I sit up, my gaze quickly traveling over his muscular chest, the iron key hanging over his heart, his hard nipples, down his rippled stomach to that trail of black hair. Gods, the things I have done to that body.
When I meet his eyes again, he looks so smug.
“This will be a very long trip if you make me miserable,” I sign. “Because I can be just as awful, if not worse.”
He smiles, as though he’s gotten exactly what he wanted, damn it.
“We both need something to keep our minds occupied,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I would love it if you took your tunic off. I would think about nothing else.”
I wish I had something to throw at his face, but I don’t, so I lie back down and turn away from him.
He rolls toward me, his long body so close his scent envelops me. “I told you I wouldn’t make this easy,” he whispers against the back of my neck. “In fact, I’m going to make it very, very hard.”
A chill skitters down my back, and I flip over, ready to shove the heel of my hand into his perfect nose, but… He’s right there, and that mouth…
Gods’ stars, why does he affect me this way?
“I’m only aggravating you,” he says out of nowhere, a little laugh tripping from his lips. “I just wanted to persuade you to take my cabin, which I have a feeling you won’t argue about when I come out of my britches next.”
“Did you ever consider asking?” I sign with a sarcastic expression.
“Not at all, because you would’ve refused.” He taps the tip of my nose with tender familiarity, and I jerk back at the touch, screwing up my face as he smiles and lies back again. “Go. First cabin to your right. You’ll rest better, and I won’t worry so godsdamn much. Or I can pester you all night. Your choice.”
Blankly, I stare at him. He gave up his cabin for me. And he’s right. I would’ve absolutely said no.
Suddenly, he slips his hand down to his leather britches and loosens the ties, eyeing me with an arched brow. “I’m giving you three seconds.”
I want to argue. I don’t want to let him win. But seeing him like this, with his hand there, makes my mind envision the absolute worst images, so I grab my pack and daggers and get up.
“Bother me again, and I will stab you,” I sign.
He just laughs and folds his hands behind his head. “Mmm, you’re so romantic. Now goodnight, Raina. Go to bed and let me rest.”
My temper flares, mimicked in the flaring lantern light a second before I extinguish the flame, stomp across the hold, and wobble up the stairs as the Lady Belladonna rocks on a wave.
For a moment, I find myself wishing I could send the Collector an acrimonious message along the bond. But I can’t. So I slip into his pitch-dark cabin, summon a tiny flame in the lantern hanging near the door, and climb into bed, trying to ignore the musty smell and the strange feel of being aboard a ship racing across open sea.
It had been far worse in the hold. I never would’ve slept. And I think the Collector knew that.
Later, when I still can’t get any rest, I get up and prowl through the Collector’s pack, knowing exactly what I need, stupid as it is and much as it irks me. I root around beneath his beloved journals, freezing when my hand touches silk.
Our sashes. They’re neatly rolled together and tied around a little golden box—the necklace he bought me.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it.
But I do. I think about that night with him, and the way he looked lying there beside me minutes ago, and the way he feels when he holds me, when he kisses me, when he’s inside me. It all still seems so imaginary and unbelievable, but every time I’m around him, I end up wondering if my imagination is correct. If being with him was as good as memory serves.
These are not thoughts I need to have. I’m so tired, yet so restless, and so…
Gods be damned. I hate him for this.
I loosen the laces of my leathers, and after several moments of indecision, slip my hand down to the apex of my thighs where a tender ache has formed. Parting my flesh, I find that pulsing ache and let memories of us unfurl.
With every needy swirl of my fingertip, I focus on the filthy words he uttered to me—never the tender ones—and the times when he was brutal, taking me like I was meant to be claimed. But then I picture him the way he was our last time together, hand wrist-deep in my hair, his head thrown back and mouth parted as he quivered beneath my tongue and my hands.
I can still hear him panting my name, still see the muscles of his hard abdomen tensing, still hear him moaning as I finally let him spill.
It takes a matter of seconds to climax with that thought in mind, my orgasm shuddering though my entire body, leaving me leaning on his desk, gripping the edge like I might fall off the world, gasping as I ride out the pleasure.
