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

Sophia opened her eyes. The ceiling flashed bright above her at first, through a blurry haze of tears. She blinked and sniffed. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable. The burdensome disguise she’d been wearing the entire voyage—wearing her entire life, it seemed—had been stripped away. No more deceptions, no more fantasies. This was all that remained: a weary, wanton, lonely girl with one hand clasped to her naked breast and the other pressed against his lips.

She’d bared herself before him, in every way. As she’d never dared reveal herself to anyone. More truth had passed between them in the last ten minutes than any conversation could relay, and still he held her, soothed her. Would his lips still form such tender words and soft kisses, if he knew the complete truth?

He kissed her palm again. “Don’t cry. I’d die before I’d let anything or anyone hurt you. I couldn’t bear to think I’d caused you such distress.” He pressed her hand against his bearded cheek. She felt his lips graze her temple. “Sweet,” he whispered against her ear. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

Sophia turned her head slowly, until her gaze locked with his. His eyes—they were the purest cerulean blue, and fathoms deep. She caressed his cheek with her thumb. “Oh, Gray.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She said his name, and it pierced him. Like a needle-thin dagger that threaded right between his ribs to embed itself in his heart. And like any sudden wound, it caught him completely off-guard. It hurt. It sent him into shock.

What had just happened? He’d been reading; she’d been painting. They’d argued over paint, discussed colors. He’d teased her until she blushed, and she’d teased him back. She’d touched his face. Oh, how she’d touched him. Then suddenly he was viewing the most erotic display he’d ever witnessed in his life. And that included several erotic displays he’d paid good money to watch.

He’d said things to her. Wild, depraved fantasies he’d never voiced to any woman without paying her handsomely first. Perhaps a few things he’d never said to any woman at all. And she’d listened, and complied. Willingly. With sensual abandon and such sweet trust, it made his heart ache. He’d said anything and everything that came into his mind, to keep her going. To bring her to that peak of pleasure and watch her while she came. That much was good. Very good.

But then she’d cried, and he’d said more. He would have said anything, promised her everything to soothe her. Now he stared into her red, weepy eyes, suddenly realizing how very close he’d come to doing just that—promising her everything—and it scared him into a cold sweat. She dragged that soft, soft thumb across his cheek, and his knees actually trembled. Trembled, damn it!

Gray had no idea what the hell was happening to him, but he knew that it had to be bad. Very bad.

Her lips were pouty and swollen with passion and just begging to be kissed, long and slow and deep. His groin was still throbbing with the memory of her erotic little gasps, her back arched in ecstasy. Oh, Gray, she said. Oh, Gray, indeed. As in, oh Gray what the holy hell has come over you and what the devil do you intend to do about it?

He took the coward’s way out. He looked away.

“I thought you were painting a portrait. Of me.”

She turned her head, following his gaze to her easel. A vast seascape overflowed the small canvas. Towering thunderclouds and a violent, frothy sea. And slightly off center, a tiny ship cresting a massive wave.

“I am painting you.”

“What, am I on the little boat, then?” It was a relief to joke. The relief was short-lived.

“No,” she said softly, turning back to look at him. “I’m on the little boat. You’re the storm. And the ocean. You’re … Gray, you’re everything.”

And that was when things went from “very bad” to “worse.”

“I can’t take credit for the composition. It’s inspired by a painting I once saw, in a gallery on Queen Anne Street. By a Mr. Turner.”

“Turner. Yes, I know his work. No relation, I suppose?”

“No.” She looked back at the canvas. “When I saw it that day, so brash and wild … I could feel the tempest churning in my blood. I just knew then and there, that I had something inside me—a passion too bold, too grand to keep squeezed inside a drawing room. First I tried to deny it, and then I tried to run from it … and then I met you, and I saw you have it, too. Don’t deny it, Gray. Don’t run from it and leave me alone.”

She sat up, still rubbing his cheek with her thumb. Grasping his other hand, she drew it to her naked breast. Oh, God. She was every bit as soft as he’d dreamed. Softer. And there went his hand now. Trembling.

“Touch me, Gray.” She leaned forward, until her lips paused a mere inch away from his. “Kiss me.”

Perhaps that dagger had missed his heart after all, because the damned thing was hammering away inside his chest. And oh, he could taste her sweet breath mingling with his. Her lips were so close, so inviting. So dangerous.

Panic—that’s what had his knees trembling and his heart hammering and his lips spouting foolishness. It had to be panic. Because something told Gray that he could see her mostly naked, and watch her toes curl as she reached her climax, and even cup her dream-soft breast in his palm—but somehow, if he touched his lips to hers, he would be lost.