She shook her head. “Next time.” She wriggled beneath him, drawing her skirts up to her waist. The erotic dance of her hips had him trembling with need. “Next time, we’ll go slowly. We’ll do everything you told me this morning, and more.” She gasped as he palmed her breast through the wet muslin. Her fingers hooked under the waistband of his trousers, and she looked up at him with a bold, smoldering gaze. “But I need you now, Gray.”
With a low groan, he leaned over to suck one pert nipple straight through the layers of shift and frock. She moaned and arched against him, working his buttons loose with one hand, until her fingers slid down into his smallclothes to caress the swollen head of his erection.
Oh, God. He needed her now, too. He needed her now, and again later, and perhaps a third time that night. And tomorrow and the next day and every day after that. He was pulsing with need, straining into her touch, and as her fingers curled around him, they both gasped.
She stroked him gently, so sweetly he wanted to weep for the joy of it. He slid one hand up her thigh to find her hot and wet and grinding against his palm. Next time, he promised himself. Next time, he would take the time to touch her and taste her and learn her responses and watch her beauty unfurl at the peak of passion.
But she needed him now, and he needed her now, and now wasn’t a minute or even a second later. Now was now. Gray brushed her hand away, positioned himself at her hot, wet entrance, and thrust.
She cried out, digging her fingers into his arms so hard he nearly cried out, too.
Oh, God. She was so tight. Too tight. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks even as she tried to look brave. And Gray finally understood that elusive, un-nameable sweetness that always lingered about her, beneath the powder and rose water.
It was innocence.
His little siren was a virgin.
“Why—” His breath hitched in his chest as he struggled for control. “Oh, sweet, you should have told me the truth.”
“I’m telling you now.” She swallowed hard, sliding one hand up to cradle his face. “Only you, Gray. Now and always. Only you.”
“But what about—”
She silenced him with a finger to his lips, then trailed the touch slowly down his chin, down the center of his chest. “There’s never been anyone else. Only you.”
Gray shook his head, uncertain what to believe. Her words were some sort of miracle, and so were her thighs cradling his hips, and her hair fanned out like a shining halo around her head. A fierce, primal joy flooded his chest, to know that she was his, and his alone.
His to possess; his to pleasure.
He shifted his weight on his hands, and as he did, he sank another inch into her. They both winced.
His to hurt.
“Sweetheart, I can’t bear to hurt you.”
“It’s all right,” she said through quivering lips. “Honestly, it feels better already.”
He knew she was lying. He rocked his hips backward with every intention of withdrawing, but she hooked her legs over his.
“No,” she gasped, her body tightening around his in every way imaginable. “You can’t leave me. You promised.”
He groaned as the exquisite friction pulled him back in. Gritting his teeth to restrain himself, he sank into her slowly. Her eyes grew wide, but she gave him a brave nod of encouragement.
“Yes,” she breathed as he finally buried himself to the hilt and they were completely, perfectly joined. The feel of her surrounding him, holding him—it was like nothing he’d ever dreamed. He squeezed his eyes shut and rocked again slowly. Back and forth, he gently pistoned his hips, grinding against her. Until she said it again, this time releasing the word in an erotic sigh. “Oh, yes.”
It took every ounce of willpower Gray possessed not to lose control that instant and simply drive into her again and again. But she’d trusted him to make love to her, not rut with her. She’d trusted him to be her only one. Now and always. So he kept up the slow, steady rocking of his hips. Feeling her body caress his with each small, measured thrust.
She shut her eyes, and her head rolled back against the pillow. “Oh, Gray,” she moaned, arching into his subtle thrusts now with tiny tilts of her hips. He bent to suckle her breast again, licking the soft peak through the rough, wet fabric.
She clutched his shoulders. He froze, panting above her. His hands fisted in the bed linens as he grappled for control.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m all right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, a teasing note in her voice. She caressed his shoulders. Her fingers trailed down his chest, and she pressed her thumbs against his nipples.
Gray let out a hoarse groan. “I can’t …” His voice trailed off as she craned her neck and kissed his chest. The sweep of her tongue against his neck pushed his restraint to its limit. “Sweet, stop. I want to make this good for you.”
“It is good.” Her teeth grazed his collarbone. “You are good for me.” Her head fell back against the pillow, and she met his eyes. “There’s no pain anymore.”
This time, he believed her. He had to believe her, because his control was in shreds, and nothing but faith remained.
He drove into her now, thrust after blissful, unrestrained thrust. And when she cried out and clung to his neck, he knew it was with pleasure, not pain. Her core convulsed around him, pulling him toward release in waves of raw, mindless need. Then she cupped his face in her hands and blessed him with a single, sweet kiss.
And in the end, it was that kiss that proved his undoing. With a hoarse cry against her lips, he shuddered and collapsed, pumping his release into her. The last tremors of pleasure were still rippling through him, and already he wanted her again. Again, now, always, only.
He settled the length of his body over hers, guarding her between his arms. His rough, gasping breath precluded speech, but they needed no words. There were no words for the transcendent, floating happiness suffusing his limbs and filling his heart. Only kisses. Kiss after deep, heartfelt, unhurried kiss.
It was some time before Gray’s awareness shifted from the wondrous taste of her soft, generous mouth to the strange, angular object pressing into his belly.
He propped himself up on one elbow and slid a hand up her hip, past the glorious Tropic where they remained joined even now, up over her belly to the notch between her ribs. His hand closed around a small, cloth-covered bundle strapped to her torso with bands of cloth. He frowned, feeling the solid object with his fingers, trying to learn its shape.
Money, he realized. It had to be money. He spanned his fingers over it, testing its size. Bloody hell. It was a great deal of money.
“Gray, I can explain.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
“I’m waiting.”
Sophia tensed at the sudden edge in his voice. Surely he couldn’t be angry. Not after the pleasure they’d found, the connection they still shared.
“Gray,” she murmured, stretching her neck to kiss him wherever she could reach. His hard chest, his powerful shoulders bracketing hers. She wanted to thank him, to bless him for the gift he’d given her. Such tenderness, and such pleasure.
Her mother, her sister, her married friends—in the weeks leading up to her wedding, there had been no shortage of women warning Sophia that her first experience in the marital bed would be painful, awkward, and blessedly quick. The ladies had varying opinions on whether the activity would improve with time, but predictions of an unpleasant wedding night were universal.
None of them, she thought with a secret smile, had met Gray. The power in his strong body, the passion he aroused in her, all tempered by such patience, the innate tenderness he hid so carefully from the world. There had been pain, yes. But the pain had been chased away by indescribable pleasure, intense and overwhelming, beyond anything she’d ever imagined.
And Sophia’s imagination was vast.
Embers of desire still smoldered und
er her skin, on her lips, between her legs. She tightened around him, wanting to preserve this moment forever. Lacing her fingers behind his neck, she attempted to pull him down for a kiss.
He wouldn’t budge. “I’m waiting,” he repeated tersely. “Explain.”
She stroked the hair back from his face. “I promise I’ll tell you everything. But for now … please, just hold me.”
He swore, his coarse tone scraping against her nakedness. “I don’t even know who I’m holding.”
He released her abruptly, and Sophia gasped as he withdrew from her body. Somehow it hurt more than when he’d entered her. He rolled away, leaving her uncovered. Damp with rainwater, sweat, and tears. Cold.
“Of course you know me,” she whispered. No one had ever made her feel so accepted as this man did. She feared no one else ever would.
He sat up, turning away and dropping his head in his hands. Sophia rolled onto her side and reached out cautiously to stroke his back. When her fingertip snagged on a sharp obstacle, she winced. “You have splinters in your back.”
“Do I? Well, you have a small fortune between your breasts.”
Sophia struggled to sit up, move closer. “Really, Gray. These must be painful. Let me—”
“Leave it be.” He jerked away. Sophia curled her hand and let it fall to the bed. His voice measured, he continued, “Your name isn’t even Jane Turner, is it?”
“The name Turner is … borrowed. Jane is mine.” And it was truly hers, if only her middle name. That part could not count as a lie. Minimizing the number of her falsehoods seemed of sudden importance.
“You weren’t ruined.”
“But I was.” Perhaps she had been a virgin until today, but her reputation was surely in tatters.
“Don’t lie to me.” He shot her a hard look, his eyes awash with anger. “You were a virgin.”
Sophia didn’t understand his ire. Yes, she’d deceived him, but shouldn’t he be happy, that he’d been her first lover? Her only lover, if she had her wish? “Yes, but—”
“Then you weren’t ruined. Though you are now, thanks to me.” He swore again. “You lied to me. You knew I didn’t want to take your innocence, so you tricked me into it. God, what a conniving little thing you are.”
His words chilled her to the core. Sophia smoothed the fabric of her dress back down, covering her shivering legs. “Gray, it was not like that. You have to give me a chance to expl—”
“You’re not even a governess, are you?”
She chewed her lip. “No.”
“Of course not. No woman with those assets”—he gestured brusquely toward her breasts and the money strapped beneath them—“need seek employment. How much is there? Two hundred pounds? Three?”
“Nearly six.”
“Bloody hell.” He ran his hands through his hair, then curled them around the edge of the bed. “No one comes by that kind of coin honestly. Who are you then? A thief? A fugitive? Some sort of swindler?”
All of the above. Sophia clutched the blankets around her, as if they could protect her from his angry words. She knew this was a tangle of her own making, but she’d never dreamed it would be so difficult to make straight. Once he embraced her, she’d imagined, he would happily embrace the truth as well. She’d even expected he’d be amused, to hear the full story at last. But now … his obvious displeasure suggested otherwise. Fear built within her, swift and treacherous.
“Does it really matter?” she asked, her voice weaker than she’d like. “After all that we’ve shared?” She slid one leg toward him, until her thigh grazed his fingertips.
“What we’ve shared?” He pulled his hand away. “What have you shared with me, but lies?”
How could he say such a thing? She’d shared everything with him. Her artistry, her most secret fantasies. Heavens, she’d touched herself in front of him. Now she’d given him her virtue, in a moment of passion and tenderness surpassing anything she’d ever known. And he was rejecting that gift, as though it were nothing. Rejecting her.
“Christ.” Hiking his trousers to his waist, he stood and turned to face her. The look in his eyes was not quite revulsion, but rather an expression of utter disbelief. “I told you things. About myself, about my family. I told you things I’ve never told another soul. Now I learn you’re no more than a stranger to me.” He swore again.
“Must you persist in swearing?”
“Yes, I think I must. Damn it, I thought I was done bedding nameless women.”
Now Sophia was growing angry, too. “I see. And now I suppose you intend to continue?”
He froze, arm extended to retrieve his shirt. For a long moment, Sophia stared at him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Finally, he pulled the shirt over his arms and head, tucking it into his trousers with motions that bespoke controlled fury. “You’re right,” he said coolly, buttoning his falls. “After what we just did … it doesn’t matter.”
“What doesn’t matter?” Sophia swallowed around the lump in her throat. “The truth? Or me?”
He pierced her with an icy look, one boot poised on the ladder leading up to the hatch. “How can you even ask me that?”
How can you be so cruel? A sob smothered the question. She hugged her arms across her chest, blinking away tears.
“Sweet.” The slight rasp in his voice tugged her eyes back up. His gaze deepened, made room to hold hers. “Right now, there are dead and dying men up there, and a disabled ship in need of repair. At the moment, they are what matters. Stay here. I will come back.” He mounted the ladder. “We’ll deal with this later.”
Then he was gone.
Sophia fell back onto the bed, curling into herself like the head of a fern. We’ll deal with this later? How hateful that sounded. How final. She didn’t want to be dealt with. She wanted to be comforted. She wanted to be held. She wanted something she hadn’t felt in so long, she scarcely remembered how to name it—but she dared to imagine she deserved it, just the same.
She wanted to be loved.
He didn’t come back that night. Her only visitors were Gabriel, who politely ignored her bedraggled, tear-stained appearance when he brought her evening tea and biscuit, and Stubb, who delivered her trunks to the captain’s cabin. Evidently, the ladies’ berths had been appropriated as a makeshift hospital for the Kestrel’s wounded.
Unfamiliar voices and late-night activity obscured the Aphrodite’s usual nocturnal symphony—bells and creaking wood and the reedy whistle of the breeze. Huddled in the center of the bed, Sophia drifted in and out of shallow sleep, straining her ears to catch any echo of his rich baritone, or the squeaking hinges of the hatch. If Gray did come to her, she wanted to be awake. But she kept watch in vain, and exhaustion finally claimed her with the first rays of dawn.
When she woke, it was to full daylight. Sophia bolted straight up in bed, her heart pounding. An argument was brewing directly above her, near the ship’s helm. Even with the hatch closed, she could make out not only Gray’s voice, but the captain’s, as well as O’Shea’s thick brogue. And a few unfamiliar voices as well. Although he was not addressing her, the timbre of Gray’s voice was as hollow and unforgiving as a bell struck on a winter morning—just the way she’d heard it last.
She rose from bed and went to the tiny round looking glass attached to the cabin wall, realizing with wonder that she hadn’t looked in a mirror since leaving England. The image reflected there was greatly altered. Her skin was a shade or two darker—resembling bone more than porcelain—and lightly freckled from the sun. Some of the curves had sharpened to angles; her features caught more shadows now. When she squinted, faint lines pleated at the corners of her eyes, and even when she relaxed her expression, the lines had the audacity to linger. She was still beautiful, Sophia told herself, with no false or undue modesty. But it was no longer a pampered debutante’s face that stared back at her.
She was a woman now. A fallen woman in truth, alone in the world, responsible for her own choices. She had to pull herself togeth
er, be strong. No more tears, she admonished herself, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Gray could not ignore her forever. He would come to her eventually, most likely to hurl further angry accusations. When the time came, she would not weep or make excuses. She most certainly would not beg.
But by God, she would look pretty.
She washed her face and dabbed cold tea under her eyes to relieve the puffiness. Rifling through her trunks, she located her hairbrush and dusting powder. At least her hair, which had grown stiff with salt over the past three weeks, had been rinsed clean by yesterday’s storm. Now dry, it tumbled about her shoulders in golden waves.
She’d washed out her sprigged muslin a few days ago, and it was as clean as it could get. When she reached into the trunk to retrieve the frock, however, her fingers lingered over a bundle at the bottom. Crisp tissue crackled under her touch, sliding over the silk beneath. She was tempted to unwrap the dress, to draw the fine fabric over her limbs and bathe her whole body in elegance as she hadn’t done in weeks.
She resisted the temptation, reaching for the sprigged muslin instead. That tissue-wrapped dress was her best, and she was not yet sure Gray deserved her best. She was not convinced he even wanted it.
Powdered and dressed, her hair neatly coiled and pinned atop her head, Sophia peered into the mirror once again and pinched her cheeks to a high blush before mounting the ladder. The sounds of men arguing had grown louder.
She pushed open the hatch just a crack. Enough that she could distinguish the violent words being slung about like daggers and peer out at deck level. She recognized Gray’s fine boots immediately, sooty as they were from the fire. He stood close to the rail, at the ship’s stern. The sun was bright this morning; the men cast long shadows across the deck.
A gravelly, unfamiliar voice assailed her from somewhere near the ship’s wheel. “I’m telling you, you bastard, you’re going to pay for that rum. In gold or goods, I don’t care which.”
“Captain Mallory.” Gray’s baritone was forbidding. “And I apply that title loosely, as you are no manner of captain in my estimation … I have no intention of compensating you for the loss of your cargo. I will, however, accept your thanks.”
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