Page 60 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo
“I see,” she murmured, as though she didn’t see at all. “Why are cats considered good luck on a ship?”
“It’s been thus for as long as men have taken to the sea,” he answered almost irritably. Was it her aim to torture him? To explore the sensitive columns of muscle beside his spine as they discussed maritime superstitions and accursed felines? “They kill mice and rats. Which was helpful in times of plague, I imagine.”
“Oh…” His ears perked to a disenchanted tone in her voice. He realized, belatedly, that in this case the truth might better serve them both. He took a deep breath, willing himself to try. “Barnaby mentioned that the beasts in the menagerie would be all right without you for a time, but without constant care, the young kittens would die. Their deaths would have… distressed you.”
“Oh.” This time, her voice seemed a bit brighter, and he wished that she was not behind him so he could see her face. Had he pleased her?
Not that it mattered. It didn’t. A delighted sort of warmth spread up his neck, taunting him for a liar.
“It has not been apparent that my distress is of great concern to you,” she remarked dryly.
He scowled, his pulse elevating. “Were that the case, I’d have fucked you a dozen times by now. I’d have spent the night in here, instead of in the rain. I’d have pulled you into that bath with me and washed the sweat and leavings of our sex off ofand out ofyou before supping on your slick flesh. So be careful of tossing about accusations, Lorelai, or I might decide to live up to them.”
He clamped his lips shut, then. How distressing that she continued to goad him into speaking without careful estimation. A dangerous influence of hers, that.
The tickle of her short, shocked breaths against his back distracted him from his ire and spread chill bumps across his entire body.
She must have noticed, because she silently resumed her hesitant ministrations with the towel. When it dipped below his waistline, his hips, and he felt her fingers trail below his ass, he had to close his eyes against a wave of desire so exquisite, it threatened to buckle his knees.
She’d knelt down, drying his legs from the back and reaching around his thighs to be thorough.
He glanced back at her bent head, her eyes no doubt fixed firmly on the floor.
Clever girl. She’d avoided the sight of and all contact with his sex as best she could.
But she was on her knees. All he had to do was turn around and her mouth would be right there…
Something in his jaw cracked, along with his self-possession.
Without thinking, he bent down, grasped her arms, dragged her to her feet, and pressed his lips to hers. He wouldn’t force her. He’d keep his word. But their first kiss had been enough to span the memory of two decades, and damned if he could live without tasting her again.
She made a sound, though whether shock, protest, or surrender he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.
He had, indeed, fancied that he’d tasted her lips on the rain, had savored the memory of her innocent kiss on the darkest nights of his life, and it had still been like trying to catch the warmth of the sun from its reflection on the cold moon.
A lovely, but pale comparison.
With a throaty growl, he locked her body against him with one arm. His other hand slipped past the collar of the shirt she wore until his fingers found the delicate nape of her neck. He spread his fingers up her scalp, threading them in the flaxen tangles of her unbound hair until her head rested in his palm.
How long had he waited? How many nights had he imagined this? Burned for it? When he’d been chained in the hull of a ship, whipped, stabbed, beaten, or starved, this was the future he’d clung to.
Thiswas the moment he’d lived for.
He’d once been a tortured slave who had mutinied, looted, and gorged on the feasts of the wealthy exotic merchants who’d kept him like a ravenous hound.
And even that meal wasn’t as splendid as this.
She tasted of simple joy. Of innocent pleasure. Of tea and honey and hope.
Her hands rested on his bare chest and, though her arms were tense, she didn’t push him away.
He wanted to savor all of her. Every soft, delicate, hidden part. Behind her ears, the supple curve of her bare shoulder, the taut peaks of her breasts, her quivering belly.
His tongue slid past her lips, enticed by the wicked fantasy he’d conjured. He lapped and nibbled at her in a warm mimicry of what he thirsted for.
An intimate taste of her.
He yearned to feast on her desire, and then on the warm rush of her pleasure. A pleasure he wrought upon her before he finally claimed his own and lost himself inside her. His was an appetite crafted only forthiswoman, and he’d not be satisfied until he’d sampled every lush, pale or pink inch of her.
