It had been less than a day and perhaps such soreness was to be expected. She was untried and her lover hadn’t been under-endowed. Nor had he been docile. No, his strokes had been hard and demanding, working her body to an explosive release. Bronwyn could feel the memory of his palm against her spine, forcing her lower half to arch toward him more fully and then moving to draw her hip to him. Beneath her hands, the aching flesh tingled.

Goodness, why was she obsessing about the man or the act? It was to be expected, she supposed. He’d been her first. She was bound to associate some deep-seated, useless feelings with him. Those would fade in time, and once she found another lover to replace him, none of it would matter.

You don’t want any other.

The duke had been her fantasy lover for so long that imagining someone else in his place was impossible. And now he wanted to arrest her. She was lucky he hadn’t thrown her in the brig. Bronwyn let out a hard sigh. Did her brother’s fancy liner even have a brig? Given the caliber of its few passengers, no one would ever dare put a toe out of line. Though most ships had a place where misbehaving crew or travelers could be kept. She was certain of that. If Thornbury had put her in such a place, she would have demanded that he lock himself in there with her like the gothic heroines did in her racy novels. Naked.

Sighing at her foolishness, Bronwyn smiled. A man like Thornbury would likely be immune to female seduction, though he hadn’t resisted when she’d dropped to her knees like a practiced lover. That thought filled her with gratification. His desire hadn’t been fake in the least. Nor had hers. She skipped her fingers up her ribs on each side, leaving goose bumps. Her breasts begged for stimulation. Should she touch them? No one was here.

Her body prickled from the coarse direction of her thoughts, her nipples still obscenely tight. Bronwyn’s eyes fluttered closed. The pads of her fingertips brushed over the taut peaks, and a ragged pant hissed out of her. Gracious, she had never been so sensitive. Her thumbs and forefingers pinched in tandem, the sound of the water sloshing against the sides explicit when she arched upward, a needy sigh bursting past her lips.

“Want me to come back?” a low voice growled.

Bronwyn nearly jackknifed out of the tub, her hands falling guiltily to her sides as she sank back into the water, though it hid nothing. “You need a bloody bell.”

“I knocked. Twice.” Leaning against the doorjamb, his hands in his pockets, Thornbury looked clean and put together in a fresh suit of clothes. He’d bathed and shaved as well, the angular planes of his face no longer softened by bronze stubble.