Jason forced himself to move, dropping beside her on the rock and extending his feet. The heat was so hot at first touch, it registered as cold. He jerked back, and she laughed. “I warned you,” she said.
He stood up—it seemed like the manly thing to do—and waded into the boiling water, his hands on his hips. She laughed, and he looked back, winking at her.
“It’s glorious,” he said. Goose bumps rose on his skin. The water, when he found the right spot, was deliciously warm.
“You’re glorious,” she whispered, and he missed a step. He went very, very still. He turned.
“Isobel?” he asked softly.
She stared back through a veil of mist. Her bun had slid to her neck; damp ringlets framed her face. Her throat was wet. Her cheeks were pink. Her blue eyes had narrowed to lazy slits.
Jason’s body felt languid and heavy but his need for her was very hard and utterly relentless.
“What could it possibly matter?” she asked softly. He studied the dewy beauty of her face.
“S’bell?” he asked, wading to her.
He came to a stop before her, looking down. She stared at the swirling water. After a long, charged moment, she reached out and placed a small, flat hand on his leg, just above the knee. Pleasure radiated from the imprint of her hand. Every cell in his body strained to her.
Spreading her fingers, she kneaded his quadricep.
Slowly, almost dreamily, she slid the hand higher.
Jason let out a hiss.
“We are alone,” she remarked softly to his leg.
She extended the other hand and clasped it around the back of his knee. He staggered a little. His body was as hard as the riverbed.
“Why aren’t you terrible?” she asked, looking up.
“Well,” he began. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I am prepared to trade a young woman to pirates. Does this count for nothing?”
“I want you to kiss me,” she whispered. “I cannot bear it if you do not.”
It was what he’d been waiting for. In an instant, he dropped to one knee in the water. She grabbed his shirtsleeves in handfuls.
“Say it again,” he clipped, “so that I am certain.”
“I want it.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her blue eyes, as bright as the sky, bored into him.
Still, he hesitated. This was not what she’d said before. Before, she’d said the opposite.
“I can barely remember the reasons it would be so very wrong,” she said. “My survival depends on my ability to resist touching you or any man, and yet—”
“Ah, must we invoke ‘anyman’?”
She laughed and ducked her head.
His heart slammed against his chest. His mouth watered. Rocks dug into his knee and searing water soaked his buckskins and he didn’t care. His body registered only his raging desire to kiss her.
“You’ve been the perfect gentleman,” she whispered, leaning in.
“Have I?”
“You’re clever and agreeable, so handsome. You listen and understand and pretend to care—”
“I do care,” he said, staring at her mouth. A scoundrel’s favorite lie, but it was true.
