She whirled on him. “You have no idea what I want.”

“I do.” His eyes said a great deal more. He had seen them in the garden. He had seen her cry. He understood. His face cast in moonlight was a portrait of sheer male beauty and unwavering certainty.

Viola’s heart thudded in her constricted chest. She wanted the hurt to go away and she wanted him. Him. Not Aidan. She wanted Jin Seton so much she could taste it.

“You don’t know anything. You can’t.” She hadn’t even known until now.

He regarded her so steadily. “She is an infant,” he said quietly. “Why would you want a man who wants a woman like that?”

Her breath failed. She turned and stepped down onto the sail. It sagged, her shoe slipped, she grabbed the rail and propelled herself to the lower deck. He came after her easily, as though he climbed over fallen sails draped across companionways every day. Which possibly he did, or had done at one time in his life, a life about which she had heard more from others than from him.

“Viola-”

“Look who knows all about what I want, the man who pretends he has no interest in kissing a woman after he has clearly demonstrated that he does.”

In the new dimness of the cabin deck, his eyes darkened. “Now you are acting like the infant. Castle might set up an entire nursery.” His jaw was taut. Was she affecting him? Nicking his pride, no doubt.

She wanted to hurt that pride. Because she hurt more than she could bear.

“Arrogant bastard.” She barely whispered it. But in the stillness of the low-ceilinged deck, the word was crystal clear.

His eyes sparked, fire igniting in them. Her stomach sickened. She couldn’t believe what she had uttered.

“Forgive me, Jin. Please.” She pressed the back of her shaking hand over her mouth.

“For what, acting like a child?” His voice was low. And in response, finally, the heat rose within her.

“A child? Is that the best I can do?” The sensation of defeat tangling with desire overwhelmed. Her palm covered her eyes. “Oh, this is not at all what I-”

“This is idiocy.” He grabbed her wrist, slung her against his chest, and kissed her. He kissed her not tenderly but as he had in her cabin, claiming her mouth entirely. Fierce and hungry and with perfect possession, he demanded that she not resist.

She couldn’t resist. It was all she wanted. But this time she did not want it to end so swiftly. Ever. She kissed him back no less urgently, allowing him to mold her lips to his. She felt his strength, tasted his hunger, drank him in like a drug, hot and damp with smoke and pure need.

He broke the kiss, lifted his head. Her hand trapped in his grasp between them knew the hurtling of her heartbeat, or his. His gaze glittered like shattered glass traveling over her features, desire heavy in it. But uncertainty too, or perhaps a question. In the stillness, only their uneven breaths met the creaking of planking.

She could not bear the paralysis. She reached up, ran her fingers through his hair, and indulged in the simple ecstasy of touching him. A sigh quavered in her throat.

He gripped her hand tighter.

She went onto her toes, pulled him down, and he kissed her again, beyond pleasure, beyond sense, without hesitation and with one apparent object, to make her submit. She did, willingly, happily. His hand came around her face, his fingers on her jaw, the pad of his thumb pressing at her chin, and Viola found her mouth opening. Then his heat, his tongue, and her tender flesh that he claimed, fast, deep and urgent.

He dragged her against his body, his hands moving now, touching her neck, shoulders, the curve of her waist, then over her behind. She moaned, warmth bursting inside her as his big hand cupped her, then slipped behind her thigh. Heat wrapped around them, sinking into her body, beneath her skin, burning into their kisses. He pulled her knee alongside his hip and tugged her to him, his arousal coming against her. She moaned. Holding his face between her palms, wanting his tongue in her mouth, she drew him in. How could it feel this good yet she still wanted more?

She struggled against him, needing to be closer. “You said you had no intention of kissing me again.”

“This is not kissing.” He pushed her against the rail and moved hard against her soft inner thigh. His hand sought her breast.

“Oh, God.” She had wanted him to touch her like this for weeks, his hands and arousal feeding hers. She ached with it. But it was almost too much, too sublime to have his hands on her so intimately, to be pressed to his body so thoroughly and insane with need. She tore at his coat and he shoved it over his shoulders, his shirt damp and clinging to his muscles. She wanted to climb up him, to climb right inside him. She twisted her foot around his ankle and her skirts snagged. She teetered. He caught her and bore her down to the canvas-covered steps beneath him.

He took her mouth again and his hand moved fast along her thigh, yanking up her skirts. His haste and purpose did not surprise her. She wanted it too. She arched into him, gasping in breath, and he pulled her against him. His tongue stroked hers then thrust inside her, his fingers clamping around her knee.

He separated their mouths. “Viola.” An utterance, hard and taut. “I will not force you. Open up, or I leave.”

Her knees were welded together. What was she doing?

“Off the ship?” Her voice shook.

“You wish.” He caught her mouth and she sank into his kiss, into the fear and certainty that kept her knees locked, the alarm that everything was changing in this moment.

“I don’t wish.” She fought to meet his kiss closer, biting at his lips with little nips and sucking. She could consume him. She wanted to be consumed by him. She was frantic for it. “Not at this moment, that is.” An inelegantly hasty amendment. But he seemed to approve of it. His hand stroked along the crease of her thighs. And so she gave to him her body, because it was what he expected and what she wished, an aching for union. Simply, she could no longer bear to remain apart from him.

She parted her thighs and took him between and, trembling fiercely, felt him at her entrance. He came into her in one thrust, hard and thick, with a groan of pure masculine pleasure. She fought for air. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders. She was stretched too hard, too tight, and it hurt. But it hurt to perfection. He moved inside her, pulling out, then stroking in again.

“No.” She clutched at him. “Oh, God, no.” It hurt dreadfully, but not her body. Her body tumbled, overflowing with pleasure that shut out the momentary discomfort.

This pain within was worse.

He went still, breaths rough and fast, his hands tight around her hips holding her to him. “Viola.” He spoke against her cheek. “It is too late for ‘no.’ ”

“No. Yes. Yes.” She thrust to him, gasping at the mingled pleasure and pain. Unmoving, he kissed her, fusing them again in this manner as though he would be inside her as she longed to be inside him. Then, releasing her mouth, he took her.

She had thought she understood. She had done this before.

But not this. With every thrust into her he forced her pleasure, moving in her so that she must take her pleasure on him. Hips low, he guided her on him with his hands, again and again making them one, harder, deeper with each joining until she whimpered with her rising need. It came so swiftly, the quickening, the tight building of sweet tension she had only ever felt alone, that she never knew she could feel with a man. Fast and overwhelming it took her. She gulped in air, arching desperately against his thrusts, crying out sounds. He bore her into the canvas, palms flat to either side, and she shook with her release as it came, as his muscles hardened. He dipped his cheek to hers, forcing himself inside her, and she couldn’t get enough, the power of his body, the stumbling pleasure in hers. When it came again, she gasped, shouted at the beautiful, rippling contractions. He caught her hand-her hand-held it tight, and came inside her.

His chest moved hard against hers. She sucked in air, gulping from the delectable shock of his release within her. Nothing had prepared her for this, for him. The laughter of sheer euphoria bubbled up in her. And song, but her throat was parched and she cradled a pirate between her thighs, so singing seemed not quite right. She had never known it could be like this. Or that reclining on a canvas sail on a companionway could prove so uncomfortable after a time.

He pulled away. She drew her knees together and opened her eyes, and made herself drunker yet on the sight of him. Rivulets of moisture ran along his jaw, another droplet clinging to his taut collarbone, then sliding down his chest to be lost beneath his shirt. The linen clung, revealing every contour, every perfect detail of man.

He fastened his trousers and extended his hand. She stared up at him.

“Come.” He curled his fingers in a gesture of encouragement, not insisting, but his gaze scanned her, peculiarly bright.

Viola’s throat was like parchment, possibly from all the moaning.

“Where? What do you want?” she croaked.

He leaned down to her and curved his hand around her face. He passed the pad of his thumb over her tender lower lip and spoke close, his breath a whisper across her flesh.

“What do you think I want?”

She swallowed hard. Holy Magdalene, she wanted it too. Again. Immediately. She felt wonderfully satisfied, yet hunger still ground deep in her simply from looking at him.

His fingers curled around hers and he grasped her hand. “Come now.” He backed off and her knees shook like canvas letting fly. Now, after all her gyrations beneath him, she could not move.