The Duke and the Pirate Queen. Victoria Janssen

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СКАЧАТЬ of the staircase and glared down at his erection until it subsided somewhat. He might have done better to remain distant, but such a thing was impossible when he was faced with her. He had never wanted anyone so much in his entire life. At least not since he’d been a young man ruled entirely by his genitals.

      Resuming his climb, he muttered, “I seem to be ruled by them even now.” Next time—if there was a next time—he would plan. He would make sure to take himself in hand before he saw her, to be able to ignore his own desires for long enough to convince her of his sincerity. Even if he had to take himself in hand several times.

      He flung open the door to his rooms, strode in and stopped. Sylvie, a trusted courier of the adjacent duchy, sat cross-legged on a padded hassock, idly selecting from a tray of grapes and other dainties. Her blond hair hung loose to her waist, contrast to the snug riding leathers and matching jacket she wore, which clung to every sleek curve of her body; that lushness balanced nicely with her sharp features and the sarcastic intensity of her expression. He wondered if she was about to cut another swath through his staff. Her visits usually resulted in a string of besotted glances.

      Sylvie never had problems with her unending stream of lovers. He should take a lesson from her, and not let a physical act affect his emotions in this way.

      “The reports are on your desk, Your Grace,” she said, looking up at his entrance. She popped a marzipan starfish into her mouth. After she’d swallowed, she added, in a more formal tone, “Her Grace the Duchess Camille and her consort, Henri, send greetings.” She took a sip of wine. “Henri said Aimée sends her greetings, as well, though I think this is unlikely, since the child doesn’t yet speak intelligibly, and I doubt she remembers you at all. It has been so many months since any of us have seen you. If you recall, she fell asleep during the ceremony when you were made duke.”

      “Have you done putting me in my place?” Maxime asked. “Was there anything specific Camille wished from me, that you couldn’t leave with my aunt or one of the secretaries?” Camille was enough his friend—they’d once been lovers—that she likely would have sent him a detailed document if she’d needed anything from him personally. And Sylvie would have told him before now if she’d carried any queries that could not be committed to paper.

      Sylvie sampled a few aniseed comfits, uncurled and rose effortlessly to her feet. “I think you have a sea urchin shoved in a delicate place,” she said. “Has the exquisite captain refused you?”

      Maxime swallowed outrage. Sometimes he liked Sylvie’s impertinence. Today was not one of those times. Rather than answer, he passed through a doorway into his office and opened the diplomatic pouch. He spilled letters, reports and other dispatches onto the desk’s marquetry surface. Camille had sent a drawing of her plump baby daughter: her lover, Henri, held the child atop a sleek pony. Maxime reflected that the child might be his if things had been different. In the normal way of things, one duke might marry his daughter to the son of his neighbor, forming local alliances. Instead, Camille’s father had slain both Maxime’s parents, taken their duchy as his own protectorate and kept Maxime as a political hostage. Camille’s father had let Maxime know, in more ways than one, that he would not be permitted to marry his captor’s daughter or even to think himself worthy of her.

      Perhaps it was for the best. He and Camille were far too much alike. Maxime was happy and relieved she’d displaced her insane husband in order to rule her own duchy, and found love in the process, however much she might deny how she felt about Henri.

      His mind snapped back to the present when Sylvie said, “I don’t think you normally walk about your castle clad only in a robe. And the lady Gisele told me Captain Leung had gone to speak with you. Are your bollocks still in a clench over her?”

      He grabbed his own diplomatic pouch and thrust it into Sylvie’s hands. “I am going to marry her.”

      “Madame tells me the king says different.”

      “Julien can go and suck a splintery arse-dildo,” Maxime snarled.

      Sylvie laughed. She tossed the diplomatic pouch onto a latticed chair. “The exquisite captain is a fool, refusing both me and you.”

      “She has no interest in women,” Maxime said. “She’s interested in me. I know it.”

      Sylvie stepped closer, and closer still. She laid her small hands inside the open neck of Maxime’s robe. “Quiet,” she said.

      “I’m running out of time,” Maxime said. He hadn’t intended to say it, but her soft touch had bypassed his control.

      Sylvie slid her hands down, parting his robe as they went. “This will help,” she said. “You needn’t fear. I do this merely as a favor given out of pity for your sad state, and will have forgotten it by tomorrow. Let me help.”

      “I can—”

      “Oh, be quiet. It will help me, at least. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on your cock.” True to her words, she grasped him firmly in both hands. She pricked him briefly with her nails, and he gasped. “Pay attention.”

      He’d been aroused for a considerable time already, and her touch had made his painful erection rigid again. He closed his eyes as her hands stroked him firmly. “Sylvie, you really don’t have to—”

      “I have never heard any man protest as much as you! Not even Henri!” Her grip changed, and when he looked, she’d dropped to her knees in front of him. Thoughtfully, she said, “You have the biggest cock I have ever seen.”

      “I’ve heard that before,” Maxime said glumly. “I’ve thought of giving it its own title and lands, a signet cock ring, maybe commissioning a special song from the ducal musicians.”

      She wasn’t listening to his attempt at humor. She said, her tone still speculative, “I’m sure I can swallow it.”

      “Sylvie!” Maxime tried to step back, but gently, afraid she wouldn’t loosen her grip. Or perhaps afraid she would loosen it. “Don’t you have business elsewhere?”

      “You look very uncomfortable. Do you want me to suck your cock?”

      Her touch felt wonderful. She wasn’t Imena, but. “Yes?”

      Keeping a firm grip on him, one hand over the other, Sylvie licked the ridge beneath his cock, end to end. “I need a better answer than that,” she prompted. She licked him again.

      “All right! Go on!”

      “That’s the answer I wanted,” she noted approvingly, and nestled her mouth over his cock’s head. Her tongue dipped into the slit and he grasped her slender shoulders, leather crumpling softly beneath his fingers. Sylvie smelled overwhelmingly of leather, with hints of aniseed and marzipan. Nothing like Imena.

      If she’d only given him another chance, it might be Imena’s mouth on him now, her full lips grasping and pulling at his cock’s head, her soft tongue swirling beneath his foreskin. She’d liked it when he’d caressed her scalp. He would do that for her, caress her with palms and hard fingertips and the gentlest of scratches.

      Sylvie. This was Sylvie, not Imena. He was letting Sylvie suck his cock because it was less lonely than bringing himself off, alone in his rooms. He needed to tell her how much he appreciated this, but she was so skilled it was difficult for him to form words. A groan fell from his lips, and she rubbed his hip approvingly.

      “Sylvie—” СКАЧАТЬ