Your Wicked Heart by Meredith Duran Page B

lips brushed over hers, as light as a breath. A soothing touch, a kiss as soft as a whisper and as sweet as a lullaby. A kiss as quiet as the world around them, the silence so immense in the wake of the roaring wind.
    Her body relaxed. His broad hand slid up her back slowly, firmly, until the flat of his palm rested between her shoulder blades. Silently he urged her to lean into him as his tongue slipped into her mouth.
    He was built so broadly, his chest so easily cradling her weight. Her arms wound around his shoulders as the kiss deepened. Sparks began to light deep in her belly. This kiss was different than the one they had shared in Malta. In his lips, on his tongue, she tasted something richer, deeper, more lasting than mere hunger. He was making a promise to her with his mouth. And she was drinking it in, desperate for it, desperate for more . . .
    Desire was heavy and light all at once. She was floating, weightless, but her body grew fuller, heavier with need. Her palm found his cheek, the prickle of new beard, and she moved into him, wanting him to take . . . something. His hand skated down her shoulder and glanced against her breast, and she gasped, twisting toward it, a silent encouragement. His hand obeyed; his thumb found her nipple through the thin cloth of her dress, stroking lightly, and a cry tangled in her throat, a single syllable of triumph. Yes. Take everything; take all of me.
    The thought echoed. Grew louder, emerging distinctly from the haze of pleasure.
    What was she doing? She was nobody; he was a viscount . What madness would bid her to give to him what little still remained of her own?
    She yanked free and stepped back.
    The compress fell to the deck with a wet, smacking sound. They stared at each other.
    Say something.
    “You’ll . . . want to hold that a bit longer,” she said. “The compress, I mean. I’ll just—”
    “Wait,” he said, starting to rise, but this time she was prepared for him. Spinning on her heel, she dashed out.

CHAPTER NINE

    Spence no longer understood himself in the least. And he was a man who needed to understand himself.
    His life had been defined by his difference from his family. A St. John only in name, people whispered—meaning it as a slur upon his joyless temperament in a family known for charm and whimsy, for even Uncle Richard had been a smiling, well-loved figure outside the house.
    But Spence had always taken the slur as a backhanded compliment. He was, indeed, nothing like his family. And it profited the rest of them to have his steady hand guiding their fortunes. He was resolute where they were fickle, steadfast where they were buffeted by whims and tempers. They relied on him for his cool head, his enterprise, and his discipline.
    Yet where was that discipline now? Although he had sworn not to touch her, he had done so. And if he was honest with himself—and he always was; one did not profit by self-deception—then he knew he could no longer trust himself around her.
    His intentions made no difference: he would touch her again before this voyage was over.
    But to what end? For while he had done dishonorable things in his time—kidnapping her among them—they had always been with a view to serving those he loved. To finding Charles, in this case.
    But if he touched her again . . . if he took her to his bed . . . it would not be for honorable ends. It would be only for himself.
    That night of the storm, he lay awake for long hours with these thoughts, his only company the sounds of the ship: the dull roar of the engine, and beneath it, the creaks and groans of the hull as it pushed through deep water. And he argued with himself, argued against the selfish course that seemed so inevitable. For he had seen her face before she had fled this room. She was not hardened, not practiced. The simplest touch had caused something tender and shockingly vulnerable to come into her face. She would not rise from his bed unharmed. She would not walk