Seduced by a Pirate by Eloisa James Page A

didn’t let his hands leave her hair, twisting until every finger was knotted in silk strands.
    She didn’t touch him for the longest time but kept her arms locked around his neck as if she was pretending that they were both clothed. As if she hadn’t noticed that he was stark naked, trembling with the wish that she would caress him.
    Finally her fingers slid to his shoulders, and then down his back. He groaned, and gasped, “Touch me.” He’d never heard that tone in his own voice before. But he shook off the thought.
    “You’re so powerful,” she whispered, her feather-light touch sending streaks of heat straight to his groin. He imagined those slender fingers straying below his waist, and grew impossibly harder.
    “I will be gentle,” he stated, a vow and a promise.
    “It’s all right,” she whispered back. He was drinking up the husky edge in her voice and hardly heard what she said. “I know it will hurt and I don’t mind.”
    “Hurt?” He frowned at her. “I’m large but not monstrous.” But her fingers were skimming the curve of his ass, and he was spending all his brainpower curbing himself so he didn’t lunge on her like a wild beast.
    “Would you mind very much if I ripped your gown?” he asked, trying for a polite air. He really hated that gown and all it implied.
    “Not at all. I greatly dislike this gown.”
    He frowned. “You do?”
    “It’s not proper,” she said, the corners of her lips turned down. “You may destroy it.” She wasn’t agreeing: she was commanding.
    Without another word, he put both his hands on her bodice and ripped it straight down the middle.
    She was exquisite . . .
    And totally naked.
    “No corset,” he said, once he recovered enough so that he could breathe. “No chemise? Has English fashion changed so much while I was gone?”
    “No,” she admitted. “Not at all. I thought I’d die of embarrassment when your father walked into the drawing room. I was convinced he could see how shamefully I was attired.”
    Another pulse of that unwelcome wish that his wife wasn’t quite so experienced, that she didn’t know to leave off her undergarments when greeting a man. He pushed it down, away.
    “I had no idea,” he promised her, “and neither did the viscount. Believe me, I was looking.” Phoebe’s breasts were voluptuous and plump, overflowing his hands like a gift from the gods. He ran a hand down the curve of her hips, the length of her legs. She lay before him, naked, flawless, a sweet expanse of perfect skin and sultry curves waiting to be caressed.
    “You’re perfect, Poppy,” he breathed. And then heard what he had just said.
    She scowled. “My name is not Poppy. I know you’ve been with other women, but you have to remember my name.”
    “I’ll never be with another woman again,” he said, cupping her face in his hands and bringing his nose close enough to touch hers. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life in this bed.”
    “No Poppies?”
    “Never. Could I call you Poppy sometimes?”
    “No?”
    “Not even when I want to make those beautiful eyes stormy?”
    “No.” She was an uncompromising woman. He made a mental note to call her Poppy on regular occasions. Obviously, it was his role in life to make certain that his wife laughed.
    “No going to sea?”
    “Never again without you. I’d like to show you Paris sometime.” Tired of talking, he took her mouth, one hand curving under her bottom, pulling her hard against his crotch.
    They kissed until he realized that he was in danger of losing control, pinning his wife down and having his way with her.
    “You’re bad for me,” he murmured, leaving her mouth and kissing his way down her throat.
    She had to clear her throat to answer. “Why?”
    “First you made me impotent. Now you’re threatening to turn me into a six-second miracle.”
    “A what?”
    “A misfiring pistol,” he said, a laugh rumbling in his throat. For all he was ravaged by lust at the mere sight