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

“I’m sorry.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “You can’t imagine how sorry.”


“You should be sorry.” She put a hand on either arm of his chair and balanced above him. If he bent his head, it would rest on the waiting pillows of her br**sts. He looked quite aware of that fact. “Very … very … sorry.”

Sophia returned to her chair with a playful flounce, hoping to conceal the manner in which her thighs still quivered and her heart ached. “All right, then,” she said lightly, taking up her palette and coating her brush with paint.

“I will finish my painting. You may go back to your book.”

She kept her attention focused on the canvas before her. In her peripheral vision, however, she could see that Gray’s book remained closed on the table. She could hear his breathing, slow and thick. Even in this hot house of a cabin, she could feel his radiant male heat burning through her thin muslin gown and chemise.

The task of appearing unaffected by this open lust grew increasingly difficult. After a few minutes, her arm ached from clutching the palette so tightly. Sophia laid both palette and paintbrush on the table and began to knead the spot where her neck met her shoulder, massaging the sore knot of muscle there. The tendrils of hair against her neck were damp with perspiration.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Sophia froze. Her heart stopped beating. Surely she hadn’t heard what she thought she’d—“You heard me.” His chair slid around the table to rest beside hers. “I promised I wouldn’t touch you. So touch yourself for me.”

Her pulse roared back to life, and the pounding rhythm of her heart echoed in dull, forceful beats at the apex of her thighs. Sophia shut her eyes. The suggestion was shocking and thrilling and altogether unspeakable. Impossible. She had to think of a response. A scathing set-down to dash cold water over his ardor. Over hers. She had to douse this wild passion coursing through her veins.

But there was no cold water. Only hot, liquid desire beading on her forehead, trickling down between her br**sts. She’d begun this game of bluffing. She could hardly back down now, when losing the game meant losing him.

As if they moved of their own accord, her fingers left the crest of her shoulder and slowly wandered down the lace-edged slope of her neckline.

“Yes.” The soft hiss of the word slid over her skin like a caress. “Yes. Touch them for me.”

Her ni**les puckered instantly, drawing to hard peaks against her chemise. She hesitated, eyes still tightly shut. Her breath heaved in her chest, lifting the top of her breast against her fingers with each inhalation.

“Yes, sweet. Touch them for me. Five-and-twenty days we’ve been on this ship. Four-and-twenty nights I’ve dreamt of cupping those br**sts in my hands. I’m aching to hold them, to feel them firm and round and soft under my fingers. God, they’re so soft, aren’t they, sweetheart? Just like your hands, your wrists, your lips. You’re so soft, soft as petals all over.”

The deep baritone of his voice rumbled through her, each word setting off a tremor in her core. Sophia bit her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. Curling her fingers around the fabric of her dress and chemise, she dragged them over her shoulder and slowly down, until the neckline would stretch no further. She dipped her fingers under the fabric and lifted her breast, liberating the damp, heavy globe from her bodice. Hot air swirled over her nipple. She shivered, imagining it to be his breath. He was silent for a moment that stretched into an age. Sophia kept her eyes clamped shut, dying a slow, quiet death of exposure and shame. What on earth was she doing, exposing her breast to this man? So wanton, so loose. He’d known she would do it. He’d encouraged her just to tease. To regain the upper hand. If she opened her eyes, he’d be smirking at her. Mocking her.

“Dear God,” he finally breathed. “You are so beautiful. So perfect. Smooth and fair and creamy and round. And sweet, oh sweet. It’s as though I can taste you. Touch your nipple for me.”

Hardly believing what she was doing, Sophia dragged her thumb over the straining peak. White light burst through the darkness behind her eyelids.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Do it again.”

She obeyed.

“Again. God, I want to lick you there. I want to run my tongue around and around and then pull you into my mouth and suckle you hard. Tug on it, sweet. Yes, just like that. I want to lose myself in that softness and feel your arms around me while I suckle you until you moan.”

Sophia rolled her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, imagining his strong, rough hands on her. His lips and tongue caressing her, sucking her. Her breath rushed out in a long, low sigh.

“Yes, louder. Moan for me. Let me hear you.”