Page 45 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
‘You came at just the right time. If I’d carried on, I’d likely have cut my own throat.’
Another ear-splitting crack tore the sky, and the ship rolled again. With a small cry, Cecile reached out to steady herself.
Then, she stilled. Her palm was flat against his stomach, her fingers touching the light dusting of hair; hair which thickened as her gaze travelled lower, to the small towel about his waist.
A sudden, flaring impulse overwhelmed her—to push away that covering and run her hand downwards.
Wicked girl that she was, she wanted to touch the parts she hadn’t yet seen.
In her imagination, she’d already imagined how he must look, and how he might feel. She’d seen enough nude statues on her travels through Italy to know how a man was composed.
Except that Lance wasn’t made of marble. His skin was warm and, though the ridged muscle of his abdomen was hard, the curling hairs pointing downwards were soft.
He was holding her by the shoulders, not moving, nor speaking.
Brazen though it was, she wanted him to put his arms about her, to pull her against the solidity of his body. She ought to be shocked at herself. Her heart was certainly thudding, partly with fear but mostly with something else.
Excitement!
Bold and shameless!
She didn’t know how to stop it.
* * *
His heart was galloping.
She was looking at him in the most ravishing way—all pink cheeks and parted lips, and eyes growing wider by the second.
She’d put her hand on his stomach and, God help him, a jolt of desire had shot straight to his groin—even though he’d been up all night and could barely stand, he was so tired.
By sheer will, he kept his hands on her shoulders, though a mad desire swept through him to lift her in his arms and kiss her again.
If he were honest, he wanted a helluva lot more than that.
He was no virgin, but he’d made a choice during his travels round Europe—to avoid seeking out female company. He’d had plenty of offers and, more than once, he’d been tempted. For some reason, he’d held back.
Looking into Cecile’s eyes, he knew why.
There was raw satisfaction in the sexual act—burying yourself in flesh and thrusting to release. Goddamit, he’d like nothing better than to carry her into the bedroom and show her just how good it could be.
But, if he had any say in the matter, she was going to be his wife and, when he gave her that part of himself, he was going to make damn sure she was ready. He didn’t just want her passion; he wanted to hear that she truly cared for him—and he needed a chance to tell her how he felt too.
Not some hasty words spoken while he was hoiking up her skirts.
She deserved a proper declaration; to know that, once she was his, he’d dedicate his life to making her the happiest she’d ever been.
He’d be an oaf to spoil that by rushing her into anything.
But, she smelt wonderful—of soap and sleep—and her lips were only a breath away.
Her hands strained against his chest but her body arched forward, her hip brushing that part of him coming to full attention beneath the towel.
If she carried on like that, the darned thing would fall to the floor and she’d find out exactly what she was doing to him.
He was aware of her softness, and the hitch in her breathing, and the heartbeat pressed to his chest. She wasn’t pushing him away but moving her hands round his waist. She was tipping back her head and rising onto her toes.
Keeping his stance wide enough that they didn’t both go tumbling, he brought his mouth to hers. Gently at first, but then deep and hot. A fierce kiss that spoke of all the things he wanted.
