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

All that remained was to convince her. Well, there he had experience on his side. He knew a little something about conquest.

Gray spent an hour up there in the rigging, soaking up the darkness, gathering bravery from the wind. When the eight bells finally rang, they signified far more than a change of watch.

He was going to change his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Sophia startled awake. By what dim, silvery light the cabin window afforded, she made out the silhouette of a man standing at the foot of the bed. He was tall—so tall his shadow spread up the wall and seeped into the ceiling cracks, like ink. It could only be Gray. She wondered how long he’d been standing there.

She rose up on her elbow. “What do you want, Gray?”

“I want you.”

Heat swept her from crown to toes. She lay there waiting, suddenly uncertain how to speak or move or even breathe. The small sounds of waves lapping against the boat and canvas snapping in the breeze swelled to a deafening roar.

He leaned forward, placing one hand on either side of her legs. The bed creaked under his weight. Falling back on the pillow, Sophia let out a small squeak of her own.

He prowled up her body, moving forward on hands and knees, until he caged her completely. His scent, hot and male, engulfed her. The front of his shirt hung loose, and as he crawled over her, the fabric brushed against her belly, then her br**sts. Her ni**les peaked instantly. His hand captured her chin, his thumb and fingers framing her jaw. Her pulse beat wildly against his palm. Though his face hovered mere inches above hers, she could barely make out his features. Moonlight glinted off the bridge of his nose and the neat, blunt edge of his teeth. He inhaled slowly, and Sophia could have sworn he sucked that breath straight out of her lungs.

He was everywhere around her—his strength, his heat, his rum-scented breath. She was powerless to do anything but stare up at him, eyes wide and straining in the dark. Her lips began to tremble.

He stilled them with his own. A brief, tender kiss that loosened every joint in her body. And now she trembled everywhere.

Still cupping her jaw, he broke the kiss. A breeze, ribbon-thin and cool as  satin, rushed between their lips, only to be chased away by his hot, urgent whisper: “I want you.”

This time, his mouth crushed down on hers, insistent and bruising. He lowered himself onto her, and Sophia thrilled to the way her body instinctively molded around his. Her lips parting to suckle his tongue, her br**sts flattening under his chest, her thighs gripping his hips as he insinuated his legs between hers. And, oh God—when his hips forced her thighs wide and the hard ridge of his arousal pressed home through the layers of trousers and chemise—she was already softened and wet for him there.

Because she wanted him, too.

He ground his hips against hers, and she moaned around his tongue. There was nothing like the feel of this, his body hard and eager and crushed against hers. Knowing that she’d made him this way, driven him desperate with need until nothing—not pride or money or lies—could keep him away.

He pulled away suddenly, rising up to his knees. His shirt fluttered up over his head, a white sail caught in the moonlight and swept away into shadow. He reached between them, loosening the cord of his trousers. As he worked the knot, the back of his hand brushed against her mound, and Sophia gave a wanton sigh. When he finished, she bent her knees and hooked her toes under the loosened waistband. He leaned over her again, and she slowly dragged the trousers down over his hips, savoring the feel of hard muscle and downy hair under the arches of her feet. She felt his erection spring free and brush against her thigh. They moaned in unison. And that was the final leisurely caress. They moved quickly now—to seize this time, this pleasure, this chance, before it could slip away into the night. He kicked off his trousers, and together they tussled with her chemise, bunching it up to her br**sts and tugging it over her head.

“Gray,” she whispered, reaching for him in the dark.

“I want you.” He buried his face in her hair as they tumbled back onto the pillows. “God, how I want you. I want to kiss you.” He pressed his lips to her ear, her neck, the small notch at the base of her throat. “Touch you.” His hands, rough with fresh calluses, roamed over her br**sts and hips, kneading greedy handfuls of flesh. “Lick you.”