And fucking hell, there went his ability to resist her.
He swallowed hard against a rush of desire so intense that he could scarcely think. “That isn’t why I abandoned theblancmange.”
“I know.” She traced the line of buttons bisecting his shirt. “You’re all I want for dessert.”
Sweet, holy God.He’d give her himself. He’d give her anything. Everything. Whatever she desired. She was brazen and beautiful, her gown flung on the carpet, standing before him in nothing more than her stockings, drawers, and chemise. But her glorious curls were still confined, and there remained too manybarriers between them. If she wanted to pleasure him, then he intended to savor the moment.
“Take the pins from your hair,” he said. “Please. I want to see it down.”
He thought she might balk at his request, but she didn’t, reaching for her pins instead and plucking them from her hair, one by one. Cinnamon curls fell, framing her heart-shaped face, glinting with hints of gold in the lamplight. It was the first time he had seen her hair entirely unbound, for he had begun dismantling her coiffure that night in the emerald salon and never finished. The intimacy of the act—watching her remove each pin for him alone—made fire lick through him.
When she had finished, her curls rained down her back and over her shoulders, long and lustrous, and she laid her palmful of pins on a nearby table. “Your turn.”
“What would my lady have me do?” he asked, throat gone thick with want.
Her gaze seared his. “Take off your shirt and waistcoat.”
“As you like.” He took off his waistcoat and then worked open the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling in his eagerness, heart pounding, cock as hard as marble.
“Let me help.” She moved to him, chasing his useless hands, plucking buttons free until they both had him out of his shirt. “Now this.” She tugged at his waistband, her forefinger grazing his bare stomach and making him inhale sharply at the simple contact.
God, how he longed for her touch. Everywhere.
His reaction to her was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, so powerful it scared the devil out of him. He had to somehow persuade her to be his wife. He couldn’t lose her.
At the thought, he caught her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for fervent kisses on each knuckle before lifting his head and meeting her gaze. “I want you naked in my bed.”
“With pleasure.” She grasped handfuls of her chemise and hauled it over her head, revealing the milky globes of her breasts at last and hard pink nipples he couldn’t wait to suck.
She undid the button on her drawers and those, too, fell away, leaving her in nothing but her silk stockings and pretty gold-ribboned garters. Better than Venus, she was a lush deity unto her own, all riotous, flaming curls and copper-flecked curves and wickedly seductive femininity.
“Leave them,” he said hoarsely, knowing that watching her roll them down her legs would be a torment he couldn’t withstand.
His cock was already leaking, desperate to be freed from his trousers.
A knowing smile flirted with the corners of her lips. “Now you.”
He unfastened his trousers with lightning speed and, naked, guided her to the bed. He stretched alongside her, his mouth on the delicate curve of her shoulder. She was hot and soft, and she smelled so bloody good. Her hair fanned over the pillow like silken fire.
“God, you’re glorious,” he praised. “I’ve been longing to do this all dinner long.”
“Why did you not, then?” she asked breathlessly. “I wouldn’t have offered protest.”
He kissed a path over the curve of her left breast, tracing the trail of freckles that endlessly bewitched him. Following them to her nipple, which was puckered and pink and waiting for his mouth. He flicked his tongue over the distended tip, and her back arched, a gasp tearing from her.
Lightly.
Gently.
Teasingly.
“Brandon,” she said, her voice strained. “More.”
He caught her nipple in his teeth and gently bit. “Like this?”
“More,” she demanded again.
He liked her when she was desperate. When she was issuing orders and commanding her own pleasure. She made him ravenous.
