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

Moaning, Sophia cupped her other breast through the fabric of her dress, teasing the taut, hidden bud.

“I want to touch you. All of you. I want to see and stroke every perfect, beautiful inch of you. Your br**sts. Your navel. The backs of your knees. Every last toe. I want to taste you all over. Lick that powder you use right off of your skin. I want to know every secret, hidden part of you. I want to know how it is that you smell like a damned rosebush in the middle of the ocean.”

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He groaned. “Oh, sweet. If you knew what you do to me. I’m aching for you.”

It occurred to Sophia that he might be touching himself, too. Perhaps it ought to have shocked her, that thought. Instead, it drove her to a new peak of excitement. She slid down in her chair, her legs falling apart slightly. Between her thighs, she felt achy and hot. Drenched with sweat and desire.

“Lift your skirts,” came the hoarse command. “Let me see you. I have to see you.”

Lost in a dark haze of passion, Sophia was past thinking, past shame. Her hands slid from her br**sts to the tops of her thighs. She fisted her hands in the thin muslin and slowly hitched the fabric up, baring her ankles. Then her calves.

“More. Higher.”

She obeyed, rucking the muslin up over her knees, smoothing one palm against her sensitive inner thigh.

“Oh, sweet Heaven. Look at you. No stockings, no garters. No drawers, either? Tell me there are no drawers.”

She arched her spine slightly, her head lolling against the back of the chair. She skimmed her hand higher to bare the smooth expanse of her thigh.

He released a ragged sigh. “No drawers, either. I’ll never take you back to England now. This is how I want you, always. Here, in the tropical heat—no petticoats, no stockings, no drawers. Ready for me at any time. And you are ready for me, aren’t you, sweet? You’re so hot and wet. God, how I want to taste you. You’re delicious, even from here.”

Sophia’s heart was pounding so hard, she feared it would explode. Her head spun, dizzy with heat. Her mouth fell open. She was panting. She felt shameless and sensual and more boldly feminine than she’d ever felt in her life.

“Touch yourself for me.” His voice took on a new urgency, grew rough and demanding. “You know the place, I know you do. Touch yourself for me.”

His voice held her in such thrall, she was powerless to disobey, even if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to do everything he told her. She wanted to be here, always, in this sultry tropical fog of desire, and let him do what ever he would with her. Her fingers brushed over the damp nest of curls at the juncture of her thighs, parting the slick folds of her sex to find that swollen, sensitive bit of flesh.

“Oh yes, sweet. Do it for me. I want to taste you there. I want to be in you, feel you tight and clasping around me. I want you moaning for me. Under me. On top of me. I want to have you in every way known to man, and then invent a dozen more. Touch it for me. Imagine it’s me there, touching you. In you.”

The climax broke through her in a crashing wave. She arched up off the chair, her breath caught in a strangled cry. Plea sure jolted through her again and again, until she went limp in its aftermath, shuddering. A blissful peace washed over her first.

Followed by awareness.

Then shame.

Oh, God. What had she just done? With shaking hands, she pushed her skirt back down over her knees. She brought one hand to her still-naked breast and the other to her eyes, squeezing them shut tight. But not tight enough. Hot tears leaked through her trembling lashes.

“Oh no, sweet. No.”

He whispered so tenderly, but the sound of his voice only served as a cruel reminder that he was there. He had seen. The tears came harder, spilling down her cheeks.

“No, sweet, don’t cry.” His voice was low and close to her ear. “Are you—” He paused. “Are you thinking of him?”

She shook her head no.

“Then why do you cry? Surely you’re not embarrassed?”

Sophia sobbed against her hand.

“Oh, sweet. Please don’t. Don’t cry, or I’ll cry with you. You’re the most lovely, most perfect thing I’ve ever seen in all my life, and I could weep for the sheer beauty of you.” Rough fingers smoothed the hair from her brow.

“Don’t ever be ashamed, not with me.”

He tugged her hand away from her face. She kept her eyes shut tight as he kissed her fingertips, one by one, then turned her hand over to plant a heartrendingly tender kiss upon her palm.