Free Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Prisoners of the Wind by Unknown Page A

the jumpsuit from her
shoulders and arms. The warmth of the floor—the titanium sheath lying just
above the powerful Tappas engine—and the steady vibration felt good against her
back. Nor did she protest when he slid the jumpsuit down her legs, slipping off
her canvas prisoner’s slip-ons before removing the garment.
    She lay there, her chest heaving, quivering as his hooded
attention shifted slowly over her body.
    “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
    Marin did not react when he unhooked the front closure of
her bra and laid the two panels aside.
    “So very beautiful,” he said, and his voice was a mere
breath of sound.
    He lowered his head and captured one hard little nipple
between his lips, flicking his tongue over the pebbly surface before drawing it
deeply into his mouth to suckle her.
    Marin closed her eyes and gave in to the delicious tingling
that spread across her chest. She lay there like a sacrificial lamb, feeling
the hardness of his fleshy sword pressing against her thigh.
    His hands roamed over her flesh—down her sides, over her
belly, along her hip. He cupped her sex with a hot palm that brought a groan of
pleasure from her lips.
    “Do you still want me to make love to you, Marin?” he
whispered.
    “Aye,” she answered, barely able to get that one word out.
    One long, hard finger slid into her moistness and Marin
writhed beneath that sweet invasion. Her eyes flew open and she looked in a
golden gaze that was burning with passion.
    “This isn’t rape, wench,” he said, his finger moving in and
out of her.
    “No,” she agreed, licking her dry lips.
    “This is a claiming of what is already mine,” he said,
easing his hand from her.
    Marin moaned for he had started an itch inside her that was
building, aching to be eased. When he rolled off her, she wanted to scream with
frustration.
    She watched him get slowly to his feet and only blinked as
he tore the shirt from his chest, the black buttons popping off, the silk
material rending with a satisfying sound that brought another ripple of heat
surging through her belly. When he yanked off his boots and tossed them away
carelessly, she sucked in her breath, heard the blood rushing against her ears.
    The britches too were shoved down his lean hips and tossed
aside, freeing his straining erection, the tip of which was pearled with love
juice.
    She looked away from the jutting evidence of his arousal,
her face turning hot, but she had enough presence of mind to welcome him atop
her, her thighs parting as he wedged himself between them. The back of his hand
was at her groin as he positioned himself at her entrance and she felt her womb
leap with anticipation.
    “Do you still fear me, wench?” he asked.
    Marin gave him a searching look, her eyes taking in his
handsome features, delving into the gaze coming from the windows of his soul.
“No,” she answered.
    “You are not my prisoner,” he said. There was an ache in him
that could only be soothed by her trust, her acceptance of him.
    “I have moved past that, milord
Tiogar,” she said. “You’ve captured me in a way I believe you intended.” She
touched his cheek. “And I don’t believe you would knowingly hurt me.”
    “I cannot promise you it will not hurt, wench,” he said, his
eyes narrowed with apology.
    “I know,” she whispered, and closed her arms around his
shoulders to draw him down—the quicker to be over the ordeal of losing her
maidenhead.
    “Captain Drae!”
    The interruption from the vid com brought a growl of pure
rage from the Tiogar and he threw his head back and howled, sending shivers of
fright down Marin’s backbone.
    “What the hell is it?” Drae bellowed.
    “You asked about ships that might be shadowing the Revenge ,”
Tarnes reminded him. “We have a bogey closing in and they are not answering our
hail.”
    “Shit!” the Tiogar hissed, beating his hand on the floor
beside Marin’s head.
    “Sir, they are closing fast.”
    Marin winced as her