He could make her squirm and shudder and cry out his name.
If he were a gentleman, he’d release her, push her off his lap and tell her to go to bed.
He’d go for a swim to cool off and he’d swim until he burned off this terrible need.
If he were a gentleman, he’d wait for her to fall asleep before he returned to her father’s room where he slept every night.
But he wasn’t a gentleman. He didn’t know very much about himself, but he knew that much.
Head dropping, his lips brushed hers, not because he was being careful with her but because he was feeling cruel.
He wanted her to ache for him.
He wanted her to crave him the way he craved her, and so he teased her lips and teased her with touches that were light and unsatisfying, his caress brushing her shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the outside of her hip, every touch designed to make her arch and flex, her slim back a bow drawn taut.
She was breathing harder now, short gasps, and her mouth lifted, trying to find his. She wanted his kiss. She wanted him.
He grazed the pebbled nipple of one breast with the back of his knuckles, a fleeting touch that made her whimper and her body gyrate on his lap. Her eyes were cloudy, the pupils so dilated her eyes looked almost black now.
He brushed the other just to make her dance again, and she did.
He nearly growled with pleasure. She was his.
Finally he took her mouth, his lips claiming her, his hunger barely leashed. As he took her mouth, he drank in her groan of pleasure. Her mouth was both hot and cool. She tasted fresh and impossibly sweet, and as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, her mouth opened to him. His tongue plunged in, sweeping, stabbing, punishing.
He didn’t know why he wanted to punish her. She was nothing short of heaven, an angel here on earth.
Maybe that was why he was angry—and not with her, but with himself.
He didn’t deserve her.
He shouldn’t take her.
He shouldn’t be the one to steal her innocence.
For God’s sake, she’d kept a hope chest, filled with desires and dreams and hopes, and tonight she’d brought out a special tablecloth, and now he was going to take her virginity?
He shouldn’t do this, he shouldn’t. He didn’t even know if there were other claims on him. He didn’t think he was married—he wore no ring; there was no tan line—but could he have a significant other waiting for him somewhere? Worrying about him?
Missing him?
He broke off the kiss and lifted her, putting her on her feet before walking away, putting distance between them so he couldn’t reach her easily.
For a moment the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the hum of the ocean as waves broke on the shore.
The rising moon cast a pale glow and he knew if he turned, he’d see her where he’d put her. She hadn’t moved. She stood frozen, staring at him, waiting.
Wondering.
“I can’t do this,” he ground out. “I can’t just take your innocence because I want to. It’s wrong, at every level.”
“Not even if I give you permission?” she said.
He heard the wobble of hurt in her voice and he glanced over his shoulder to see that yes, she was exactly where he’d left her. She looked rooted to the spot, except she no longer glowed. Her lips were pressed together and she looked pinched. Wounded.
And he’d done that to her, as well.
Pain twisted within him and he hated himself for putting her through this. He ought to know better. He was a man, not a boy.
“You should be protected,” he said roughly. “It’s what your father would want for you, and what you need. I can’t just wash up on your beach and claim you—”
“Why not? Why not if it’s what I want?” The bruised tone was gone, replaced by something stronger, fiercer. “I’m twenty-three, almost twenty-four. This isn’t the Middle Ages. I am not a ward, and I do not belong to a man. I can decide for myself what is best for me.”
He laughed, the sound mocking and unkind. “And you think I’m best for you?”
Her chin notched up. “I think you can teach me what I want to know.”
He lifted a brow. “Teach you?”
“As you can tell, I haven’t had a lot of experience. I’ve actually had almost no experience. There have been kisses,” she added flatly, “and some uncomfortable groping, but that is all. As you can see there are not a lot of men here, and I’m happy here, so I’m relatively...untutored...when it comes to sex. Which is why I want you to be my first so I won’t feel so...foolish...the next time.”
The next time.
Her words flamed his temper. Primal emotion flooded him, making his blood boil and his shaft throb and ache.
He hated the idea of her with anyone else. He hated to think of any man touching her.
“You say you owe me your life,” she added, her winged brows arching higher, as imperious as a queen. “Well, I don’t want your life. I just want you to bed me. I want you to show me how it is between a man and a woman so that I can be confident in the future. It would help me feel less awkward when I have sex in the future.”
“You keep calling it sex. Why not lovemaking?”
“Because I’m a scientist and haven’t been raised with euphemisms.”
“But when you’re with someone you truly desire, it’s not just sex—it’s bigger and more powerful. Transformative, if you will.”
“Would it be that way with us?”
“If it’s right.”
“And if it’s not?”
“It would feel like two bodies touching, rubbing, with hopefully a release in there somewhere.”
“Sex can be bad, then?”
“With the wrong person, yes. With the wrong person it can be disconcerting.”
&nbs
p; “Even for a man?”
“It’s a profoundly intimate act. I always enjoy it best in the context of a relationship.”
“Ah.” Her head nodded once, a thoughtful movement. “That’s why you don’t want to do it with me. We have no relationship. It wouldn’t satisfy you.”
“On the contrary, we have a very unique relationship, and making love to you is all I’ve thought about these past few days. But if I were to take you to my bed, I’m not sure I could, or would, let you go.”
“Then don’t,” she answered simply.
For a moment they stood where they were, just looking at each other, the crackle of the fire mimicking the crackle of heat in his veins, making his shaft longer and harder, making him ache for her.
She patted the chair he’d left. “Come back here,” she said coolly.
It wasn’t a plea but a command, just as he’d commanded her earlier.
“Come sit down again and let me sit with you, like we were,” she added. “Let us see how this goes without your conscience telling you things. I have a conscience of my own. I don’t need yours deciding what I want or need. I can and will do that for myself.”
He’d found her innocence seductive, but this version of Josephine was far sexier and even more compelling.
He sauntered toward her, aware of how her gaze boldly moved over him, giving him the same thorough examination he’d given her earlier, before her attention focused on his hips and the rigid length of him thrusting against the fabric of his trousers.
The tip of her tongue touched her lips and he wanted to roar with need and lust. She might be innocent and yet she had a sensual nature which called to him, stirring him. He took his seat and leaned back in the wooden chair, his brow lifting, challenging her. “Your Highness?” he taunted lowly.
She sat down on his lap, legs together, facing him. “Now what?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer her with words. Instead he drew her arms behind her back and wrapped one hand around both of her wrists, holding her captive and still. He liked her like this—helpless and his. He liked how her breasts jutted and her lips parted, her breath coming fast.
He kissed the corner of her mouth, and then her mouth, feeling how her lips quivered against his.