Page 65 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“I suppose I did.”

Her otherworldly eyes locked with his.

“What would you do with me?”

He groaned. Miss Fletcher was ruining him. She craved the fantasy, and damn his eyes, he wanted to give it to her. He shifted on his seat, heaviness expanding in his smalls. This excursion was meant to make her comfortable for sensual adventures to come. Women, even the bold ones, needed a certain amount of trust. But true to form, Miss Fletcher was flipping nature on its head.

The woman was a siren; that’s what she was.

“The average pirate,” he said, “would put a siren in a tower and surround her with the finest silks and velvets. All the luxuries to please a woman. That, however, would be a mistake with you.”

Delight lit her face. “Did you saysiren?”

“I did.”

“But I’m not—”

“Shhhh.”He touched her mouth. “It’s my answer. I’ll say what I want.”

She smiled against his finger.

“The siren of White Cross Street—the rarest of sirens—needs adventures and cosseting in equal measure.” He traced her mouth. Her lower lip hinting at passion; her upper lip hinting at intellect. “Only a fool would enshrine her in a tower.”

She was a little breathless. “That was better than poetry.”

He and Miss Fletcher stared at each other, aninvisible string connecting them, pulling him, pulling her, winding them ever closer. Their breaths mingled. The draw was powerful. Addictive. He couldn’t stop. Her face tipped to his. Submissive, desirable.

Until at last, their lips touched.

Miss Fletcher hummed a blissful little sound. Her mouth, so, so soft. Velvet and warmth.

A shudder broke him.

His eyelids closed, their weight too much.

He couldn’t think or maneuver. There was only this tender joining. Their long, sweet kiss. A treasure to hoard. Miss Fletcher’s lips parted under his, guiding and giving. Adrift on a sea of pleasure, he was hapless, the tide of emotions changing him. She inched into the shelter of his body as though this gentle storm overwhelmed her and she needed the protection only he could give.

Her breath grazed his jaw. Her breast brushed his arm. He dug his hands into her hair, the silk slipping through his fingers. He kissed her deeply, his comely siren. She was everything supple and sweet, her contented sighs music to his soul. Her clean scent a comfort. Fragile and strong was Miss Fletcher... and she was giving herself to him.

Age-old mysteries whispered. If their first kiss was carnal, this, their second kiss, was exquisite. Something perfect. It should never end.

Except the world lurched.

It might’ve been Thomas’s heart, or it might’ve been the pleasure barge. He couldn’t tell the difference.

“Cheyne Walk, Chelsea,” a voice announced.

The untouching of Thomas’s mouth to hers left him wanting. A loss. He curled a hand at his side.Tacit separation came, infinitesimal yet enough to steal Miss Fletcher’s warmth from him.

She watched him under sable lashes, her eyes glossy, black erotic orbs. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to hold himself together. They were both ruined by this kiss, while life went on outside the saffron tent. Oars were stacked. Ropes were tossed, and two men jumped onto the dock to moor the vessel. Mr. Winston’s portly profile became a silhouette beyond their tent.

The master bargeman cleared his throat. “We’ve arrived, Mr. West.”

“A minute, if you please.” Thomas hardly recognized his lust-thick voice.

Miss Fletcher folded her body into his, her eyes imploring him. Even desperate.

She was too shaken to move. He was too devastated to let her go.