But her body warred against her rationalizations. This attraction was real. She wished she was acting. She sighed, puffing her hair out of her face as she shook out her arms, hoping to cool off. She had a job to do.
She crossed to the other end of the cannons and took out her webcam. After turning on the feed, she reached up to balance it on top of the elaborate doorframe housing the brass cannonballs.
Everything on this ship was recreated to match the original Sea Dog, right down to the ornate moldings and glass panes in the windows. They’d upgraded the technology but hadn’t sacrificed the historical design. But was it historical to these men, who had sailed on the Sea Dog in 1795?
She stepped back, trying to determine if the angle would work. It had to. She wouldn’t get another chance to adjust it. Greyson was already striding toward her.
And her body was responding. Shit. The way he looked at her as he came closer, like she was the only thing in this world that he needed, had her breath coming in small sips. She pressed her lips together, denying the desire he was stoking without even trying.
“We’re clear.” He moved past her again, and the ship pitched with a wave, tossing her against him. His arms encircled her instinctively, steadying her. His gaze wandered over her face, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Wish I hadn’t promised not to kiss you. Just know, if I hadn’t given you my word, I’d have your hands pinned over your head right now while I plundered your beautiful mouth.”
Her heart raced as her lips parted. Before she could reply, he was gone, as if temptation had never sizzled between them. Her fingers twitched at her side, yearning to touch him. She cleared her throat and forced her feet to move.
This wasn’t real. He knew that. This was a game.
And she played to win.
Chapter Nine
With his back to Aura, Greyson adjusted the raging erection in his jeans, giving himself a little more room, then reached up on the wall to grab a packing wand for the cannon.
He was certain he’d never wanted a woman more than the one walking his cannon line, but she’d made it clear last night that she was only here to retrieve the sword.
To her, the kiss in the crow’s nest had been practice, nothing more.
She was also lying. He’d bet his favorite cutlass on that.
Her body had told a different story when he’d held her in his arms. And since he’d promised he wouldn’t kiss her again until she asked him to, he’d been kicking himself. He didn’t know her well, but he’d seen enough to know she was stubborn, strong, and dangerous.
And this game he was playing was beyond treacherous.
She was a mortal. He’d kept his sanity as lifetimes passed by keeping his heart in check. No relationships with someone who would leave him for the hereafter. But he didn’t want to marry this woman—he wanted to explore her body, find the secret places that would have her calling his name. This was physical, an itch to be scratched. He made one more adjustment of his rock-hard erection. His balls were going to look like cannonballs soon.
He turned to hand her the packing materials, but she was closer than he expected. Her hip jutted to the side as her gaze slid slowly up from his feet and to his face. Her tongue teased her lower lip as she took the equipment from him. Her fingers brushed over his, the simple touch setting him on fire.
She was fucking baiting him.
He sucked in a breath and chuckled. “Let me show you how to pack a cannon.”
He picked up the heavy bag of powder, throwing it over his shoulder. Then he walked her to the nearest iron giant and set the gunpowder on the deck. He went to the mouth of the beast and squatted to wedge his shoulder underneath.
Meeting her eyes, he tightened his core and pushed his legs until they straightened, his knees locking. The iron squeaked as he tipped the opening up.
Once he had it settled, he beckoned her closer. “Bring the packing and the stick over here.”
She did as he asked, and he showed her the technique to prepare the cannon. While she tamped it down, sweat showed on her forehead, but she didn’t utter a single complaint. Wiping her brow, she asked, “Now what?”
He went back for the gunpowder and handed her the bag. “Pour some inside.”
“How much?”
He smiled, watching a bead of perspiration slide down her chest, making him envious of its travels. “You’re a weapons expert. Do what feels right.”
She raised a brow. “If I blow up the ship, we’ll lose the Tyrfing.”
“You won’t blow up the Sea Dog.” He meant to pat her shoulder, but his fingers slid down her spine to the small of her back, tempting him to cup her arse. He resisted. Barely.
“All right.” She lifted the bag, turning just slightly so that perfect arse brushed his bulging jeans. She moved her hips against him as she poured, and he nearly groaned. When she placed the bag back on the deck, she turned to face him, close enough that her breath teased his skin. “What’s next?”
He ached to kiss her, but his promise weighed on him. She had to ask. He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Now I add the packing fabric and load the cannonball.”
Bending down to the rack, he picked up a few squares of fabric and sent them down the cannon barrel to cover the gunpowder. Then he rolled one of the brass balls down the mouth of the cannon, enjoying the soft thump as it settled onto the packing and the gunpowder. He carefully lowered the neck down until the mouth slid through one of the cannon holes in the wall of the ship.
He turned around and caught her staring at him. Good.
She looked away quickly and pointed at the next cannon. “Shall we load another one?”
“How many do you want to fire?”
She shrugged, her teeth tugging at her full lower lip. “Maybe three?”
As they fed the hungry mouths of the iron giants, he forgot the seduction and settled into the work. She caught on fast. Seeing her respect for the dangerous beauties did something to him in the chest instead of the crotch.
Risky.
He lowered the final beast into position. And she ran her forearm across her brow. Her shirt clung to her sweat-soaked skin, driving him to distraction. The cannon clanked as he lost his grip a few inches from the bottom. Shit.
“How do we light the fuses?”
He straightened and went to the cannonball rack to retrieve the fuses and the Bic long-barrel barbecue lighter.
She chuckled as he brought it back. “I was expecting something more historical.”
He grinned, clicking the trigger of the butane lighter. A flame danced out of the tip. “This is so much better than our damned linstock lighters back in the day.”