Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(62)

Sophia’s heart was pounding so hard, she feared it would explode. Her head spun, dizzy with heat. Her mouth fell open. She was panting. She felt shameless and sensual and more boldly feminine than she’d ever felt in her life.

“Touch yourself for me.” His voice took on a new urgency, grew rough and demanding. “You know the place, I know you do. Touch yourself for me.”

His voice held her in such thrall, she was powerless to disobey, even if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to do everything he told her. She wanted to be here, always, in this sultry tropical fog of desire, and let him do what ever he would with her. Her fingers brushed over the damp nest of curls at the juncture of her thighs, parting the slick folds of her sex to find that swollen, sensitive bit of flesh.

“Oh yes, sweet. Do it for me. I want to taste you there. I want to be in you, feel you tight and clasping around me. I want you moaning for me. Under me. On top of me. I want to have you in every way known to man, and then invent a dozen more. Touch it for me. Imagine it’s me there, touching you. In you.”

The climax broke through her in a crashing wave. She arched up off the chair, her breath caught in a strangled cry. Plea sure jolted through her again and again, until she went limp in its aftermath, shuddering. A blissful peace washed over her first.

Followed by awareness.

Then shame.

Oh, God. What had she just done? With shaking hands, she pushed her skirt back down over her knees. She brought one hand to her still-naked breast and the other to her eyes, squeezing them shut tight. But not tight enough. Hot tears leaked through her trembling lashes.

“Oh no, sweet. No.”

He whispered so tenderly, but the sound of his voice only served as a cruel reminder that he was there. He had seen. The tears came harder, spilling down her cheeks.

“No, sweet, don’t cry.” His voice was low and close to her ear. “Are you—” He paused. “Are you thinking of him?”

She shook her head no.

“Then why do you cry? Surely you’re not embarrassed?”

Sophia sobbed against her hand.

“Oh, sweet. Please don’t. Don’t cry, or I’ll cry with you. You’re the most lovely, most perfect thing I’ve ever seen in all my life, and I could weep for the sheer beauty of you.” Rough fingers smoothed the hair from her brow.

“Don’t ever be ashamed, not with me.”

He tugged her hand away from her face. She kept her eyes shut tight as he kissed her fingertips, one by one, then turned her hand over to plant a heartrendingly tender kiss upon her palm.

Sophia opened her eyes. The ceiling flashed bright above her at first, through a blurry haze of tears. She blinked and sniffed. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable. The burdensome disguise she’d been wearing the entire voyage—wearing her entire life, it seemed—had been stripped away. No more deceptions, no more fantasies. This was all that remained: a weary, wanton, lonely girl with one hand clasped to her naked breast and the other pressed against his lips.

She’d bared herself before him, in every way. As she’d never dared reveal herself to anyone. More truth had passed between them in the last ten minutes than any conversation could relay, and still he held her, soothed her. Would his lips still form such tender words and soft kisses, if he knew the complete truth?

He kissed her palm again. “Don’t cry. I’d die before I’d let anything or anyone hurt you. I couldn’t bear to think I’d caused you such distress.” He pressed her hand against his bearded cheek. She felt his lips graze her temple. “Sweet,” he whispered against her ear. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

Sophia turned her head slowly, until her gaze locked with his. His eyes—they were the purest cerulean blue, and fathoms deep. She caressed his cheek with her thumb. “Oh, Gray.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She said his name, and it pierced him. Like a needle-thin dagger that threaded right between his ribs to embed itself in his heart. And like any sudden wound, it caught him completely off-guard. It hurt. It sent him into shock.

What had just happened? He’d been reading; she’d been painting. They’d argued over paint, discussed colors. He’d teased her until she blushed, and she’d teased him back. She’d touched his face. Oh, how she’d touched him. Then suddenly he was viewing the most erotic display he’d ever witnessed in his life. And that included several erotic displays he’d paid good money to watch.

He’d said things to her. Wild, depraved fantasies he’d never voiced to any woman without paying her handsomely first. Perhaps a few things he’d never said to any woman at all. And she’d listened, and complied. Willingly. With sensual abandon and such sweet trust, it made his heart ache. He’d said anything and everything that came into his mind, to keep her going. To bring her to that peak of pleasure and watch her while she came. That much was good. Very good.

But then she’d cried, and he’d said more. He would have said anything, promised her everything to soothe her. Now he stared into her red, weepy eyes, suddenly realizing how very close he’d come to doing just that—promising her everything—and it scared him into a cold sweat. She dragged that soft, soft thumb across his cheek, and his knees actually trembled. Trembled, damn it!

Gray had no idea what the hell was happening to him, but he knew that it had to be bad. Very bad.