what to do?”
“What do you want to do?” he asked, his head dipping down so he could better lavish attention on her neck, her shoulder, her breasts. When he took the tip of her breast into his mouth, she arched up to meet him, her insides aching for him.
“This,” she whispered, shifting her body so he came into her deeper.
He sucked in his breath; she could see the strains of muscle in his neck as he fought to hold himself still, keep himself in the moment.
“In that case, I think we will muddle through.”
She laughed at that, and brought his face back to hers, holding him there, kissing him with more power and longing than could be expressed in words.
Slowly he began to move within her, her body fitting with his, spreading for him, taking him in, all the way to the hilt. Her hips demanded what her brain could not articulate, moving with him in a rhythm they did not need to learn.
Giving in to gravity’s pull.
His lack of experience was not a detriment—indeed, the number of times he had imagined himself in this situation, the dance of it, the feel of skin on skin, only made him more aware of the steps he had to take to bring her as much joy as she was bringing him. And while feeling built in her, growing with the force of a tidal storm, he held fast, touching here, touching there, until he felt her break beneath him, riding wave upon wave of pleasure into oblivion.
Then and only then, did he allow himself to join her.
And in that moment, Jack knew that Sarah had been right about it all.
They found their way there crookedly, but there they were all the same. And as he kissed her deeply, truly, he knew one thing with complete certainty.
There was no one else. No other time or place he could inhabit. This was it for him.
There was nowhere else he would rather be.