“I’ll use only this finger.” He held up a long, thick digit. “If I fail to bring you over the edge before the sand runs out, I’ll give you the location of the compass and debark at the first opportunity. You’ll never see me again.”

I didn’t trust him. Not for a minute. “If you succeed?”

“If you come on my finger within the allotted time, I’ll have your forgiveness.”

“Really, Priest.” I made a scoffing sound. “Never in the history of faithless husbands does a woman offer forgiveness at the crook of his finger.”

“Very well. If I succeed, I’ll have my position reinstated as the master gunner on this ship. I’ll resume my role as your husband and earn your forgiveness.”

“Chops is the master gunner.”

“Chops can report to me. Or I can feed his innards to the gulls. I’m indifferent either way.”

He set the sand clock on the mattress and folded his hands on his lap, regarding me with an expectant look. It wasn’t hopeful expectancy. He calculated on me agreeing to this.

We both knew I would. And we both knew he would win.

Which was why I had no intention of playing by the rules.

I took another swill of rum and carried it with me to the bed. Stepping into the V of his spread knees, I planted my boots against the insides of his and steeled my nerves.

“So, my stunning, unmanageable, ever-vexing wife,” he murmured, tiptoeing his gaze up my body to meet my eyes. “Shall we get on with it, then?”

I gave a deliberate pause, pretending indecision. “Do I have another option?”

“Hmm.” He lifted my hand and kissed my fingers, his voice folding around me like nightshade—beautiful, exotic, deadly poisonous. “Perhaps I’ll bend you over my knee like a bad little girl and leave us both aching for release.”

“You owe me more than that.”

“Quite so.” His insidious stare taunted me over the fingers he held captive, his breath dipping into the valleys between each knuckle, teasing sensitive skin.

A shudder raked my body, puckering my nipples and unleashing hell on my focus. I ached for his touch, and my senses thickened with that need, sharpening and dulling in waves as I sought to control my reaction to him.

I knew what I needed to do. Anger would guide me. Ruthlessness would protect me. But the woman I’d once been—the wife, the lover, the sensual creature who craved affection—desperately wanted to postpone his pain.

And mine.

This was the last time I would be with my husband. I endeavored to savor it.

Hooking an arm around his broad shoulders, I held the bottle of rum against his back and straddled his lap. Then I pulled my fingers from his grip and allowed myself to touch him.