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She stared out at the shoreline, at the passing trees and meadows. She shook her head.
“No. Yes. I mean, yes. I’m feeling highly reckless, but recklessness has not served me well.” He held his silence, thinking she’d probably never acted reckless in her entire life. “It doesn’t seem the best of plans, does it, to go about being reckless?”
He disagreed. He thought it a fine, fine idea, perhaps the best in years. But all he said was, “Then see ye don’t toy with me, Senna. I’m not a boy.”
“I didn’t think I was toying.”
He started paddling. “Now ye know.”
“Now I know.”
The autumn sun was feisty, hot and bright. It was like a golden stage. It shone behind her so brightly it was as if she were floating in gold, was gold. She turned to him and he felt desire pulsing off her, onto him.
“And yet, Finian, I feel quite reckless.”
He set down his paddle very deliberately. How was a man to fight this knowing innocence?
“Really?” he ground out. Her face flushed. His heart slowed into a hot-rushing, sluggish beat. “I wonder.”
“What?” Her voice was unsteady, but her eyes were locked in his: she wanted what he had.
He went hard like he hadn’t in a dozen years. It was the waiting. The torment of wanting her all this time and not being able to have her. (It hasn’t been fully three days some dim recess of his mind pointed out.) There was nothing special about her or the arousal she conjured, he assured himself. Just a woman with a staggering mind, a blade-sharp wit, and a body men would lick dirt to touch.
“If I asked ye to do something,” he said in a low voice, “would ye do it?”
“Aye,” she exhaled.
“Run yer hand up yer leg.”
A hot whimper trailed out of her. She looked down at the hand she had draped over one knee. So did he. Her fingers fluttered, then she trailed them up her inner thigh so slowly he could count to ten. It was the only way to avoid complete embarrassment, counting was. One of her feet slipped forward, and she braced it against the rib bone of the hull. He felt himself slipping into the churning vortex of lust.
She stopped her lazy travel north just below the juncture of her legs. Her slim fingers hung there, knuckles slightly bent, in what he knew would be hot space, high and tight between her thighs.
He raked his gaze up her body, which was now slouched back against the prow of the curaigh, her forearm draped over her belly, her lips parted, her eyes waiting for him.
“Now what?” she asked breathlessly.
A taunt, a test, a true question? And if he answered, then what? Take her virginity and break her heart? Because that is all he had in him. He was capable of nothing more.
He smashed his fingers through his hair and almost dropped the paddle. He grabbed it just before it fell in the water.
“Now, naught, Senna.”
She struggled to sit straight. “What?”
He started paddling. “Sit back. Note the view.”
“But—”
“And put them on.”
“What?” Confusion marked her voice. “Put what on?”
“Every stitch of clothing you’ve got. And possibly a few of mine as well,” he added in what he hoped was a firm, no-negotiation tone. But with Senna, he was discovering, one did not necessarily get what one demanded with one’s tone.
“Oh, but Finian,” she protested, plucking at the damp, bedraggled rags barely reaching to midthigh. A feminine, curving midthigh he wanted to run his hand up, then his tongue. “Everything’s wet, and—”
“Put them on, or I’m not going any farther.” He also wasn’t looking at her. How long could he do that, avoid making any sort of perusal
