And who was he to complain? With her recovery came strength, and her kiss was less chaste and more aggressive, which he loved. Too much. As she invited his tongue into her mouth, a certain stirring started in his trousers. He blamed the way she sucked his tongue and bit his lips.
Instant combustion.
And he wanted more. So much more. But she was still on the mend, and he wouldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability.
She slid a finger under his cravat and stroked his neck. He caressed her inner wrist, holding a breath when she moaned. She brushed her soft lips along his jaw, and he had to close his eyes for a moment.
“Cora,” he whispered.
She kissed his cheek and rested her forehead against his, letting out a soft chuckle. “I must apologise.”
“You’re forgiven. For what, anyway?” He caressed her silky skin.
“I’m not usually so wanton. I feel as if I were sixteen again and eager for new experiences.” She giggled, and it was a lovely sound.
“By all means, that’s wonderful. I can offer many new experiences.”
They laced their fingers together, exploring their hands. The difference between his big, rough hands and her slender, elegant ones was stark.
“I feel different, happier since I’ve been shot.” She laughed. “Bizarre, isn’t it?”
“Most definitely. I’ve been shot many times, and I felt different afterwards each time. Not happier,” he quipped.
“We have something in common. A bullet wound.”
He huffed, feigning outrage. “Make it plural.” He unbuttoned his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt to show her the three bullet wounds on his side. “Finn calls them the Three Sisters.” Hetraced the three perfectly aligned holes. “Three different shots at three different times, but they seem aligned on purpose.”
“Goodness.” She touched the wounds with gentle fingers, stroking them and sending his heart into turmoil, and the jest stopped being funny.
He let her explore his skin and trace his muscles although desire jolted through him.
“You’re all sharp ridges,” she said, trailing her hand up to his chest. “Do you have many scars?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
“Will you show them to me one day?”
“If you wish.” If she wanted to caress all his scars, he could only oblige.
“I do.” She slid off the armchair and knelt between his thighs. Before he could understand what was happening, she kissed the three wounds with gentle lips.
Bloody hell. He sucked in a breath.
She ran her hand up over his shoulder. “That’s a big scar.” She touched the rough, bumpy skin of the wound.
“A tulwar, a type of sword,” he said hastily because he didn’t want to discuss the pirates’ fighting technique now.
She gazed up, her hands on his thighs, and he couldn’t remain still. He slid a hand around her nape and kissed her again. But this time the kiss was different. He couldn’t contain the flow of his desire. He couldn’t restrain his need for her.
He slipped off the armchair as well and deepened the kiss. They’d kissed without real depth so far, but the kiss they shared now was a soul-searching one, a conversation on its own. She matched his passion, stroking his chest and brushing his nipples. And he couldn’t take it anymore. He stopped her wandering hand and broke the kiss before he ripped her clothes off.
“We ought to stop.” He lowered his eyes because if he saw her lovely face, he would kiss her again and confess his feelings. “Or I won’t be able to leave this room without having taken your clothes off.”
She flushed a deep crimson while she’d been bold and confident a moment ago. He was repeating himself, but the contrast was adorable.
“Yes, we should stop,” she said, a quiver in her voice.
He helped her to her feet as he stood up. “Does the thought of us being together make you uncomfortable?”
