Muffled words. A tug on the leather string tying his hair. The fluttering of the strands over his neck. Any moment, cold fingertips would brush his nape like burrowers seeking entrance into his skin.
She combed her fingers through his hair. Pedro held his breath. It was too far from his skin for him to feel any contact, mere butterfly wings flirting, shirking from the answer he craved.
"More," he rasped.
"Are you sure? I... yes."
The floor squeaked behind him as she came closer and then closer still. Warm fingers sifted through his hairline, brushing the shell of his ears and then up until they reached the top of his skull. He lowered his shoulders and released all the air inside his lungs.
Points of pressure on his scalp, firm, deep, and then sliding away. Absence, cold. Her fingers returned, breezing touches over his temples. His skin hummed, a current spreading to his arms and legs, flowing from her fingertips right into his core. He lost awareness of where she touched. It was as if... as if she had stripped him bare and wrapped him with a mantle of sensations, unfurling from the soles of his feet to his scalp.
Anne sighed. "So soft."
The words breathed fire into his chest. To be touched by her and to know she enjoyed it? It was acute and allayed an ache within, lulling his muscles yet inflaming his blood.
This girl, his Anne… She soothed him. She seared him.
Gently, he caught her wrist and pulled her to his front. He opened his eyes to an angel standing between his legs, lips parted, eyes glazed with desire. Heat flooded his chest, his limbs. It was her touch, her spark, and now he burned.
"My turn."
Chapter 20
Annetastedinvisibility,exploringPedro's manly textures, floating in the silk of his hair, skimming the velvet planes of his coat, gliding across the stubble of his beard. Buoyed by the slow rocking of the boat and gentle ocean sounds, she closed her eyelids, suspended as if swimming in warm waters.
He caught her hand, tugging her back to reality. The stubble of his beard whisked her wrist, and then his lips met the skin there, just a brush. Breathless and not a little dizzy, she allowed him to pull her to his front. Had he liked to be touched? Had he liked to be touched by her?
Pedro opened his eyes. No more invisibility. He saw her.
One second he was seated, his head reaching no further than her chest. The other he was standing, engulfing her, her feet between his feet, her shadow inside his. Not an inch separated her nose from the mother-of-pearl buttons of his white shirt, and the scent of clean linen and Pedro drowned her senses. Perhaps she had dived too deep.
"Place your hands behind your back."
Anne gasped, lifting her gaze from his chest to his chin. "Are you sure this is advisable?” Her voice came out high-pitched, and she swallowed. "This... This hardly seems appropriate, and you must agree the bet was so sudden and silly. No gentleman had ever—"
He touched her lips. "You talk too much when you are nervous."
"Do I? No one has told me so before."
He exhaled, his warm breath ruffling her hair. "I didn't judge your desire."
With a heavy sigh, Anne nodded and crossed her wrists behind her, the stone of his mother's ring biting into her clammy palm. He retrieved the discarded hair string and circled her. His breathing teased her neck, and then the flaky leather brushed her skin. Some deft tugs. Anne panted. He had tied her. A twinge of panic shuddered through her, and she twisted her arms.
"I won't hurt you." He covered her hands, and his mouth near her ear made her shiver. "The knots are loose. You can free yourself anytime."
Could she?
He faced her, his presence shading the sun. Anne sought the buttons on his shirt, unable to look up. A simple leather string had her more exposed than if he had stripped her clothes.
"I can release you if you want me to," he said, his hair loose and tousled, his mouth unsmiling, and his eyes—hiseyes—intense and focused solely on her.
His cloak of restraint had slipped, unleashing wild energy. A proper English lady would run screaming and hide under her berth. But a proper English lady wouldn't have a warrior prince gazing at her as if she was his princess, would she?
Anne raised her chin. "What will you do?"
"You are unbearably sweet." He removed his leather gloves, one finger at a time. "And I've developed a craving for sweetness."
Anne had never seen his hands in broad daylight. How would the calloused palms feel against her skin? Her breath caught, and she blinked several times. "Oh, if this is the case, then—"
