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

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, a teasing note in her voice. She caressed his shoulders. Her fingers trailed down his chest, and she pressed her thumbs against his ni**les.

Gray let out a hoarse groan. “I can’t …” His voice trailed off as she craned her neck and kissed his chest. The sweep of her tongue against his neck pushed his restraint to its limit. “Sweet, stop. I want to make this good for you.”

“It is good.” Her teeth grazed his collarbone. “You are good for me.” Her head fell back against the pillow, and she met his eyes. “There’s no pain anymore.”

This time, he believed her. He had to believe her, because his control was in shreds, and nothing but faith remained.

He drove into her now, thrust after blissful, unrestrained thrust. And when she cried out and clung to his neck, he knew it was with pleasure, not pain. Her core convulsed around him, pulling him toward release in waves of raw, mindless need. Then she cupped his face in her hands and blessed him with a single, sweet kiss.

And in the end, it was that kiss that proved his undoing. With a hoarse cry against her lips, he shuddered and collapsed, pumping his release into her. The last tremors of pleasure were still rippling through him, and already he wanted her again. Again, now, always, only.

He settled the length of his body over hers, guarding her between his arms. His rough, gasping breath precluded speech, but they needed no words. There were no words for the transcendent, floating happiness suffusing his limbs and filling his heart. Only kisses. Kiss after deep, heartfelt, unhurried kiss.

It was some time before Gray’s awareness shifted from the wondrous taste of her soft, generous mouth to the strange, angular object pressing into his belly.

He propped himself up on one elbow and slid a hand up her hip, past the glorious Tropic where they remained joined even now, up over her belly to the notch between her ribs. His hand closed around a small, cloth-covered bundle strapped to her torso with bands of cloth. He frowned, feeling the solid object with his fingers, trying to learn its shape. Money, he realized. It had to be money. He spanned his fingers over it, testing its size. Bloody hell. It was a great deal of money.

“Gray, I can explain.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“I’m waiting.”

Sophia tensed at the sudden edge in his voice. Surely he couldn’t be angry. Not after the pleasure they’d found, the connection they still shared.

“Gray,” she murmured, stretching her neck to kiss him wherever she could reach. His hard chest, his powerful shoulders bracketing hers. She wanted to thank him, to bless him for the gift he’d given her. Such tenderness, and such pleasure.

Her mother, her sister, her married friends—in the weeks leading up to her wedding, there had been no shortage of women warning Sophia that her first experience in the marital bed would be painful, awkward, and blessedly quick. The ladies had varying opinions on whether the activity would improve with time, but predictions of an unpleasant wedding night were universal.

None of them, she thought with a secret smile, had met Gray. The power in his strong body, the passion he aroused in her, all tempered by such patience, the innate tenderness he hid so carefully from the world. There had been pain, yes. But the pain had been chased away by indescribable pleasure, intense and overwhelming, beyond anything she’d ever imagined. And Sophia’s imagination was vast.

Embers of desire still smoldered under her skin, on her lips, between her legs. She tightened around him, wanting to preserve this moment forever. Lacing her fingers behind his neck, she attempted to pull him down for a kiss.

He wouldn’t budge. “I’m waiting,” he repeated tersely. “Explain.”

She stroked the hair back from his face. “I promise I’ll tell you everything. But for now … please, just hold me.”

He swore, his coarse tone scraping against her nakedness. “I don’t even know who I’m holding.”

He released her abruptly, and Sophia gasped as he withdrew from her body. Somehow it hurt more than when he’d entered her. He rolled away, leaving her uncovered. Damp with rainwater, sweat, and tears. Cold.

“Of course you know me,” she whispered. No one had ever made her feel so accepted as this man did. She feared no one else ever would. He sat up, turning away and dropping his head in his hands. Sophia rolled onto her side and reached out cautiously to stroke his back. When her fingertip snagged on a sharp obstacle, she winced. “You have splinters in your back.”

“Do I? Well, you have a small fortune between your br**sts.”

Sophia struggled to sit up, move closer. “Really, Gray. These must be painful. Let me—”

“Leave it be.” He jerked away. Sophia curled her hand and let it fall to the bed. His voice measured, he continued, “Your name isn’t even Jane Turner, is it?”

“The name Turner is … borrowed. Jane is mine.” And it was truly hers, if only her middle name. That part could not count as a lie. Minimizing the number of her falsehoods seemed of sudden importance.