Sweet Surrender by Cheryl Holt

himself bound to her much longer than necessary.
    The pathetic fact was that he hadn’t wanted her to leave, hadn’t wanted to dine by himself, so he’d had the intimate meal delivered to his suite. 
    It hadn’t occurred to him that she might be exhausted, that she might be worn down to the bone.  As she’d drooped in her seat, the most annoying wave of tenderness had swept through him.  She was so darn pretty, so brave and all alone in the world. 
    He could have awakened her and told her to head to her room.  Or he could have carried her there and tucked her in.  Instead, he’d picked her up and conveyed her to his own massive bed. 
    He’d assumed she’d doze for a bit, then rouse and scold him, but she hadn’t stirred.  He’d passed the time studying her and drinking brandy.
    He’d had too much of it, and inebriation was clouding his reason.  He was very tired himself, and he refused to sleep in a chair.  He yearned to walk over and stretch out next to her.
    It was the worst idea he’d ever had, but he was pondering it anyway.  He was ready to kiss her senseless, to touch her all over, to remove her dress, to…to…
    He tried to ignore the salacious thoughts that had taken root, but he couldn’t.
    They enjoyed a strident physical attraction, and it appeared to be growing by leaps and bounds.  If he satisfied a few urges, where was the harm?  He could make her happy, and they’d both be better for it.
    He didn’t have to deflower her.  He could dabble and relieve some of his rampant ardor.  If he didn’t alleviate it, he couldn’t predict how he might behave.
    She had him so discombobulated that he was wondering if he shouldn’t tumble some of the housemaids.  There were several who had cast furtive glances, sending messages that couldn’t be misconstrued.  Perhaps that was the best route.  Perhaps he should please himself in other rooms.
    But no.  He’d never been the type to interfere with the hired help, and he’d gain no peace by romping with others.  It had to be her .
    He downed the contents of his glass and went over to the bed.  He eased himself onto the mattress, his body wedged to hers all the way down.
    She recognized that something had changed.  A scowl marred her brow, then she smiled and sighed.  To his enormous surprise, she snuggled herself to him, as if thrilled that he’d finally arrived.  An arm was draped across his waist, a cheek nestled to his chest.
    He liked that she felt sufficiently safe to relax her guard, but she was a fool to exhibit her vulnerable side.  All women had one, but she hid hers well.  Down the road, as push came to shove over Michael and her claims of paternity, he envisioned many battles and she’d exposed a weak flank, which he would exploit if need be.
    Briefly, he suffered a pang of conscience, hating that he was a lout, that he was as horrid and unreliable as she accused him of being. 
    His upbringing at the hands of cruel, bitter Beatrice had made him tough and unrepentant.  Then his escape to Egypt at age eighteen, with no money in his pocket and no friends to aid him, had molded him into a stark and independent man. 
    Survival was paramount, and in his dealings with others, he had little regard for hurt feelings or lost chances.  She was risking much by letting him close, and ultimately, she’d be sorry. 
    Yet at the moment, with her so sleepy and unsuspecting, he wouldn’t worry about the future.  He was desperate to have her in ways no other man had dared, desperate to thrust her into a relationship she probably wouldn’t like very much.
      He knew better and shouldn’t have been mulling low behavior, but they seemed to be on a collision course and careening toward a bad end.  He’d convinced himself that she’d be glad they forged ahead, but that was the brandy talking.  There was nothing happening except that he was drunk and feeling randy, and she was lying in his bed.
    "Grace," he murmured.  She didn’t