And as she opened for him to devour her hungrily, the wild notion he might forever belong to this woman drew taut around him, like a manacle on the wrist of a prisoner. That was how bound he was to her. That was how badly he wanted…needed Miranda.
HisMiranda.
He showed her with lips and tongue and teeth, a man starved. She made a low, husky sound as he explored the satiny heat of her mouth, and he swore he could spend an eternity here with her just like this, kissing and holding her, her feminine curves crushed into him in all the right places.
She was a woman who deserved lingering kisses, a slow savoring. To be wooed. To be won.
He inhaled her heady scent, never once breaking the kiss, one of his hands leaving her waist to tangle in the silken cloud of hair at her nape. It was cool and sleek, still slightly damp from her earlier bath. He wanted it unbound, falling down her back. Wanted it unfettered and free. His fingers traveled with a will of their own, plucking hairpins until the coil came undone, heavy and fat, and her curls spilled over her shoulders, lush and scented of orange blossom and rose.
Was it her shampoo, then? Her soap? He had imagined the source had been a perfume she applied sparingly to her wrists and throat. But now he wondered if every inch of her skin would be so decadently scented. It was a mystery he was determined to investigate.
Tonight, if she would allow it.
But he was also cognizant of what she had endured in the gardens, of what might have happened. With great effort, he forced his head up, his lips leaving hers. Her skin was flushed, her lips dark and swollen from his kisses, her eyes glazed with desire.
“You’re likely overset after everything that transpired earlier,” he said gently, ignoring the lust roaring through his veins, the ceaseless need that urged him to kiss her again. To strip her bare. To take her in his arms and lay her on his waiting bed and claim her in every way he could.
“No.” Her tone was adamant if breathless, her gaze unwavering. “That has nothing to do with this.”
But he was a gentleman. Or, at least, his mother had raised him to be one.
Rhys tried again. “It may seem that way, but in the morning?—”
“Oh, do shut up.”
She rose on her toes and kissed him again, her mouth hard and determined, silencing his further protest.
Well, then.
The gentleman within him promptly died. In his place was instantly born a marauding scoundrel with a raging cockstand. She had given him her acquiescence, and that was all he wanted. All he required. She was air, she was life, the beat of his heart, the punishing vise of desire. His tongue plundered her mouth, and she sucked, drawing him in, welcoming his invasion.
He groaned, deepening the kiss as he walked them as one toward the bed inhabiting the far wall of the bedchamber. Rhys kissed her with every step, their breaths mingling and their tongues tangling. Their hands roved over each other’s bodies in mutual exploration. More hairpins dropped. They kicked away their footwear, leaving it abandoned and jumbled on the floor. She fought with his coat, pulling it down his shoulders and off his arms. His fingers found that interminable line of buttons.
There must have been five hundred of the little mother-of-pearl beggars keeping him from what he wanted. He unhooked two, then fumbled and struggled with a third. Too many of them,to be sure. With a growl, he began tearing. Buttons rained to the Axminster, joining the scattered hairpins. Fabric rent.
She jerked her lips from his, breathing hard. “You’ll ruin my gown.”
“It’s already ruined.” He kissed her hard before withdrawing. “I’ll buy you a dozen more.”
She stared at him, flushed and beautiful, a wanton goddess he could not wait to get naked. “Do it.”
With great satisfaction, Rhys grasped the twain ends of her modest gray bodice and tore them in two. Buttons popped away. Silk ripped. And then he was treated to the most erotic sight he’d ever beheld.
Her pale-blue corset was revealed, cinched at her waist and pushing her full breasts high. Bits of blonde lace and cream ribbons adorned the feminine confection, which was so at odds with the bland, uninspiring gowns she wore each day. Here was the heart of her, the true Miranda, hidden away from the unforgiving eyes of the world. His alone.
The fanciful thought pleased him as he lifted a trembling hand to trace over the creamy swells just barely contained by a thin chemise. He flattened his palm over her racing heart.
“Beautiful.”
The praise fell from his lips as he smoothed his touch higher, over the silken heat of her bare skin, the delicate ridge of her collarbone, then up her throat, watching the dichotomy of his sun-gilded hand on her pale skin. His hand was large, so large he could wrap it halfway around her neck in a tender hold, his thumb sweeping over her jaw as he simply drank in the sight of her.
Her kiss-plumped lips parted on a sigh, her lashes going low. “Help me out of my bodice.”
Fuck.
She didn’t have to tell him twice. In a blur of leaden desire and blinding need, he worked her from her bodice first, then her ravaged skirts and the petticoats beneath. Her padded bustle fell to the floor with a thump, and then she was there, in stockings, chemise, and corset only, whilst he was still mostly fully clothed.
Miranda seemed to settle upon that problem in the same moment, for her verdant gaze seared his. “Take off your waistcoat and shirt.”
