I was a prisoner, facing an uncertain end.

As if he read my mind, he tucked my head beneath his chin and stroked my hair. “You need to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“All right.” He released a slow breath. “Then I’ll tell you a true story.” He leaned back and ran a knuckle along my jaw. “I met your father once.”

“What?” My eyes widened, my pulse hammering. “When?”

“I was around your age so… Thirteen years ago. I was a sergeant then, taking a short leave in Nassau with some mates.” His thumb rested against my neck, softly caressing. “He was in a brothel.”

My throat convulsed.

“It was attached to a tavern, and that’s where I saw him—sitting alone, staring into a tankard of ale, while his crew of scoundrels spent their coin on painted women.”

“Did you know who he was?”

“Indeed. Everyone knew. The island was more or less overrun by pirates at the time, and I was but one English soldier among dozens of rogues in that tavern.”

“What did you do?”

“I sat beside him at the bar.” His lips twitched. “And he bought me a drink.”

My heart swelled, and a tingling burn rose to my eyes. “Did you talk to him?”

“No. We sat in silence, just two sailors enjoying their drinks.” He brushed a curl from my face. “Women approached him, doxies and ladies alike, and he turned them all away. He wasn’t there for that.”

“He loved my mother.”

“And his daughter.” He kissed my forehead, my nose, my lips. “Time to close your eyes.”

As I drifted to sleep, his sensual smile was the last thing I saw.

When I woke later that afternoon, it was the first thing that filled my vision. He lay beside me in the position, as if he’d never moved.

“What are you doing?” I yawned, stretching my lovingly abused body.

“My second favorite activity.”

“Watching me sleep?”

“Yes.” The delicious curve of his lips deepened as he rolled on top of me, both of us nude, and wedged my legs open with his hips.

“What’s your first favorite activity?”

He reached between us and parted the dampening folds between my thighs with the head of his erection. Then he slowly sank inside, showing me what he favored above all else.

We didn’t leave his private quarters for the next two days. We ate, bathed, slept. And fucked. Made love. Hard and soft, sluggish and rabid, lazy and impassioned. In every position, bottom and top, fore and aft. In the bed, on the chairs, over the rail, against the walls, on the floor—if the surface was strong enough to support us, we broke it in.