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 breasts. Her nipples 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 breasts 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 breasts 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 breasts and hips, kneading greedy handfuls of flesh. “Lick you.”
Sophia shivered at the mere words, and when his tongue made hot, wet contact with her skin, she gasped. A trail of gooseflesh rose up in the wake of his tongue as he traced the slope of her collarbone.
“I want to suckle you,” he murmured against her skin, sliding down her body to draw her nipple into his mouth. She arched, gasping his name. He pulled gently at first, holding the tight bud firmly between his lips as his tongue flicked lightly over the peak. Sparks danced over her skin with each teasing caress. Then he sucked harder, catching her nipple between his teeth, and pleasure mingled with pain. Sophia twined her hands into his hair, digging her fingernails into his scalp—whether to wrench him away or hold him there forever, she didn’t know.
Then he released her nipple, and his rough chin scraped against her breast. She opened her eyes to find him staring up at her, studying her intently in the darkness, as if counting her shallow breaths. Dark-blue eyes reflected tiny silver moons. All the while, his fingers toyed with her other nipple, pinching and rolling it until she bit back a moan.
“Sweet,” he said, the smooth edge of his voice frayed. “I want to taste you. Let me taste you.”
Hooking one arm under each of her knees, he sank between her thighs. Sophia gasped as he raised his shoulders, pushing her knees to her hips and spreading her legs wide. Her eyes squeezed shut. Never had she felt so naked, so exposed. She gave thanks for the robe of shadow night afforded her.
The darkness did not hinder Gray. His mouth went straight to her core. Sophia bucked when his tongue delved into the cleft of her sex.
“Shhh.” The rush of his breath caressed her most intimate places. “Trust me.”
Inhaling slowly, she willed herself to relax. “Yes.”
He bent his head again, learning her body with his mouth, seeking the center of her pleasure. How could such tender, gentle exploration give rise to sensations so unbearably acute? His hands tightened over her hips, holding her down while his lips and tongue teased her most sensitive spot. And when his tongue dipped inside her, she cried out.
The climax burst through her, wave after wave of bliss rippling out from her center. And even as the tremors faded, he kept up his efforts, licking and gently suckling her swollen flesh.
“Gray,” she panted, tugging on his hair. “Gray, please.”
He unthreaded his arms from her legs and kissed his way up her belly before sitting back on his heels. “I want you.” He pushed her knees wide. “I want to know that you will never spread these legs for another man.” He wedged his hips snugly between her thighs and pushed into her, an inch. Sophia whimpered and reached for him.
He caught her hands in his, interlacing their fingers. Her arms bent at the elbows as he leaned forward, pinning her hands to the pillow.
“I want to know that no other man will ever have this.” He pushed in a bit further.
It wasn’t enough. Sophia strained toward him, wrapping her legs over his. “Gray. Oh, God. More.”
He thrust into her roughly, his fingers tightening over hers. “I want you to know that you are mine.” He withdrew and thrust again, this time sheathing himself to the hilt. “Mine.” Thrust. “Mine.”
Sophia’s body sang under his tender assault, even as her heart ached. She longed to wrap her arms around him, draw him close. Whisper promises into his ear and hold him until he understood not just that she was his, but that he was hers. He was striving so hard to conquer her, but she knew all he wanted, in his heart, was to be claimed.
He held her hands in iron grips as he pushed into her, again and again. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto her breasts and her neck. The
bed protested his every stroke, and she moaned with it.
“I want you.” Rasping breaths broke up his words; he punctuated each phrase with a thrust. “I want you … to be mine. Now. Always.”
“Yes.” She wrapped her thighs tightly over his hips, embracing him the only way she could. “Always.”
“I want to fill you with my seed. I want you to bear my child.” His pace quickened; his eyes squeezed shut.
“Gray,” she gasped, feeling a rush of pleasure as he tilted his hips. Now his pelvis ground against hers, lifting her to a higher plane of ecstasy with each deep thrust. Her mouth fell open as pleasure mounted within her, spiraling up and up.
“I want you,” he growled, his fingers tightening over hers. “I want the truth.”
He froze. Time slowed, teetered on the edge of an abyss.
“I want the truth,” he repeated, pushing into her again. Then he stopped, completely sheathed in her, the full length of him filling her, pressing hard against her womb. He released her hands and bent over her, burying his face in her neck.
“God, sweet, can’t you understand? I want you. All of you. I want to know you, inside and out. I want you to know me. Nothing will change that, I swear to you. You can tell me anything. I’m ready to hear it.”
With trembling hands, she cradled his head. “I love you.”
“That’s not …” He stiffened in her arms and began to withdraw. Sophia arched her body and clasped him to her, drawing him back in. “Oh, God,” he groaned, sinking into her again. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” She wove her fingers into his hair and kissed his earlobe. “Gray, it’s the truth. I love you.”
The muscles of his neck went rigid under her fingertips. His hands slid down to cup her bottom, lifting her hips. Oh, and now he was so deep, so solid inside her. The tempo of his thrusts increased, driving her to a helpless crescendo.
Ragged breaths scorched her ear. “Tell me again. Tell me the truth.”
“I love you.”
Faster, now. Urgent. Desperate. She was soaring toward release.
“Tell me more,” he demanded, his teeth scraping her shoulder.
“You love me, too.”
His lips found hers, and then the truth was there—in this kiss, in their joining, in the exquisite pleasure that shuddered through them both and the hot bursts flooding her womb.
They collapsed together, damp with sweat and gasping for breath. He lay still only moments before starting again, seeding light kisses along her neck, palming her breast in his callused hand.
“You are so beautiful,” he sighed into her hair.
She tried to check her girlish giggle, unsuccessfully. “Gray, it’s dark as pitch. You can’t even see me.”
“Even in the dark,” he murmured against her skin. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, even in the dark.”
Suddenly, it was tears Sophia fought to suppress. She lost that battle, too.
“I swear I’ll never leave you,” he whispered. “I said it before, and I mean it still. I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, because your future is with me. If I never learn your name, it doesn’t matter. I intend to give you mine.”
He rose up on one elbow and smoothed the hair from her brow. His smile was a flash of white in the dark. “You can be ‘Mrs. Grayson’ to the world, but to me … to me, you’ll always be ‘sweet.’ I don’t think I could call you anything else.”
Sophia swallowed hard. Did he mean what she thought he meant? “Are you certain? I may still get my courses.”
“I’m certain. I’ve never been more certain.”
“I thought you weren’t the marrying sort.”
“I wasn’t. And it’s a damn good thing, too, or I’d be off with some inconvenient wife instead of here with you.” His hand drifted down to her belly. “You could be carrying my child. I want our child. I want a life with you.”
Hope fluttered in her chest. “Gray …”
“Shhh.” He laid a finger against her lips. “Don’t say anything, unless it’s yes.”
The silence was unbearable, the darkness palpable.
Gray kept his finger against her lips, suddenly afraid to move. If he released her and she didn’t say yes …
Doubt seeped into his mind, inviting panic to follow. How had he come to care so deeply for this woman, in just a few short weeks? How had he come to care so deeply for anything? And how did he dare to believe he deserved her, deserved this happiness?
Her lips trembled under his touch; or perhaps his finger trembled against her lips. He felt as though a heavy weight balanced on the fulcrum of his heart. One sigh, one breath from her could topple it. Could crush him.
She swallowed, and beneath his fingertip, her lips thinned, separated. A slender crescent of white rent the dark. She was smiling.
Don’t hope, he bade his hammering heart. Women smile with regret as often as not.
Slowly, he slid his finger downward, releasing her. The world stilled. He felt like a convict awaiting his sentence, absurdly hoping for life imprisonment.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes?” Hearing it once was not enough.
The crescent of white swelled, like a waxing moon. “Yes.”
He clutched her shoulders. “Yes,” he prompted again. Hearing it twice was not enough, either.
She hugged him close, her legs over his hips and her arms linked around his neck. He was still inside her, and she tightened around him there, too. Arousal pulsed in his groin, and he began to thicken once again in her velvet embrace.
Craning her neck, she kissed him. “Yes,” she murmured against his lips, over and over between hungry tastes. “Yes, Gray. Yes.” Her head fell back against the pillow. “I love you.”
Just like that, he was hard again. God, he would never get enough of this woman. His woman. And miracle of miracles, she hadn’t had enough of him yet, either. Her pelvis rolled beneath his, sending currents of pleasure through him with each clever tilt. She stroked his back, her touch feather-light and cool against his skin.
“Sweet.” He moved his hand between them, stroking her where their bodies joined. “I swear I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you happy.” He prayed it was the truth.
“Mmmm,” she moaned. “Oh, yes.”
Once, twice, a dozen times. Gray could not hear that word enough. He loved her slowly, relentlessly, until she panted and sighed the words, “yes,” “Gray,” and “God” so many times they felt like sacred vows.
Then he watched her sleep curled up beside him, until dawn painted her nakedness in warm, glowing strokes of light. He’d made love to her four times now, he realized, but this was his first chance to truly look upon her body. She was every inch as lovely as he’d imagined, if not more. He felt a bit guilty, realizing he’d chastised her for sketching his likeness, when he’d been conjuring an image of her nude form nightly for weeks. The only difference was, he hadn’t committed his fantasies to paper.
It would take a Renaissance master to capture this beauty.
Her hair spilled across the pillow and his outstretched arm, a million threads of the finest silk floss. When she woke, he vowed, he would brush it until it gleamed. He admired the smooth disc of her areola, relaxed in sleep. Then he blew surreptitiously across it, until it ruched to a tight rosette. His gaze wandered lower, to where her navel rose and fell with each breath, like a tiny cork afloat on her slightly rounded belly. An irregular birthmark stood out on the crest of her hip, like a splash of wine on snow.
He touched a finger to it, and she stirred.
“Don’t look at that,” she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I know it’s horrid.”
“Horrid?” Despite the pained expression on her face, he had to laugh. “Sweetheart, I can honestly say that there is nothing about you that’s horrid in the least.”
“My painting master would not agree.”
The bitter taste of envy filled his mouth. “Do
you know, that Frenchman of yours had better hope I never meet with him.”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Not Gervais. Never Gervais. My painting master was an old, balding prig called Mr. Turklethwaite.”
Gray’s bafflement must have been obvious.
She went on, “There was never any Gervais. I mean, you know that I’d never taken a man to my bed, but you must understand … I’ve never allowed another man into my heart, either.” She kissed his brow, then his lips. “I love you, only you.”
God. How brave she was. Tossing those words about as though they were feathers. Could she possibly suspect how they landed in his chest like cannonballs, detonating deep in his heart?
Struggling for equanimity, he asked casually, “So when did this other painting master have occasion to see your birthmark?”
She laughed. “He didn’t. But I painted something like it once, on a portrait of Venus. I told him I thought it lent her an air of reality. Oh, how he scolded me. A lady who paints, he said—” She gave Gray a teasing look. “He would not apply the term ‘artist’ to a female, you see.”
“I see.”
“A lady who paints, he said, should approach the art as she would any other genteel accomplishment. Her purpose is to please; her goal is to create an example of refinement. A true lady would not paint an imperfection, he said, any more than she would strike a false note in a sonata. Beauty is not real, and reality is not beautiful.”
Gray shook his head. “Remarkable. I believe I despise your real painting master even more than I hated the fictional one. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”
She rose up on her elbows, her expression suddenly anxious. “Gray, how can you wish to marry me? There’s so much you don’t know. Some of it is ugly indeed.”
“I know you are mine.” Wanting to reassure her, he laced her fingers with his. “I meant every pledge I made to you aboard the Aphrodite. You are safe with me, and I will never leave you. I came to you with honorable intentions when we made love. I meant to marry you then, knowing no more of you than I do right now. I may not know your history, but I trust that I know your heart.”
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