61
" Sophia counted six clangs of the bell before Mr. Grayson jolted fully awake. He looked up at her, startled and flushed. As though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
She smiled.
Rubbing his eyes, he rose to his feet. “Will I shock you, Miss Turner, if I remove my coat?”
Sophia felt a twinge of disappointment. When would he stop treating her with this forced politesse, maintaining this distance between them? How many tales of passionate encounters must she spin before he finally understood that she was no less wicked than he, only less experienced? Perhaps it was time to take more aggressive measures.
“By all means, remove your coat.” She tilted her eyes to cast him a saucy look. “Mr. Grayson, I’m not an innocent schoolgirl. You will have to try harder than that to shock me.”
His lips curved in a subtle smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.” She watched as he shook the heavy topcoat from his shoulders and peeled it down his arms. He draped the coat over the back of a chair before sitting back down. The damp lawn of his shirt clung to his shoulders and arms. A pleasant shiver rippled down to Sophia’s toes.
“It doesn’t suit you anyway,” she said, loading her brush with paint.
He gave her a bemused look as he unknotted his cravat and pulled it loose. She inwardly rejoiced. Now, if only she could convince him to do away with his waistcoat…”
“The coat,” she explained, when his eyebrows remained raised. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Why not? Is the color wrong?” The sudden seriousness in his tone surprised her.
“No, the color is perfectly fine. It’s the cut that’s unflattering. That style is tailored to gentlemen of leisure, lean and slender. But as you are so fond of telling me, Mr. Grayson, you are no gentleman. Your shoulders are too broad for fashion.”
“Is that so?” He chuckled as he undid his cuffs. Sophia stared as he turned up his sleeves, baring one tanned muscled forearm, then the other. “What style of garments would best suit me, then?”
“Other than a toga?” He rewarded her jest with an easy smile. Sophia dabbed at her canvas, pleased to be making progress at last. “I think you need something less restrictive. Something like a sailor’s garb. Or perhaps a captain’s.”
“Truly?” His gaze became thoughtful, then searching. “And even dressed in plain seaman’s clothes, would you still find me handsome enough? In my own way?”
“No.” She allowed his brow to crease a moment before continuing. “I should find you surpassingly handsome. In every way.” She mixed paint slowly on her palette and gave him a coy look. “And what of my attire? If you had your way, how would you dress me?”
“If I had my way…I wouldn’t.”
A thrill raced through Sophia’s body. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes dropped to her lap. She forced her gave back up to meet his. Now was not the moment to lose courage. Nothing held sway over a man’s intentions like jealousy. “Gervais once kept me naked for an entire day so he could paint me.”
He blinked. “He painted a nude study of you?”
“No. He painted me. I took off my clothes and stretched out on the bed while he dressed me in pigment. Gervais called me his perfect, blank canvas. He painted lavender orchids here”-she traced a small circle just above her breast-“and little vines twining down…” She slid her hand down and noted with delight how his eyes followed its path. “I feigned the grippe and refused to bathe for a week.”
Desire and jealous rage warred in his countenance, yet he remained as immobile as one of Lord Elgin’s marble sculptures. What would it take to spur the man into action? "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
63
" Stop!” she called out.
To a one, the crewmen froze. A dozen heads swiveled to face her.
Sophia swallowed and turned to Mr. Grayson. “What about me? I’m also a virgin voyager.”
His lips quirked as his gaze swept her from head to toe and then back up partway. “Are you truly?”
“Yes. And I haven’t a coin to my name. Do you plan to dunk and shave me, too?”
“Now there’s an idea.” His grin widened. “Perhaps. But first, you must submit to an interrogation.”
A lump formed in Sophia’s throat, impossible to speak around.
Mr. Grayson raised that sonorous baritone to a carrying pitch. “What’s your name then, miss?” When Sophia merely firmed her chin and glared at him, he warned dramatically, “Truth or eels.”
Bang.
Excited whispers crackled through the assembly of sailors. Davy was completely forgotten, dropped to the deck with a dull thud. Even the wind held its breath in anticipation, and Sophia gave a slight jump when a sail smacked limp against the mast.
Though her heart pounded an erratic rhythm of distress, she willed her voice to remain even. “I’ve no intention of submitting myself to any interrogation, by god or man.” She lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow. “And I’m not impressed by your staff.”
She paused several seconds, waiting for the crew’s boisterous laughter to ebb.
Mr. Grayson pinned her with his bold, unyielding gaze. “You dare to speak to me that way? I’m Triton.” With each word, he stepped closer. “King of the Sea. A god among men.” Now they stood just paces apart. Hunger gleamed in his eyes. “And I demand a sacrifice.”
Her hand remained pressed against her throat, and Sophia nervously picked at the neckline of her frock. This close, he was all bronzed skin stretched tight over muscle and sinew. Iridescent drops of seawater paved glistening trails down his chest, snagging on the margins of that horrific scar, just barely visible beneath his toga.
“A sacrifice?” Her voice was weak. Her knees were weaker.
“A sacrifice.” He flipped the trident around, his biceps flexing as he extended the blunt end toward her, hooking it under her arm. He lifted the mop handle, pulling her hand from her throat and raising her wrist for his inspection.
Sophia might have yanked her arm away at any moment, but she was as breathless with anticipation as every other soul on deck. She’d become an observer of her own scene, helpless to alter the drama unfolding, on the edge of her seat to see how it would play out.
He studied her arm. “An unusually fine specimen of female,” he said casually. “Young. Fair. Unblemished.” Then he withdrew the stick, and Sophia’s hand dropped to her side. “But unsatisfactory.”
She felt a sharp twinge of pride. Unsatisfactory? Those words echoed in her mind again. I don’t want you.
“Unsatisfactory. Too scrawny by far.” He looked around at the crew, sweeping his makeshift trident in a wide arc. “I demand a sacrifice with meat on her bones. I demand…”
Sophia gasped as the mop handle clattered to a rest at her feet. Mr. Grayson gave her a sly wink, bracing his hands on his hips in a posture of divine arrogance. “I demand a goat. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
64
" You are so beautiful,” he sighed into her hair.
She tried to check her girlish giggle, unsuccessfully. “Gray, it’s dark as pitch. You can’t even see me.”
“Even in the dark,” he murmured against her skin. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, even in the dark.”
Suddenly, it was tears Sophia fought to suppress. She lost that battle, too.
“I swear I’ll never leave you,” he whispered. “I said it before, and I mean it still. I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, because your future is with me. if I never learn your name, it doesn’t matter. I intend to give you mine.”
He rose up on one elbow and smoothed the hair from her brow. His smile was a flash of white in the dark. “You can be ‘Mrs. Grayson’ to the world, but to me…to me, you’ll always be ‘sweet.’ I don’t think I could call you anything else.”
Sophia swallowed hard. Did he mean what she thought he meant? “Are you certain? I may still get my courses.”
“I’m certain. I’ve never been more certain.”
“I thought you weren’t the marrying sort.”
“I wasn’t. And it’s a damn good thing, too, or I’d be off with some inconvenient wife instead of here with you.” His hand drifted down to her belly. “You could be carrying my child. I want our child. I want a life with you.”
Hope fluttered in her chest. “Gray…”
“Shhh.” He laid a finger against her lips. “Don’t say anything, unless it’s yes. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
65
" He passed into the galley and was greeted by a cloud of fragrant steam. The exotic scent of spices mingled with the tang of roasting meat. Startled, Gabriel choked on a sip from a tankard. In the corner, Stubb quickly shoved something behind his back. The old men’s eyes shone with more than holiday merriment.
“Happy Christmas, Gray.” Gabriel extended the tankard to him. “Here. We poured you some wine.”
Gray waved it off with a chuckle. “That my new Madeira you’re sampling?”
Gabriel nodded as he downed another sip. “Thought I should taste it before you serve it to company. You know, to be certain it ain’t poisoned.” He drained the mug and set it down with a smile. “No, sir. Not poisoned.”
“And the figs? The olives? The spices? I assume you checked them all, too? For caution’s sake, of course.”
“Of course,” Stubb said, pulling his own mug from behind his back and taking a healthy swallow. “Everyone knows you can’t trust a Portuguese trader.”
Gray laughed. He plucked an olive from a dish on the table and popped it into his mouth. Rich oil coated his tongue. “Did you find the crate easily enough?” he asked Stubb, reaching for another olive.
The old steward nodded. “It’s all laid out, just so. Candles, too.”
“Feels like Christmas proper.” Gabriel tilted his head. “Miss Turner even gave me a gift.”
Gray followed the motion, squinting through the steam.
I’ll be damned. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
67
" But…but that’s tragic! To go through life without color? Unable to appreciate art, or beauty?”
He laughed. “Now, sweet-hold your brush before you paint me a martyr’s halo. It’s not as though I’m blind. I have a great appreciation for art, as I believe we’ve discussed. And as for beauty…I don’t need to know whether your eyes are blue or green or lavender to know that they’re uncommonly lovely.”
“No one has lavender eyes.”
“Don’t they?” His gaze caught hers and refused to let go. Leaning forward, he continued, “Did that tutor of yours ever tell you this? That your eyes are ringed with a perfect circle a few shades darker than the rest of the…don’t they call it the iris?”
Sophia nodded.
“The iris.” He propped his elbow on the table and leaned forward, his gaze searching hers intently. “An apt term it is, too. There are these lighter rays that fan out from the center, like petals. And when your pupils widen-like that, right there-your eyes are like two flowers just coming into bloom. Fresh. Innocent.”
She bowed her head, mixing a touch of lead white into the sea-green paint on her palette. He leaned closer still, his voice a hypnotic whisper. “But when you take delight in teasing me, looking up through those thick lashes, so saucy and self-satisfied…” She gave him a sharp look.
He snapped his fingers. “There! Just like that. Oh, sweet-then those eyes are like two opera dancers smiling from behind big, feathered fans. Coy. Beckoning.”
Sophia felt a hot blush spreading from her bosom to her throat.
He smiled and reclined in his chair. “I don’t need to know the color of your hair to see that it’s smooth and shiny as silk. I don’t need to know whether it’s yellow or orange or red to spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how it would feel brushing against my bare skin.”
Opening his book to the marked page, he continued, “And don’t get me started on your lips, sweet. If I endeavored to discover the precise shade of red or pink or violet they are, I might never muster the concentration for anything else.”
He turned a leaf of his book, then fell silent.
Sophia stared at her canvas. Her pulse pounded in her ears. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck, channeling down between her shoulder blades, and a hot, itchy longing pooled at the cleft of her legs.
Drat him. He’d known she was taunting him with her stories. And now he sat there in an attitude of near-boredom, making love to her with his teasing, colorless words in a blatant attempt to fluster her. It was as though they were playing a game of cards, and he’d just raised the stakes.
Sophia smiled. She always won at cards.
“Balderdash,” she said calmly.
He looked up at her, eyebrow raised.
“No one has violet lips.”
“Don’t they?”
She laid aside her palette and crossed her arms on the table. “The slope of your nose is quite distinctive.”
His lips quirked in a lopsided grin. “Really.”
“Yes.” She leaned forward, allowing her bosom to spill against her stacked arms. His gaze dipped, but quickly returned to hers. “The way you have that little bump at the ridge…It’s proving quite a challenge.”
“Is that so?” He bent his head and studied his book. Sophie stared at him, waiting one…two…three beats before he raised his hand to rub the bridge of his nose. Quite satisfactory progress, that. Definite beginnings of fluster. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
68
" Once, during one of my lessons with Gervais, I was sketching Michelangelo’s David, from a plate in a book. Only, I could not capture the muscles of the forearm at all.”
“Him again?” He heaved a bored sigh as he turned another page.
“Gervais stood up”-Sophia pushed back from the table and rose to her feet-“wrenched off his coat, and rolled his shirtsleeve up to the elbow.” She placed her hand flat on the table, directly in front of Gray.
“He took my hand and dragged my fingers over every slope and sinew of his arm.” As she spoke, Sophia traced the tendons of her planted wrist with her free hand. When she skimmed her fingers up to the hollow of her elbow, she heard his breath catch. Good. More progress.
“And after touching them,” she said, “I had no trouble sketching those muscles at all.”
Gray snapped his book shut, tossed it aside, and stared up at her in challenge. The dark intensity in his eyes gave Sophia a heartbeat’s pause. Slowly, she stretched one hand toward his face. “Now…hold perfectly still. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
69
" Gray harbored a slight preference for the stripes. Not only did the darker color suit her complexion, but the neckline plunged in an enticing manner, displaying a wedge of sheer chemise. The sprigged gown had a higher, square neckline, and only one flounce to this frock’s two.
But then…The sprigged gown had tiny buttons down the side-fourteen buttons, to be exact, and though just mentally undoing them was enough to drive Gray mad with frustration, that mile-long stretch of miniscule pearl dots was some comfort. The fastenings of this striped gown, by contrast, were completely invisible. Were there little hooks, he wondered, under the sleeves? Hidden in the seams somewhere?
Miss Turner coughed and shifted in her seat.
Dear God. Gray shook himself, realizing he’d just spent the better part of a minute openly staring in the direction of her breasts. At a distance of no more than two feet. Worse-he’d wasted that blasted minute obsessing about hooks and buttons, when he could have been scanning for the shadow of an areola, or the crest of a nipple.
Damn.
And now he had no choice but to drop his gaze and study the china.
It did look well, the porcelain. The acanthus pattern complemented the scrollwork on the silver quite nicely. Odd, to be drinking Madeira from teacups, but at least they were better than tin. The white drape beneath it all was nothing of quality, but the lighting was dim, and it would do.
Gray put out a hand to straighten his fork.
“The table looks lovely,” she said, to no one in particular.
Dear God. Once again, she jolted him back into reality, and Gray realized he’d spent the better part of two minutes now fussing over china and table linens. First dressmaking, now table-setting…If it wasn’t for the fact that her voice called straight to his swelling groin, Gray might have begun to question his masculinity.
What the hell was happening to him?
He wanted her. He wanted her body, quite obviously. More disturbing by far, he could no longer deny that he wanted her approval. And he wanted both with a near-paralyzing intensity, though he knew he could never have one without sacrificing the other.
Then she extended her slender wrist to reach for the teacup, and Gray remembered the reason for this entire display.
He wanted to see her eat. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
70
" I am most grateful for company this evening, even of the quiet variety. I am no great conversationalist, myself.”
Gray snorted. Not a conversationalist. The girl had coaxed the life story out of every sailor in this ship.
She had just picked up her spoon again when Joss spoke.
“You do not find the voyage too tedious, Miss Turner?” Joss asked. “I regret that you are left to entertain yourself, being the sole passenger.”
She laid down her spoon. “Thank you, Captain, but I find sufficient activity to occupy my hands and my mind. Reading, sketching, walking the deck for fresh air and healthful exertion. I’m surprisingly content, living at sea.”
Gray’s heart gave an odd kick. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
71
" He watched as Miss Turner lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips with agonizing slowness. He stared, fascinated, as her lips parted, revealing the tip of her tongue…
“I say, Miss Turner-“ Wiggins again.
Her spook paused in mid-air.
Gray crashed his fist on the table. “Christ, man! Can’t you see the lady is trying to eat?” Crossing his arms, he slumped back in his chair. Its wooden joints creaked in protest.
And now everyone put down their spoons.
Gray felt their eyes on him. He kicked the table leg, frustrated with himself, with her, with his goddamned boots. They still pinched his feet. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
72
" Oh, Gray, she said. Oh, gray, indeed. As in, oh Gray what the holy hell has come over you and what the devil do you intend to do about it?
He took the coward’s way out. He looked away.
“I thought you were painting a portrait. Of me.”
She turned her head, following his gaze to her easel. A vast seascape overflowed the small canvas. Towering thunderclouds and a violent, frothy sea. And slightly off center, a tiny ship cresting a massive wave.
“I am painting you.”
“What, am I on the little boat, then?” It was a relief to joke.
The relief was short-lived.
“No,” she said softly, turning back to look at him. “I’m on the little boat. You’re the storm. And the ocean. You’re…Gray, you’re everything.”
And that was when things went from “very bad” to “worse.”
“I can’t take credit for the composition. It’s inspired by a painting I once saw, in a gallery on Queen Anne Street. By a Mr. Turner.”
“Turner. Yes, I know his work. No relation, I suppose?”
“No.” She looked back at the canvas. “When I saw it that day, so brash and wild…I could feel the tempest churning in my blood. I just knew then and there, that I had something inside me-a passion too bold, too grand to keep squeezed inside a drawing room. First I tried to deny it, and then I tried to run from it…and then I met you, and I saw you have it, too. Don’t deny it, Gray. Don’t run from it and leave me alone.”
She sat up, still rubbing his cheek with her thumb. Grasping his other hand, she drew it to her naked breast. Oh, God. She was every bit as soft as he’d dreamed. Softer. And there went his hand now. Trembling.
“Touch me, Gray.” She leaned forward, until her lips paused a mere inch away from his. “Kiss me.”
Perhaps that dagger had missed his heart after all, because the damned thing was hammering away inside his chest. And oh, he could taste her sweet breath mingling with his. Her lips were so close, so inviting.
So dangerous.
Panic-that’s what had his knees trembling and his heart hammering and his lips spouting foolishness. It had to be panic. Because something told Gray that he could see her mostly naked, and watch her toes curl as she reached her climax, and even cup her dream-soft breast in his palm-but somehow, if he touched his lips to hers, he would be lost.
“Please,” she whispered. “Kiss me. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
73
" What are you doing abovedecks, anyhow?”
“The cry went up for all hands.”
“You’re not a hand. You’re a passenger.”
“I may not be a hand, but I’ve got two perfectly good hands, and if I sit on them a second longer, I’ll go mad.”
Joss stared at Gray’s open collar, where his cravat should have been knotted. “She’s really getting to you, isn’t she?”
“You have no idea,” Gray muttered.
“Oh, I think I do.”
Gray ignored his brother’s smug tone. “Damn it, Joss, just put me to work. Send me up to furl a sail, put me down in the hold to pump the bilge…I don’t care, just give me something to do.”
Joss raised his eyebrows. “If you insist.” He lifted the spyglass to his eye and began scanning the horizon again. “Batten the hatches, then.”
Gray tossed a word of thanks over his shoulder as he descended to the quarterdeck and went to work, dragging the tarpaulins over the skylights and securing them with battens. As he labored, the ship’s motions grew more violent, hampering his efforts. He saved the vent above the ladies’ cabin for last, resisting the urge to peer down through the grate. Instead, he first secured one end, then blanketed the entire skylight with one strong snap on the canvas.
“Ahoy! Ahoy!” Wiggins leaned forward over the prow, hailing the approaching ship, its puffed scudding sails a stark contrast against the darkening sky.
Gray moved to cover the companion stairs, reaching inside the gaping black hole and groping for the handle to draw the hatch closed.
Something-or someone-groped him back. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
76
" Gray helped himself to more toast, taking the opportunity to slide an extra slice onto Miss Turner’s plate.
She glanced up at him, her expression a mixture of shock and reproach.
And this was his reward for generosity.
He gave a tense shrug by way of excuse, then replaced the knife and fork and busied himself with his own food. He felt her staring at him.
That was it. If she was entitled to stare at him, he was damned well going to stare back. And if this governess was going to reprimand him like an incorrigible charge…well, then Gray was going to misbehave.
Letting his silver clatter to the china, he balled his hands into fists and plunked them down on either side of his plate. “You say you miss your family, Miss Turner? I wonder at it.
Her glare was cold. “You do?”
“You told me in Gravesend you’d nowhere to turn.”
“I spoke the truth.” Her chin lifted. “I’ve been missing my family since long before I felt England.”
“So they’re dead?”
She fidgeted with her fork. “Some.”
“But not all?”
He leaned toward her and spoke in a low voice, though anyone who cared to listen might hear. “What sort of relations allow a young woman to cross an ocean unaccompanied, to labor as a plantation governess? I should think you’d be glad to be free of them.”
She blinked.
He picked up his fork and jabbed at a hunk of meat. His voice a low murmur, he directed the next question at his plate. “Or perhaps they’re glad to be free of you?”
Something crushed his foot under the table. A pointy-heeled boot. Then, just as quickly, the pressure eased. But her foot remained atop his. The gesture was infuriating, and somehow wildly erotic.
He met her gaze, and this time found no coldness, no reproach. Instead, her eyes were wide, beseeching. They called to something deep inside him he hadn’t known was there.
Please, she mouthed. Don’t.
She bit her lip, and he felt it as a visceral tug. That unused part of him stretched and ached. And at that instant, Gray would have sworn they were the only two souls in the room. In the world.
Until Wiggins spoke again, confound the man. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
78
" And Gray…Gray was finished. Done for. Completely and hopelessly lost in the softest, most tender embrace he’d ever known. He held her face in his hands, brushing light kisses over her lips. Kissing her slowly, carefully, as though he were only just learning about kissing-because he was. Not learning how to kiss, but learning why to kiss. Not in persuasion, not as a prelude to further liberties. Simply to discover the taste of her, delicate and fresh and exquisitely sweet. To tell her things he didn’t dare express in words. To tell her things he had no words to express. He kissed her for no greater pleasure than to kiss, because at that moment, kissing her felt like the greatest pleasure imaginable.
He pressed his lips to her cheeks, her brow, her eyelids, her hair, interspersing his kisses with little endearments in every language he knew. Then, eyes closed, he rested his forehead against hers and waited. Leaving the choice to her. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
79
" What the hell was that?” Joss turned on him the moment Gabriel cleared the last of the china.
“What the hell was what?” Gray pulled a flask from his breast pocket and offered it to his brother.
Joss waved it away. “You know damn well what I mean. Something’s going on between you and Miss Turner, I know it.”
Gray uncapped the flask and took a sip. “What makes you say that?” He circled the table, discreetly examining the angle of the tablecloth and the perspective from the captain’s chair. Surely Joss couldn’t have seen what had taken place under the table. Even if his brother had noticed, he could demand all the answers he wished. Gray had no desire-or words-to explain it.
For the first time since he’d left England, Gray gave thanks for the thin, impractical leather of those dandified Hessians. The feel of her lithe, shapely leg against his…She’d accepted the contact so readily, blushed so attractively. Beneath that table, they’d formed some sort of alliance.
And then she had extended a clear verbal invitation.
If he went to her berth right now, she would be expecting him. At last, he could solve the mystery of what held together that damned striped frock. Or…he could simply rip it from her body.
Gray shoved the image aside before his groin could react further. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
80
" I’m so sorry,” he said between kisses. “For what I said that night. For leaving you earlier. I never meant-“
“I know,” she whispered, wrapping a leg over his lip and shinnying up his body. Her lips grazed his ear. “I know. Just don’t leave me again.”
“Never.” The word burst out like an oath or a prayer, and God help him, he meant it. “Never,” he repeated, looking straight into her glimmering eyes. Then he sealed the vow with a kiss, deep and desperate and true. “Oh God,” he groaned when their lips finally parted.
She kissed him again, working her warm, slender fingers under the collar of his shirt to stroke the chilled flesh of his shoulders and back. He buries his face in her neck, inhaling the beautiful scent of her. He’d forgotten how roses smell sweetest after a rain. Trailing light kisses down to her collarbone, he began carrying her toward the bed.
“Make love to me, Gray.”
She didn’t need to ask. They both knew what was going to happen. But Gray felt the significance of her words. He might have bedded ladies and whores the world over, but for the first time in his life, he was going to make love to a woman. And not just a woman. His woman.
And this idea that should have been so unthinkable, so frightening-to his surprise, Gray found it wildly arousing. They tumbled together onto the narrow bed, and she began pulling his shirt free of his trousers. He rose up on his knees and impatiently yanked it over his head.
He peered at her frock in the darkness.
Bloody hell. Stripes.
Gray started to roll her over, looking for laces or hooks or some other ridiculous device contrived by the devil to thwart men. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
