The Pirate Next Door Read Free

little. Grayson kissed her again, this time softly, lingering.
    After a moment, she gave a little sigh and eased toward him, and he felt a small, answering push of her lips.
    Excitement, uncontrolled and uncaring, washed through him. He suddenly wanted her, this lovely, sweet-smelling woman who had lifted him from death. His kiss turned rough. She gave a small cry of surprise, but his body had taken over.
    He seamed her mouth with his tongue, and joyfully, arousingly, she did not fight him. Clumsily, she fitted her mouth to his, as if she were unused to opening it to another, unused to accepting such a deep kiss. Her lips grew warm and more passionate beneath his.
    Dizziness consumed him, but he did not want to let go. He broke the kiss, but only to roll over, to drag her tothe floor beneath him. The lacy, frilled garment was little barrier between himself and her enticing body. He slanted his mouth across hers again, kissing her swollen mouth, scooping up the goodness of her on his tongue.
    She made another small noise—of surrender or protest, he could not tell. His arousal was stiff with longing, desire spinning through him. He pressed her thighs apart, molding the thin garment to her, feeling the heat of her through the silk. His fingers fumbled at the little bows, wanting to part the fabric and have at her.
    A strong touch landed on his shoulder, pulling him back from the spinning glory that beckoned. “That will be enough of that, young man,” a woman’s voice said sternly.
    He’d forgotten the large, gruff woman and the beefy, terrified boy who’d accompanied his rescuer. He looked up. They stood on each side of him, the woman scowling, the lad open-mouthed with shock and fascination.
    Grayson rolled away from Mrs. Alastair’s ripe and needing body and curled his arms over his stomach. He drew in a breath of sweet air, and with it came laughter. He laughed for the joy of life and the joy of the beautiful woman on the carpet beside him.
    She sat up and stared at him in bewilderment. He lifted his hand and touched the curve of her face.
    “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
    Grayson Finley, Viscount Stoke, was a very resilient man. He lay flat on his back for less than a quarter hour, drawing deep breaths, before he climbed to his feet. Alexandra watched the animation flow back into his body, which only a moment ago had been content to simply be alive, like water returning to a dry pool. His throat was dark with bruises, but other than that, he seemed little worsefor wear. Blue eyes sparkling, he ordered the quaking Jeffrey and Cook downstairs to find the man called Mr. Jacobs. To Alexandra, he said, “Come with me.”
    No explanation, no waiting, not even dressing himself, for heaven’s sake. Well, she conceded, he was half-dressed. He wore leather breeches, a linen shirt opened to his waist, and tall boots, but no collar, no waistcoat, no coat. A white scar ran from the hollow of his throat to disappear in the shadow of muscle under the shirt. Alexandra found herself wanting to tilt her head to trace the path of the scar to its end.
    The candles in the hall glinted on his long, sun-streaked hair and shone faintly on the gold bristles of a new beard. Alexandra’s late husband had never allowed his beard to appear. The moment he’d spotted a whisker, he’d shouted for his valet to for God’s sake come and remove it. He wanted his face perpetually smooth and clean. Alexandra had heard rumors that he liked his women just as bare in certain places. She had never been brave enough to ask if this were true.
    The viscount took her hand in his and pulled her up the next flight of stairs. His palm was calloused and hard, very unlike the soft, manicured hands of her husband. The leather of his scarred boots bent and flowed around his joints with the ease of long use. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken, and a small scar pulled his lower lip slightly downward at the left corner. Not necessarily a