She did, and as she began to get a feel for the boat, he loosened his grip on it but not his hold on her. She didn’t need him to—Georgie was too spirited and independent to need anyone’s support—but he needed to hold her.
“It’s pulling.” Her nose wrinkled in concentration.
“Of course it’s pulling. That’s the Channel current you can feel now that we’re a long way from the harbor.”
“If it’s this strong on a calm summer’s night, I dread to think what it’s like in a winter storm.”
“Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.” He subtly sniffed her hair because her perfume mingled with the salty air was suddenly his favorite scent.
“Who was that? Nelson?” She smiled without removing her fixed gaze from the light ahead. “Drake? Atilla the Hun?”
“Byron, actually. Despite his lack of any military wisdom, those words resonate. You have to keep your wits about you on the waves, where the tide can turn on a sixpence and every raging tempest could be your last.”
“Profound. And poetic. Byron too?”
“No. All me, for once. I am the son of a failed poet, after all,despite my two pocket watches. Now bring her gently starboard.” He couldn’t resist cuddling her closer while he redirected her, chuckling at her baffled expression. “Starboard is right, Georgie. Turn her right and aim for that low light over there. Do you see it?” He used his finger to angle her chin. “That’s the seawall at Cawsand.”
“We’re almost home?” She sounded disappointed, as if she, like he, never wanted tonight to end. She twisted and their eyes met, and because it felt like the most natural thing in the moment, Harry didn’t even hesitate before he kissed her.
She sighed against his mouth as she kissed him back. It was an unhurried, gentle, and leisurely exploration that lasted at least a minute before their boat bounced on a rogue wave and reminded them of the looming beach. Neither did they speak as their lips parted and he shifted position to lower the sail.
She shuffled over so he could man the rudder for the tricky maneuvers necessary to get them safely where they needed to be. Waited while he tied off the boat, allowed him to help her off it, and then, seeing as that one kiss clearly wasn’t enough, came willingly into his arms as he tugged her closer.
Harry couldn’t resist twirling his finger in her untamed hair, marveling in its texture and the way the moonlight picked out certain strands before he pressed his lips to hers.
Still, neither of them hurried. Their next kiss was as gentle as the filmy wash that lapped the sand, and somehow all the more potent as a result. He felt her desire as plainly as she doubtless felt his pressing against her belly, yet in tacit agreement, they both respected the immovable boundary of their circumstances and held their passions back. As if they both realized that this kiss, like their relationship, was a transient, temporary escape from their real lives and responsibilities.
Because it felt fitting, he linked his fingers in hers as they slowly wandered up the silent dark and winding roads toward the house. Pausing here and there for another final kiss goodbye. Another taste of what might have been, if he wasn’t him and she wasn’t her and fate hadn’t such atrocious timing.
When they reached the gate, he kissed her again, and because they both knew it had to be the last, the timbre of it changed. Tongues and teeth and hands frantically explored all those parts they knew they weren’t supposed to in the shadow of the house. He cupped her breasts, her bottom.
She cupped his—through the tear so that skin finally touched skin—and moaned as he hoisted her skirts up. Parted her legs so that he could caress her intimately. Dip his finger inside her.
So soft.
So warm.
So…
“Harry? That you?” Tom’s frantic holler from the porch had them jumping apart seconds before they were illuminated in the soft glow of his lamp. “Thank the Lord!” Oblivious of what he had just interrupted, he hollered behind him. “They’re back, Ada!”
“Oh, thank the Lord!” Ada’s muffled response was typically theatrical. “Then make haste, Thomas!” He dashed back inside, plunging them into darkness again, save only for the moonlight above.
“That doesn’t sound good.” Georgie’s breasts fell in time with her erratic breathing and she looked every inch a woman who had been thoroughly ravished. Her hair was a riot. Her lips swollen. Her dress hopelessly creased. His fingers still damp with the dew from her body. His body so consumed with desire for her, it frightened him.
“Knowing Ada, it’s a storm in a teacup.” They hurried toward thehouse while Harry tried to ignore the excruciating discomfort of his nether regions. Even with their new ventilation, and thanks entirely to his straining, rock-hard cock taking up every last bit of give, his damned breeches were now strangling him. Their feet had barely hit the front step when Tom flew out the door again and almost knocked Georgie over.
“Sorry!” He disappeared around the side of the house carrying two big bags which, if the subsequent sounds were any gauge, were tossed into a cart. “Rebecca is in labor.” Then he was gone again, leaving them to follow.
Indoors, Ada was in a panic. “Thank goodness you are both home as I didn’t want to have to drive myself all the way to Hessenford in the dark and leave Tom here with the children!” She shoved another bag at her husband and then began to wrestle her arms into her coat. “The young ’uns are in bed and there’s plenty of food in the pantry. If all goes smoothly tonight, we’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe the day after.” She grabbed Tom’s coat from the peg and held it up as he returned, and only then did Harry realize that he and Georgie were about to be left.
For the rest of the night.
Totally unchaperoned.
ChapterTHIRTY
Alone in the kitchen, silence hung like a shroud as neither of them knew quite what to say or do next.
