A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)

Bram stared down at her. Odd. He’d spent his entire adulthood avoiding romantic entanglements. But here he was, completely tangled with this woman, and the idea of being forced to marry her didn’t horrify him the way it ought. In fact, if he let himself envision spending a lifetime of nights in a graciously appointed bedchamber, atop a soft, clean mattress, with her lovely scent of herbs in the air and her pale body writhing under his . . .

It was the strangest, most foreign and unlikely image. But curiously, he didn’t hate it.

She squirmed beneath him. “Brute. Beast.”

Chuckling, he kissed her on the forehead. “That’s more like it.” He’d much rather have her scorn than her pity. Pity made him feel helpless. Provoking her ire made him feel alive. And she was so wonderfully easy to provoke.

“God, having you under me, in a bed . . .” He kissed her, just at the corner of her lips. “You drive me mad with wanting, Susanna. We’d be so good together.”

He gentled his grip on her wrist, but kept it pinned with just the weight of his arm atop hers. He slid one thumb along the line of her jaw, covering her racing pulse. Then dipping lower, caressing the tender slope of her throat. Her skin was so soft. Had she bathed? he wondered. Or would she still taste of the sea?

“Very well,” she said. “You’ve made your point. You’re a big, strong man, and I’m a helpless female. Now let me go.”

“I’ll release you, if that’s truly what you want. But I don’t think it is.”

Flipping his hand, he slid the backs of his fingers down her chest, all the way to her bosom. He skimmed the exposed edge of her chemise. The sheer, lacy fabric rose and fell with her rhythmic breaths, like froth riding the edge of a wave.

If she wanted him to stop, she could stop him. Her arms were virtually unrestrained. He levered his weight onto one elbow. A quick dart to the side, and she’d be free.

She glanced in that very direction, obviously thinking the same.

But she didn’t move. She wanted this, too.

In a slow, sure claiming, he fitted his palm over her breast. She bit back a gasp.

Bram struggled to contain his own groan of pleasure. The soft, round swell fit his hand so perfectly, warming under his touch. As he held her, her nipple tightened to a knot, pressing against the center of his palm. Just a small, concentrated dot of sensation, but unspeakably arousing. Her body was responding to his, calling to his. His c**k answered, stiffening to a painful degree.

He bent his head and pressed his lips to her bared throat, kneading the taut globe of her breast as he kissed a slow trail downward. She did taste of salt, and of sweet femininity. He licked her, sliding his tongue in a lazy, serpentine path over her collarbone. Then dipping down, to trace the border of her décolletage. There, her close-fitted bodice thwarted him. He slipped a single finger between fabric and skin, forcing the neckline to give, just a little. He needed to touch her there, feel that tight bead of her nipple press against the pad of his fingertip.

Working in tiny arcs, he skimmed his touch lower, exploring the warm satin of her skin. Learning the unique geography of the plump, delectable globe. His thumb finally grazed the textured edge of her areola, and triumph surged through him. He felt like a conquistador discovering a new territory. An enticing round island of promise, bordered by rippling dunes and capped with an upward-thrusting peak. He climbed it in increments, panting for breath. God, just a little further . . .

There.

She gave a startled, breathy cry, and her whole body bowed against his. Her passionate response nearly undid him. His thoughts unraveled, leaving him with just one thread of concentration.

More.

That was all he could think, all he could understand. More. He needed more of her. How could he stroke more, touch more, kiss more? He still had one of her arms pinned overhead. If he lowered it to her side, he reasoned, her neckline would have more give. He would make it yield to him, so he could take that delicious, straining peak into his mouth. But when he rose up a bit, meaning to draw her arm down to her side . . .

“Jesus.”

He froze, staring. Struggling to make sense of what he beheld. From wrist to elbow, her delicate skin was a crosshatch of scars.

With a sharp mental tug, he reined in the arousal charging through his body. So here was the reason she always wore those enticing, buttoned gloves. She was hiding something, too.

Something much more serious than a nettle in her paw.

“Susanna fair,” he said, skimming a touch over her marked skin. “What happened here?”

Susanna winced at his touch. Inside, she crumpled. She ought to have known she couldn’t hide them forever. That she would never get this close to a man without those dratted scars ruining everything, one way or another.

“How old are these?” he asked, tracing a thin, healed line with his fingertip.

“Quite old,” she said dismissively. “They’re nothing. From gardening.”

“Gardening? Did you pick a death match with a rosebush?”

“No.” She arched her back, rubbing her br**sts against his chest. His touch had felt so good. So right. “Couldn’t we just go back to where we left off?”

Apparently not.