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“I want to touch you now,” she said.

“Oh, sweetheart, we’ve just begun.”

He climbed out of the tub and helped her to her feet, drying her off in slow brushes with the towel. She felt exposed again, taken care of. She didn’t know what to do with the feelings—they were so new to her. She ran her fingertips over his shoulders as he continued to dry her, down his biceps, across his chest. She was fascinated by those tattoos, scraped her nails over them. “What do these mean?”

“A swallow tattoo for every five thousand miles sailed,” he answered, far more interested in stroking every part of her. “Hold fast so we don’t fall overboard, so we always have something to hold on to.”

“Are all sailors superstitious?”

“Aye. The sea doesn’t give up her secrets easily. Like someone else I know.”

She leaned down to lick a drop of water on his lower lip. He groaned and captured her mouth in a searing kiss, hard and demanding. “You’re going to be the death of me.” When she smiled, just a little, he groaned again. “You like that, little pirate.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.” He scooped her up into his arms and she yelped, clutching at him for balance. “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve always got you.”

He carried her to the bed as the fire still burned merrily, warming the room. The coverlet was thin, but clean. There were tulips in a glass mug on the table. “Not much of a suite,” he said. “For the daughter of an earl.”

She beamed at him, couldn’t help it. He’d be horrified if he ever found out her father had used real gold on the walls of their drawing room. He’d been bored with it after two weeks because it drew too much attention way from him and had it all torn down. “It’s perfect.”

The shadow that had threatened to cross Bram’s face fled. He lowered her to the edge of the back and then crowded her back until she lay for him like an offering. He rubbed his nose along her neck. “You smell like roses and rain. Like wicked things.”

She liked that. She liked that very much.

He dragged his lips down to her breast, sucking it deep into his hot, wet mouth. She gasped, writhing beneath him as sensation after sensation shot from her nipples to her quim. He sucked long and hard until she was whimpering, and then he moved to her other breast, giving it the same care. The same dedication.

He was going to drive her mad. On purpose. He was moving so slowly, so methodically.

She’d never thought much about her breasts before, certainly had not considered how sensitive they might be, how she might come to a climax by them alone. She fisted her hands in the sheets, scrabbling for purchase, then raked down his chest, her nails scoring his muscles. He grew harder, pressing along her leg. She reached down, desperate.

“Not yet,” he murmured against her wet, puckered nipples. His grip on her wrist was unbreakable. She tugged, nearly frantic. He laughed again, but his jaw was tight, the tendons of his neck standing out. “I’m not done.”

“Bram Thorn,” she said.

“I’m not done,” he repeated.

And then he kissed and nibbled his way from her breasts, down her belly, to the very core of her. He licked at her, sucked her into his mouth, her entire bud like it was a candy, rolling his tongue over it. She was going to come again. Surely not.

Definitely.

Right now. His head delved between her thighs, fingers gripping her hips hard, dimpling her flesh, keeping her pinned for his pleasure. For her pleasure. For pleasure. So much pleasure. It coursed through her, sweeping her up, claiming her.

She might have screamed. Just a little.

She definitely screamed.

She tried to care, tried to wonder if she should be embarrassed, and decided it wasn’t worth the effort, not when she had a hulking brute of a smug Scotsman between her legs, grinning. Let them talk about her down in the pub, if they heard her over the fiddle and the general din.

Bram lay next to her, wiping his mouth, leaving the grin. She kissed him fiercely, tasting her own desire, wanting to taste his. Wanting to taste him. She did not fool herself into hoping for more than this. And if she only got one night, she intended to make the best of it.

The very best.

She kissed the stubble over his cheek, the scar just there, the other one on his eyebrow. She licked the one of the top of his shoulder. His breath stuttered, cock straining against his abdomen.

She vowed to lick every single scar he had, from his shoulder to his chest, the one on his forearm, the many on his fingers. She bit the ones on his knuckles as well. Found one above his hip that looked as though it had been left by a bullet. She paused.

“It’s not sightly,” he said in his rough burr. When she glared up at him, he blinked. “What, lass?”