A Gentleman's Honor by Stephanie Laurens

galleon under full sail. He followed, shutting the door, taking note of her gown—a sleekly draped silk confection in bronzy, autumnal shades that became her extremely well.
    She turned on him, faced him; the silk tightened over her breasts as she dragged in a deep breath—
    He heard a click as the door at the head of the corridor opened. The noise of the ball washed in, abruptly cut off again as the door was shut. A woman giggled, the sound quickly smothered.
    Reaching behind him, he snibbed the lock on the door.
    Too far from the corridor to realize the danger, eyes blazing, Alicia opened her mouth to deliver the broadside he undoubtedly deserved.
    He stepped forward, jerked her into his arms, and silenced her—saved them—in the only possible way.

FIVE
    H E KISSED HER.
    Her mouth had been open, her lips parted; he slid between, caressed, claimed—and felt her attention splinter. Her hands had gripped his upper arms; they tensed, but she didn’t push him away. She clung, held on.
    As a whirlpool of want rose up and engulfed them.
    He hadn’t intended it, had had no idea how much he wanted, how much hunger he possessed, or how readily it would rise to her lure. Hands framing her face, he angled his head and flagrantly feasted. Asking for no permission, giving no quarter, he plunged them both into the fire. She was a widow, not a skittish virgin; he didn’t need to explain things to her.
    Such as the nature of his want. His tongue tangling with hers, aggressively plundering, he released her face and gathered her to him. Into his arms, against his hard frame. Glorying in the supple softness that promised to ease his ache, he molded her to him, blatantly shifted his hips against hers. He felt her spine soften as she sank into him.
    As her bones melted and her knees gave way.
    Alicia struggled to cling to her wits, but time and again he ripped them away. Her breath was long gone; with their mouths melded she could only breathe through him—she’d given up the fight to do otherwise.
    Her head spun—pleasurably. Warmth, burgeoning heat, spread through her veins. Intoxicating. Shocking. She tried to cling to her anger, rekindle her fury, but could not.
    She’d had only a second’s warning, but she’d expected a kiss—a touching of lips, not this ravenous, flagrantly intimate exchange. Mild kisses she could cope with, but this? It was new territory, unknown and dangerous, yet she couldn’t— could not —let her innocence, her inexperience show.
    No matter how much her senses swam, how much her wits had seized in sheer shock.
    She had nothing to guide her but him. In desperation, she mimicked the play of his tongue against hers, and sensed his immediate approval. In seconds, they were engaged in a duel, in a sensual game of thrust and parry.
    Of lips and tongues, of heated softness and beguiling aggression, of shared breaths and, amazingly, shared hunger.
    It caught her, dragged at her mind. Drew her in. Held her captive.
    He urged her closer still, one hand sliding down her back to splay over her hips, her bottom, lifting her and pressing her to him.
    Sensation streaked over her skin, prickling, heated; she clung tight, felt the world whirl.
    And she was engulfed in his strength, enveloped by it, a potent masculine power that seemed to weaken every bone in her body, that promised heat and flames so dizzyingly pleasurable all she wanted was to wantonly wallow, to give herself up to them and be consumed.
    On one level it was frightening, but she couldn’t retreat—had wit enough left to know she couldn’t panic, couldn’t run.
    She was supposed to be a widow. She had to stand there, accept all, and respond as if she understood.
    Eventually his aggression eased, the tension riding him gradually, step by step, reined in. Gripping his arms, fingers sunk deep, she felt that drawing back; the kiss lightened, became a more gentle if still intimate caress, lips clinging, teasing, still wanting.
    At last he raised his