When the sounds of scratching faded, she entered the storeroom and turned to rest the milk pail on a waist-high crate.
A hand clapped on her shoulder.
Milk sloshed over the side of the pail, dousing her hand and splattering her skirts. A startled cry whooshed out of her as an arm whipped around her waist. Her back collided with a wall of heat and muscle.
“Is this what you wanted?” The rough whisper warmed her ear.
“Gray.” She nearly fainted with relief. He held her tight against him with one arm, his other hand skimming over the curve of her hip. “Gray, what on earth are you doing? You made me spill the milk, drat you.”
“It won’t go to waste.” Resting his chin on her shoulder, he untangled her fingers from the pail’s handle. Bending her arm at the elbow, he lifted her fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean one by one. His tongue traced each finger and the delicate webs between them, sending gooseflesh rippling down the backs of her legs.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” His fingers interlaced with hers, squeezing them until they hurt. “Your dream lover, lurking in the shadows of the stables, the larder … the storeroom? Lying in wait for his wanton dairymaid?”
Sophia froze. Dear God, he’d seen The Book. He nipped at the curve of her neck, and she gasped. “You—” She swallowed hard. “You had no right to look through that.”
“You had no right to put me in it.” She could hear the raw edge of anger in his voice. His fingers still gripping hers, he pressed her own hand to her breast. “But let’s not dwell on rights, sweet. Not when wrongs are so much more interesting.”
His hand flexed, digging her own fingers into the flesh of her breast. She felt the soft globe heating in her palm, the nipple firming to a tight knot.
“Gray.” She tried for a reproving tone, squirming in his vise-like grip. His arm tightened about her waist, pulling her backside flush with his hips. The hard ridge of his arousal pulsed against the small of her back, hot and demanding. Her feeble attempts at resistance melted. Hadn’t she been waiting days for just this? Longing for him to reach for her, take her in his arms? Yearning for the feeling of his strength surrounding her once more? Gentle or bruising—the precise manner of the gesture mattered little. What mattered was him. His warmth … his touch … his mouth …
“Did you think of me, as you lay in your bunk at night?” His hand kept kneading her fingers around her breast, chafing her palm against the aching peak. “Did you imagine these coarse hands pawing your body?” He dragged her hand to her other breast, groping impatiently. His lips traced the ridge of her ear, drew on the sensitive lobe with hot, wet suction. The nape of her neck prickled with excitement. Arousal washed through her, sweeping over the surface of her body and rushing together at the apex of her thighs. She closed her eyes and saw red waves of sensation pulse through her with each flick of his tongue against her ear.
Then his teeth closed down hard in a sharp burst of yellow. She gave a little cry, half pleasure and half pain.
“Did you ache for me here?” He pulled her hand down, thrusting it between her legs. Through the layers of shift and skirt, he ground her palm against her mound. She rocked against it, moaning a little. “You did, didn’t you?” His index finger pressed hers into the soft folds of her sex. “Didn’t you?” Another nip at her ear punctuated the question.
“Yes.” Her breath dragged in and out of her, the air tasting dark and musky.
“Did you imagine me coming to you, in that berth at night? As you went about your day? Bending you over some obliging surface and hiking your skirts to your waist?” He untangled her hand from her skirts and pinned it to the crate before her, holding it immobile with the weight of his own. The splintery wood bit into her palm. He released her waist, and with his other hand he grasped a fold of her skirts, expertly drawing them up and up. She hadn’t worn stockings or drawers since they entered the tropics, and the brush of fabric against the bare hollows of her knees sent pleasure shivering through her.
Leaning forward, he bent her at the waist and parted her legs with his thigh. Cool air licked over her inner thighs as he worked his trousers loose, and then his hard length sprang up to wedge snugly in her cleft. He rocked forward, rubbing slowly along the moist, swollen folds of her sex, drawing out the contact in one sweet, torturous, endless caress. She cried out with relief when the tip of him finally grazed that most sensitive bit of her flesh.
With his free hand, he swept her skirts up and away from her legs. “Look,” he demanded, nudging her forward so her chin bent to her chest. “Look.”
She obeyed, looking down to where the ruddy, swollen head of his arousal peeked out from her thatch of tight curls. The sight of their bodies locked together excited her beyond reason.
“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To look at it, touch it, feel it grinding against you. To satisfy all those schoolgirl curiosities about a man’s body and how it fits with yours. To live out all the depraved little fantasies in that book of yours. This is what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?” He pulled back, dragging his hard shaft through her softness until Sophia shuddered with pleasure. He thrust forward again. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she gasped softly. Then louder, “Yes.”
Something like a groan escaped him. “Well,” he breathed against her ear, “I happen to have a few depraved fantasies of my own.”
The words hummed in her ear, sending electric jolts of arousal straight to her core. She whispered, “Tell me.”
Gray’s heart thumped wildly in his chest, each beat matched by a pulse in his groin. Damn, but she was so hot, so wet. He dragged against her again, the friction of their bodies producing a liquid sound that was unspeakably erotic.
He’d meant to stop this here. Or, truthfully, a little ways back. He intended to make her admit that all she’d wanted from him was pleasure, a chance to explore her wanton fantasies. And then he’d planned to walk away, to tell her to find some other man to deceive and discard.
But he’d forgotten how she felt so good. How she felt so right.
“Tell me,” she repeated, her voice husky. When he still hesitated, she added, “Show me.”
And he found refusal was no longer within his power. This was what she wanted, he told himself. She wanted to explore passion and pleasure. Why should he deny her, deny himself?
He released her hand where it lay splayed on the crate. She remained in place, leaning forward at the waist. He settled both hands on her hips, lifting her up and firmly against him, and then he slid his hands up her ribcage, counting one slender rib for every narrow stripe of that damned button-less, hook-less, lacing-free, impenetrable muslin frock.
“My fantasies,” he said hoarsely, hooking his index fingers under the neckline at the midpoint of her back, “start here.”
He gripped the fabric and rent it to her waist in one swift motion. The striped muslin fell away, revealing her stays and a gauzy chemise beneath. He had her laces undone in the space of a breath. Ripping the chemise was the work of an instant, and then her back was exposed to him, elegant planes and graceful ridges and smooth, creamy skin. He ran his fingers over that silky expanse, watching her flesh quiver beneath his touch.
“And they continue here,” he said, sliding his hands beneath the torn edges of the frock and around her ribcage. Easing her loosened stays aside, he took her bared breasts into his hands. Her breath was a sharp hiss as the soft, warm mounds filled his palms. He groped hungrily, thumbing her hard nipples as he nuzzled the curve of her neck.
She worked back and forth against him, stroking her moist, inviting heat over his aching erection. “And then?”
He pinched her nipples, rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers. She shivered as he swept his tongue over her neck and down between her shoulder blades. Oh, she tasted so good, both salty and sweet. “Then you moan my name.”
“Gray.” The word was a throaty plea. His loins answered with a throb.
“You tell me yo
u want me.”
“I want you.”
“Me, and no other.”
“Only you, Gray, only you.”
He slid his hands from her breasts to her hips and lifted, positioning himself at her entrance. “You tell me—”
He stopped himself, struck by the idiocy of what he’d nearly said: You tell me you love me. What a damn fool thought to entertain. This wasn’t love to her, it was just fantasy and lewd imaginings. A chance to satisfy her youthful lust and curiosity. He’d been twenty once. He remembered what it was to chase pleasure, and he certainly hadn’t confused it with love. He’d never contemplated love at all.
Until now.
She rocked backward, taking him into her. Beautiful, searing bliss enveloped him. She was all sweetness and heat and molten sighs, gripping him so tightly he could almost believe, for this moment, that she would never let him go.
He clutched at her hips, pulling her closer until they were fully joined. God, he was losing himself inside her, and it was too late to pull away. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but take the pleasure she offered and give it in return, and make this so damn good that so long as she lived, no matter how far she went from him, she would never, ever forget.
He took her in smooth, powerful strokes that had no end and no beginning, but built on one another—surely, steadily, relentlessly. He reached one hand around to cup her sex, part her gently, and strum the sensitive bud hidden there.
She moaned. She keened. She arched into his thrusts and took him deeper. And finally he felt the little flutters in her thighs and intimate muscles that told him her peak was near. He raced toward it with her, his cries joining hers as the pleasure consumed them both.
And then he simply held her, for as long as he dared.
“Well,” he finally said, withdrawing from her body. “You got what you wanted, then.” A bitter edge tainted the lingering tremors of pleasure singing through him. “We both did.”
“Did we?” She pivoted to face him, and he choked on his breath. How dangerous her beauty was. He thought it might be the death of him. She smoothed the hair off his brow, and he winced at the tenderness in her touch.
“Gray, if you found my book, surely you must know that this kind of … encounter … is not all I want. I want so much more. And I want it with you.”
He closed his eyes, and that picture of the two of them lounging under a willow tree appeared behind his eyelids. He shook his head to dispel it. “You want some fantasy, spun from a girl’s imagination. You want a dream that can never come true.”
The flush of her cheeks faded as she searched his face. “I suppose you’re right. That dream can never come true, if you don’t share it.”
“It’s not—”
“Enough about my dreams.” She put a finger to his lips, then trailed the touch down his jaw. “What is it that you really want, Gray?”
He seized her shoulders. “I want no more lies. No more wild tales and secret fantasies. I want you to tell me everything. Who you are, where you came from, where you’re going. Everything.”
Something softened in those clear, lovely eyes. “I’m so sorry for deceiving you, for hurting you. But I was desperate, don’t you understand? You were pushing me away, and I cared for you so much. And that was nothing, compared to what I feel for you now.” She pressed her hand to his face. “Gray, I—”
“I don’t want to hear this. I want the truth, not excuses.”
She stiffened, withdrawing her touch. “Now there is a falsehood. No one ever wants the truth from me. They just want the pretty package it comes in. If you really wanted to hear the truth, you’d listen. My feelings for you, they’re as true a part of me as my name, or my place of birth. But you never want to hear them. You just keep running away.”
He swallowed, uncertain what to say.
“And of all the people to accuse me of dishonesty—the man who told me I was worth nothing to him but six pounds, eight shillings? The man who ordered me to go to my berth and thank Almighty God he didn’t want me? You have no idea how your lies hurt me.”
Oh, God. “Sweet, if I could only take back those words—”
“But you can’t. You have to live with them now, just as I do.” Arms twisted behind her back, she adjusted and relaced her stays.
“Do you know what I think?” she asked, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. “Never mind the lies—you were happy to be my first. I think you were damn near overjoyed to discover I was a virgin. I doubt you ever truly believed otherwise. It was only when you found the money that everything soured.” She jabbed a finger in his chest. “I know precisely what you were hoping that day. You were hoping your pure, innocent virgin had come along, to spread her legs and redeem your sins with her mystical virtue. Well, surprise, Gray. I’m not perfect. I’ve sins enough of my own to deal with, and I’m not here to save you from yourself.”
Once again, she left him with no words. She was getting far too good at that. Tightening the cord on his trousers, he released his breath in a bewildered sigh. It was so damned hard to argue with the truth. “Sweetheart—”
Holding her dress together with one hand, she threaded the milk pail over her other wrist. “I do have dreams, Gray. Beautiful dreams. And yes, depraved fantasies. I also have a heart. You’re tangled up in all of them, and you can ignore me or run from me, but you can’t ask me to deny my feelings any longer.”
She stopped and studied him. Then she rose up on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek. It struck Gray as a pitying sort of gesture, but he could not bring himself to spurn it.
“I know what you want, Gray. I know what it is you really need to hear. When you’re ready to listen, come let me know.”
Her kiss lingered, long after she’d gone.
“Something’s amiss,” Gray said, jerking his chin upward. “Fore topgallant lift.”
The Kestrel crewman hoisted a lantern and peered up into the darkness. “Where, again? Can’t say as I see it.” Then he turned and peered at Gray. “It all looks right as roses to me.”
“A line’s gone slack.” With an exasperated sigh, Gray extended a hand. “Lend me your marlinespike; I’ll see to it myself.”
The sailor did not argue, but handed over the marlinespike with a shrug. “You’re the captain.”
Gray scaled the foremast rigging, climbing hand over hand past the foresail and fore topsail yards. When he reached the topgallant, he made a perch for himself and rested. There was nothing wrong with the line, or the sail. He’d known that before he began climbing. But there was something amiss with him, and he needed the space and distance to examine it.
Cool night air buffeted him, rushing through the loose weave of his tunic and blasting the staleness from his skin. It felt almost as good as a proper bath.
Her question from that afternoon haunted him. What was it that he really wanted? For a self-centered libertine, it had been an oddly long time since he’d pondered that question. For the past two years, he’d poured, bled, and sweated himself into this shipping business. His goals were clear. He wanted Joss to become his partner; he wanted Bel to have her London debut; and he wanted to provide security and a measure of status for their family as a whole. But what did he want for himself? It had been years since he’d allowed himself to spin fantasies of a happy future—not since he was a youth of Davy’s age. Happiness, he’d concluded, was meant for other men: men who lived honorably, kept their promises, built honest fortunes. Men who deserved it. Gray simply took pleasure where he found it, then left it behind. It was mad, and more than a bit dangerous, for a scoundrel like him to dream of lasting joy.
But now she was dreaming it for him. For them. Naïve, fanciful thing that she was, she genuinely believed they could live happily ever after. None of his angry words or dark confessions had persuaded her otherwise.
Remarkable. He’d finally met the one girl he couldn’t disillusion.
And so, soaring through the darkness, rocked by waves and blanketed by s
tars, Gray decided to try an experiment. He shut his eyes and dared to dream.
He wanted someone to share his life. To share his burdens, his triumphs, his home and his bed. The longing assailed him, nearly flinging him from the mast with its intensity. It was as though a well of yearning existed inside him, deep and limitless, and he’d been keeping it tightly capped for years, lest he fall into it and drown. And now it flooded him, coursed in his veins like his lifeblood.
He wanted … he wanted so many things. Simple pleasures. To buy her a dozen muslin frocks to replace the one he’d destroyed today. To feed her succulent fruits and ripe cheeses and slices of roasted meat. To lay his head in her lap and feel her fingers in his hair, and listen to all her fanciful tales and dreams. To share thoughts without exchanging words. To lay with her, be in her, feel her body surround him as often as she’d allow. And a child … God, how he wanted a child. He’d been fighting that desire for more than a year, ever since he’d cradled his newborn nephew in his arms. It was irresistible in the most base, selfish way, this impulse to create a life. A child would be bound to love and admire him, no matter what he did. A child would be bound to accept his love. A child would bind him to her, forever.
Somehow it always circled back to her. He wanted her.
This was the voyage he’d meant to go respectable. He thought he’d lost that chance in the taking of her virtue, then the discovery of her lies and that bundle of gold beneath her stays. The futility of all his struggling had burned a black, smoking crater in his soul. But perhaps that was exactly what he’d needed: a blast to his petrified heart, and this resultant void that only she could fill. Perhaps, at long last, what he wanted and what was right were one and the same.
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