Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

His tongue flashed into her ear, and her knees dissolved, leaving her no choice but to fall against him. To depend on him for her strength, her balance, and indeed her next breath, as now—at last—his lips covered hers.

Sophia’s eyes fluttered shut, and now the stars were inside her. Bright constellations of desire—sparking, burning, whirling through the darkest parts of her being. Glorious. His tongue struck a subtle, coaxing rhythm, mating skillfully with hers. Breasts needy and aching, she pressed her body against his. She wriggled into his embrace until that iron-hard ridge of him nestled just where she needed it. Where they belonged together. He growled, deep in his throat. She relished the feral sound, the lapse in his suave, sensual mastery of her. But she paused only a moment to savor that taste of power before yielding again, eagerly surrendering to the dangerous, unpredictable need she’d unleashed.

He roamed her body, stroking and tweaking her everywhere she yearned for him. Soft caresses, rough pinches, sharp bites and gentle licks. He knew just where to place them, and in the precise sequence that rendered her panting and molten.

“Now,” he grunted, clutching at her hips. “Now, we go below.”

Gray delighted in going below. The little jolt of surprise she gave when he first kissed her there, that instinctive buck of her hips that thrust her heat against his mouth. That naughty little book of hers excluded some rather vital lessons in the art of passion, and he took great pleasure in completing her education.

And then he took his own pleasure in her.

Afterward, sweaty and sated, they lay naked atop the linens. Spread out on their backs as if floating, allowing the night air to cool their skin. Blissful exhaustion buoyed him into sleep.

He roused some time later, when she lit a candle.

“I know I’ve seen one here somewhere …”

Gray could barely muster the energy to lift his head. He caught sight of her, dressed in her shift and rummaging through drawers. “What are you looking for?”

“Aha!” She straightened triumphantly, holding a sharply gleaming object in her hand. A razor, he discerned. “There’s a strop and a cake of shaving soap, too. I’ll just fetch some water from the galley.”

Before he could protest, she was out the cabin door, and Gray let his head fall back on the pillow. He must have dozed, because he opened his eyes to find her over him, tugging his head toward the edge of the bed and smoothing her palms over his face.

“Just lie still,” she whispered, guiding him to pivot his body until the crown of his head rested against her chest. “Trust me, I’ve a very steady hand.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She worked sharp-scented lather through the whiskers, and the aroma sliced through the fog of his brain, waking him a bit more.

“This time, you shall greet your sister looking resplendent. The picture of respectability; or at least, of good grooming.”

He sighed as she smoothed the lather down his throat, her touch gliding over his skin. “Good. I shall need all the resplendence I can manage, in order to convince her. Although, I expect your presence will accomplish more in that respect.”

“Convince her of what?”

“To come with us, of course.” He paused as she laid the blade to his jaw and dragged it slowly up to his cheek. “Now that her mother’s gone, and Mara, too … I can’t allow her to continue living there alone.”

“Mara?” She made another slow swipe with the razor.

“Joss’s wife. Died in childbirth last year.”

She paused. “How dreadful. Did the babe survive?”

“Yes. A boy, Jacob. Bel’s looking after him now.”

After rinsing the blade, she laid a hand to his cheek, rolling his head to the other side. Again, she began at his ear and worked inward.

“I wish you could have known my brother before,” Gray continued.

“Before Mara died, he was different. Things were different between us. More … brotherly.”

“Grief changes people.”

“So I’ve learned.”

She tipped his head back to reach his throat. He steadied his breathing, fighting the urge to swallow as she scraped over his pulse. Grief changespeople. How could it not? He realized now how unfair he’d been to Joss, denying him the time to grieve, the space to change. It was only now that he could understand it, when the very idea of losing this woman forced beads of cold sweat to his brow.

Closing his eyes, he reached up to squeeze her free hand. “Let us speak of happier things.”

“Very well.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Where shall we honeymoon? Will you take me to Italy, to see the Botticellis?”

“I will take you anywhere you wish. Anywhere under the sky.”

A tender kiss landed on his eyelid. Then she fell silent, working toward the center of his chin, dipping the blade in a basin at his side between short, sure strokes. She was concentrating, he realized, working carefully around his scar. At last she set aside the razor, letting it sink into the basin with a soft splash, then dried his face with a cloth.