Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,42
blur together in his mind.
He grimaced. If he were a gambling man, he wouldn’t bet a single shilling in his favor. The odds were a hundred to one at best.
Then again, he wasn’t a gambling man.
He was a washed-up ex-pirate with nothing to lose.
At that thought, his grimace slowly curved into a sardonic grin. To hell with the odds.
He rolled onto his back, deciding that Miss Delafield’s delicate sensibilities could go to hell too. If his shoulder stiffened up any further, the injury would slow him down come daybreak—and he and his charming companion would find themselves in more trouble than they needed. He would barely be able to walk, never mind run, much less carry the heavy pack of supplies.
A wave of hot needles stabbed down his back and arm as he moved, but he shifted his weight until he found a relatively comfortable position, easing his shoulder up onto the pillow.
He closed his eyes and let his body go slack, gingerly flexing his arm until the stiffness and burning ebbed. The wound still pained him and would for some time, but he could live with that.
However, the bed was so narrow that his right shoulder, arm, and side now pressed against Miss Delafield’s back... and he wasn’t sure she could live with that.
But she remained deeply asleep, her breathing slow and even, her body warm against his.
Warm... and soft. Softer even than the honey-and-rain scent that clung to her skin. He could almost taste that fragrance with every breath he drew, instinctively turned his face toward it. He couldn’t see her in the darkness, but he could feel her hair, tangled across the pillow, a tickle of silk against his bearded cheek.
At the same time he was aware of the long, sinuous curve of her spine, the feminine roundness of her bottom against his hip...
The heat pooling in his gut.
An instant later he no longer noticed the ache in his shoulder.
Damnation. He clenched his teeth to stop a groan. His body hadn’t responded to a woman so swiftly since he’d been a randy lad chasing doxies in Jamaica. All it took was one breath of her scent, one brush of her body against his and he was hard as steel. Aching to have her.
Even fatigue, whiskey, and a bullet wound weren’t enough to quell the longing he felt—for a treacherous, troublesome lady thief. A woman who would sooner scratch his eyes out than grant him a single kiss. The feeling made no sense. It was a hunger that went beyond explanation, beyond reason.
So why not satisfy it?
The words shot through his head like a bolt of lightning, unexpected and white-hot.
Why not seduce her?
Aye, she was haughty and distant and all but dripped disdain for him. She acted as if merely breathing the same air as him would give her some dreaded disease. Even in sleep, she held herself distant, stiff, unyielding.
For all he knew, she might even be a virgin.
But none of those were true obstacles. Not to a man of his experience. He knew what women liked. A smile or two, a couple of caresses, a few words he didn’t mean, the right kiss... and he’d have her in the palm of his hand. All of her.
So why not?
The heat in his belly began to spread, burning through his blood. It had been far too long since he had given in to his natural male needs. Back in South Carolina, he had only rarely visited the brothels in Charles Towne, always coupling in the darkness and leaving before dawn, to prevent anyone from seeing the mark on his chest that revealed his past.
But he didn’t need to conceal the brand from her. She’d already seen it. With her, he could indulge in pleasure as he hadn’t indulged for years.
His heart began to beat harder, images sweeping through him like a fever. The two of them together. Her slender body responding to his touch until she melted in the same fire that seared him. Those ripe, full lips opening beneath his. Her sharp cries of need. Or would she utter soft whimpers of pleasure?
He didn’t know. Wanted to know. Needed to find out. All he knew, instinctively, in a way he could not explain, was that she would be different from any woman he’d ever bedded. Never in his life had he dared contemplate having a lady like this—not only beautiful, but exquisite as rare porcelain. Elegant and precious and fine. Perhaps even untouched.