Page 95 of Cocky August Rake

“You lacked love.”

The simple words struck deeper than he expected.

Reginald looked down at her. “That hardly compares.”

“I’m not sure about that.” She dipped her chin. “My family wanted me. After my mother died, my grandmother took me in and gave me everything she had. It was not much, but I never doubted that she wanted me. I never doubted that she loved me.”

Reginald covered her hand with his.

“She died too soon. But even when I had nothing, I always had that.” Rose continued. “And later, when Nell found me, she invited me to be a part of something special too. She could have left me where I was. But she didn’t.”

Something that almost felt like guilt tightened inside Reginald at the thought of Rose alone in the streets, waiting for someone to see that she was worth saving.

“And now I’ve met you,” she said quietly. “And you wanted me.”

Reginald could scarcely breathe.

He touched her cheek.

“Then you understand what it meant,” he said, “when you came here. To me.”

For less than a breath, pain flickered across her face. Before he could question it, Rose leaned forward and kissed him.

It felt like a promise.

Only later would he understand it had meant goodbye.

For now, the kiss quieted every doubt.

Much later, with moonlight silvering the water beyond the stern windows, hunger finally drew Reginald from her warmth.

He sat up with a quiet groan and pulled the coverlet over Rose. Then he found his breeches, fastening only enough buttons to make himself decent.

He lifted the silver covers from the waiting dishes, then carried the food to the bed.

Rose was still curled among the pillows. Soft. Rumpled. Entirely at home there.

It felt right.

He poured the wine, broke apart the small loaf, and fed her bread, cold chicken, and slices of fruit with his own fingers. Each time her lips closed around another bite, an absurd sense of satisfaction moved through him.

“You’re spoiling me for anyone else,” she murmured.

“Good.”

For once, Reginald allowed himself the possessive satisfaction of it. He had spent weeks refusing to think of Rose as his—refusing even to imagine he had any right to want such a thing.

But she was here. In his bed. On his ship.

He leaned forward and captured her mouth with his.

There was no frantic need to reach one another. Reginald touched her slowly, learning rather than taking, while the ship moved gently beneath them and the rest of the world waited somewhere beyond the cabin walls.

There was only this room.

This woman.

Reginald watched her face as he moved, memorizing every breath and every change in her expression. And he whispered her name when the pleasure finally claimed him.