Legs splayed, he propped himself up on his elbows to watch her. His arms flexed. His grin widened. She ran a finger along the edge of his waistband. His eyes grew serious, intense. Her hand hovered a hairsbreadth above the ridge creasing the fall of his breeches. His shaft pulsed, pushing the material in brief contact with her fingers. She touched him again, gently, tentatively. As before, his shaft jumped against her palm. She cupped her hand over it, stroking down, stroking up.
Gavin collapsed against the mattress.
Evangeline froze, her hand still molded to his heat.
“What’s wrong?” she asked nervously. “You don’t like it?”
“No,” he groaned toward the canopy. “I love it.”
She smiled, gripped him a little harder, stroked again. His fingers clenched the bedsheet. She undid the buttons of his fall to caress him again, this time without the cumbersome cloth between his shaft and her hand. It was smooth, hot, throbbing.
“Give me words,” she commanded.
“What?”
She squeezed a little as she tugged. “What do you call this?”
“Uh…my cock?”
His cock. Yes. It responded to her caresses by swelling against her palm, just like her body had responded to his caresses by heating and becoming damp.
She tugged down his breeches and paused when she caught sight of a thin red line slashing across one hip. He had gotten that wound while trying to protect her.
“Will it scar?”
He lifted himself up on one elbow, shrugged. “Won’t be the first.”
She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
“I’d do it again.” He gazed at her, his expression grave.
Evangeline stared back at him for a moment, silent, wishing he weren’t lying down so she could kiss him. Wait. He was hers to command, was he not? She could kiss him anytime she wished.
She tugged him forward until he was sitting up enough for her to cradle his face in her hands and touch her lips to his. His mouth opened hungrily beneath hers, licking, suckling, nibbling. When he slid his hands down her back to cup her closer, she pulled away long enough to yank off his breeches.
Finally. He was naked. And perfect.
She’d seen men in various states of undress before, but only in visions. She’d never held one, touched one, loved one. Everything she knew about lovemaking came from stolen glimpses of other people’s lives. At last she would have a memory of her own. She lifted her shift above her head and tossed it to the floor. There. She was naked, too.
Her nipples budded in the cool air. His cock pulsed.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
She touched a hand to her head. “My chignon fell apart.”
“I like your hair curly and loose and wild. The fire gives your silhouette a warm glow. I would like to paint you, just like that.”
“Nude?”
“Utterly.”
A thrill shivered down her spine. Could she do something like that? Pose naked, exposed, allowing him to commit every curve of her body to canvas? The very illicitness of his proposal only made the idea more erotic.
“Next time,” she promised.
His half smile didn’t reach his eyes. They both knew there wouldn’t be a next time.
“Move up against the pillows,” she directed him. “Lie in the middle of the bed.”
