By Elaine Lowe
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Extra info for Command the Wind
Drake smiled and drained the last dregs of ale, wiping his mouth with the fine fabric of his doublet. The man would always and forevermore be a pirate. Marcus would hate to see him any other way. Chapter Two Cora Searle sat huddled on her bed, her head resting on her knees in the morning cold. One long, sun-browned arm was wrapped around her legs for warmth and the other raised a hand to draw abstract patterns in the condensation on the window. Through the thick cast glass, the world was distorted and twisted, just as was her understanding of herself.
He took off those odd spectacles and revealed strange honey-brown eyes passing over her own person with abandon. She was suddenly acutely aware of the ridiculous condition of her own appearance, covered from head to toe in flour. A blush rose in her cheeks and she was caught in indecision whether she should make an effort to speak, run away to her rooms and cower in embarrassment, or drag the man to those same rooms and not come out until she had been well and thoroughly made to forget that clothing or flour even existed.
And golden eyes that had seen too much and could look into the secret heart of her. The wind had swirled and groaned about the house as her mind melded into the heat of those eyes. His muscled body rose above her, the thought of him inside her driving her mad with pleasure as she stroked her nub and thrust her fingers within her sheath, desperate to find release from him. But over and over he came again, mysterious and shadowy and absolutely compelling. These imaginings were not the fast and unsatisfying adventures of a curious youth—romps in a hayloft or behind the henhouse with boys desperate only for their own pleasure.