Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(61)

The task of appearing unaffected by this open lust grew increasingly difficult. After a few minutes, her arm ached from clutching the palette so tightly. Sophia laid both palette and paintbrush on the table and began to knead the spot where her neck met her shoulder, massaging the sore knot of muscle there. The tendrils of hair against her neck were damp with perspiration.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Sophia froze. Her heart stopped beating. Surely she hadn’t heard what she thought she’d—“You heard me.” His chair slid around the table to rest beside hers. “I promised I wouldn’t touch you. So touch yourself for me.”

Her pulse roared back to life, and the pounding rhythm of her heart echoed in dull, forceful beats at the apex of her thighs. Sophia shut her eyes. The suggestion was shocking and thrilling and altogether unspeakable. Impossible. She had to think of a response. A scathing set-down to dash cold water over his ardor. Over hers. She had to douse this wild passion coursing through her veins.

But there was no cold water. Only hot, liquid desire beading on her forehead, trickling down between her br**sts. She’d begun this game of bluffing. She could hardly back down now, when losing the game meant losing him.

As if they moved of their own accord, her fingers left the crest of her shoulder and slowly wandered down the lace-edged slope of her neckline.

“Yes.” The soft hiss of the word slid over her skin like a caress. “Yes. Touch them for me.”

Her ni**les puckered instantly, drawing to hard peaks against her chemise. She hesitated, eyes still tightly shut. Her breath heaved in her chest, lifting the top of her breast against her fingers with each inhalation.

“Yes, sweet. Touch them for me. Five-and-twenty days we’ve been on this ship. Four-and-twenty nights I’ve dreamt of cupping those br**sts in my hands. I’m aching to hold them, to feel them firm and round and soft under my fingers. God, they’re so soft, aren’t they, sweetheart? Just like your hands, your wrists, your lips. You’re so soft, soft as petals all over.”

The deep baritone of his voice rumbled through her, each word setting off a tremor in her core. Sophia bit her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. Curling her fingers around the fabric of her dress and chemise, she dragged them over her shoulder and slowly down, until the neckline would stretch no further. She dipped her fingers under the fabric and lifted her breast, liberating the damp, heavy globe from her bodice. Hot air swirled over her nipple. She shivered, imagining it to be his breath. He was silent for a moment that stretched into an age. Sophia kept her eyes clamped shut, dying a slow, quiet death of exposure and shame. What on earth was she doing, exposing her breast to this man? So wanton, so loose. He’d known she would do it. He’d encouraged her just to tease. To regain the upper hand. If she opened her eyes, he’d be smirking at her. Mocking her.

“Dear God,” he finally breathed. “You are so beautiful. So perfect. Smooth and fair and creamy and round. And sweet, oh sweet. It’s as though I can taste you. Touch your nipple for me.”

Hardly believing what she was doing, Sophia dragged her thumb over the straining peak. White light burst through the darkness behind her eyelids.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Do it again.”

She obeyed.

“Again. God, I want to lick you there. I want to run my tongue around and around and then pull you into my mouth and suckle you hard. Tug on it, sweet. Yes, just like that. I want to lose myself in that softness and feel your arms around me while I suckle you until you moan.”

Sophia rolled her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, imagining his strong, rough hands on her. His lips and tongue caressing her, sucking her. Her breath rushed out in a long, low sigh.

“Yes, louder. Moan for me. Let me hear you.”

Moaning, Sophia cupped her other breast through the fabric of her dress, teasing the taut, hidden bud.

“I want to touch you. All of you. I want to see and stroke every perfect, beautiful inch of you. Your br**sts. Your navel. The backs of your knees. Every last toe. I want to taste you all over. Lick that powder you use right off of your skin. I want to know every secret, hidden part of you. I want to know how it is that you smell like a damned rosebush in the middle of the ocean.”

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He groaned. “Oh, sweet. If you knew what you do to me. I’m aching for you.”

It occurred to Sophia that he might be touching himself, too. Perhaps it ought to have shocked her, that thought. Instead, it drove her to a new peak of excitement. She slid down in her chair, her legs falling apart slightly. Between her thighs, she felt achy and hot. Drenched with sweat and desire.

“Lift your skirts,” came the hoarse command. “Let me see you. I have to see you.”

Lost in a dark haze of passion, Sophia was past thinking, past shame. Her hands slid from her br**sts to the tops of her thighs. She fisted her hands in the thin muslin and slowly hitched the fabric up, baring her ankles. Then her calves.

“More. Higher.”

She obeyed, rucking the muslin up over her knees, smoothing one palm against her sensitive inner thigh.

“Oh, sweet Heaven. Look at you. No stockings, no garters. No drawers, either? Tell me there are no drawers.”

She arched her spine slightly, her head lolling against the back of the chair. She skimmed her hand higher to bare the smooth expanse of her thigh.

He released a ragged sigh. “No drawers, either. I’ll never take you back to England now. This is how I want you, always. Here, in the tropical heat—no petticoats, no stockings, no drawers. Ready for me at any time. And you are ready for me, aren’t you, sweet? You’re so hot and wet. God, how I want to taste you. You’re delicious, even from here.”