“It’s not poison,” King countered, looking affronted. “Not in a small dose anyway.”
“How reassuring.” But Aubrey took the bottle his friend offered just the same.
He needed oblivion.
He needed to forget all about the golden Siren who had been tormenting him the past two days.
“Save some for me, old chap,” Riverdale groused.
Aubrey lifted the bottle to his lips.
And in short order, the rest of the night turned into a hazy blur, which was just the way he had wanted it.
He fell asleep dreaming of jasmine-scented breasts on a Gorgon who would make his cock fall off if he met her gaze and an octopus whose tentacles were fashioned from riotous golden waves of hair. The tentacles wrapped around him and told him he was a scoundrel but they loved him anyway.
CHAPTER 7
Rhiannon woke to a low masculine moan.
A moan of agony.
Richford’smoan of agony.
She blinked, sunlight streaming through the cracks of the curtains as lucidity returned to her. The pleasant scent of forest, musk, and ambergris teased her nostrils, along with the slight sweetness of day-old spirits. A large, strong body was half atop hers. There was a hand on her hip and a face buried in her breasts.
Hisface.
He groaned again, mumbling something unintelligible.
Her brows drew together as she gently rolled him to his back on her bed. His eyes were closed, his handsome face screwed up in anguish. He must be having a nightmare, she thought.
“Poor lamb,” she crooned, brushing a tendril of hair from his forehead.
His skin was clammy to the touch, with a sheen of perspiration. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers from the night before. Had he taken ill?
He smacked his lips, eyes still tightly shut. “Mmm. Let me touch your cunny.”
He reached for her, his arm suddenly flying outward in her direction.
Her sympathy dissipated as she scooted away from his questing hand. Did the rogue even attempt to seduce in his sleep? And had he any notion of whom he was seeking to caress?
He most certainly wouldn’t be touching her…her…hercunny. Or anything else.
Not whilst he was asleep anyway.
Rhiannon extended her forefinger and poked him in the shoulder, clutching the bedclothes around her like a shield. “Richford.”
“Wish I could suck your nipples,” he mumbled.
The outrageous rake.
Heat scalded her cheeks. She didn’t know if he was even aware of what he was saying or whom he believed he was saying it to. In the early hours of the morning, she had been awakened by a scratching at her door. Half terrified she would find a mouse scurrying around, she had tiptoed about in search of the sound only, heart in her throat, to discover the source had been quite a bit larger than a mouse.
Richford had been in the hall.
When she’d opened her door, he had spilled into her. There was no other way to describe it. For a moment, she’d been horrified until she had recognized him, even in the shadows. She had staggered backward beneath the weight of his muscled body, arms wrapped around him, struggling to keep them both on their feet. He had nuzzled his face into her throat and murmured something she hadn’t been able to decipher.
Originally, Rhiannon had thought something had been dreadfully amiss. Until she’d realized the true cause of his befuddled stupor.
