Her finger struck his forehead.
Hard.
He winced.
“You needn’t worry, August.” A vibrant glow surrounded her like an aura dimmed. “I am well aware you do not see me as worthy of being your countess.”
That cynical smile came easier and easier.
And cut him sharper each time.
Then what she had said registered.
That is what she believed?
Floored, he rocked back on his heels.
“But if you believe I will let you take me aboard your ship and be at the mercy of your crew, where I will be announced as anything other than your wife, then I will cut off your ballocks, fold them in that carpet”—she kicked the corner, curling it over—“you are so determined to keep me off of and give them a proper sea burial.”
Blood filled his ears. Filled all of him.
God, she was breathtaking.
Why hadn’t he seen it before?
Why hadn’t he seenherbefore?
“Consider this me borrowing your title.” She gestured vaguely. “You are free to have it for whomever it is you select as your countess.”
The minx kicked the carpet again for good measure. It rolled back too quick for the lady’s liking. Meghan kept at it. She buried her slippers into the plush fabric several more times.
That little act of defiance would have been adorable if it weren’t so heartbreaking.
Muttering to herself, she drew her leg back once more.
Culross caught her by the waist.
Meghan gasped, lost her balance.
Breathing heavily, his gaze tunneled to her and to only her.
Meghan’s chest rose and fell quickly. His did too. From something he had done so many times before, but now felt brand new.
Her eyes widened, only a moment.
He caught her mouth under his, capturing her sigh, and then Meghan as her legs went out from under her.
Culross settled his arm heavy around her waist.
His pulse hammered in his ears. He worshipped her hips as their due. She crept her arms around his neck. His bold, daring Meghan found the way on her own, learning him. She skimmed her questing little fingers over his back. Guiding his lips over hers, learning every angle. Her breath came hard, in short little spurts. As if she had run a footrace but wanted to keep running.
At last, he knew the taste and feel and contour of her forbidden mouth.
And Meghan, as bold in his arms as she was in every unapologetic way she lived, met him with shyness.
She didn’t know how to kiss. Fired by that knowledge, he taught her. Palming her nape, he bowed her, coaxed her open.
Culross stole inside to take of her heat and warmth. She shivered and moaned.
