Their meal was finished, and in the absence of the discreet servants who had whisked themselves belowstairs, he was free to do as he liked with her, just as she was at liberty to do what she wished with him.
“You’re trying to distract me,” she observed.
Quite correctly.
“Is it working?” he asked cheekily.
A reluctant smile played at the corners of her full lips. “Your charm is deadly, Your Grace, as I’m sure you are already aware.”
She rose to her feet then, and he followed suit, feeling rather like a callow youth in such a haste to touch her that he was about to spend in his trousers. That was the effect she had on him. Regardless of how many times they made love, he only seemed to want her more.
“So I’ve been told, but I’m gratified that you find it so.” He skirted the table and offered her his arm formally, as if they were about to enter a ball together instead of on their way to shag like mad.
She settled her hand in the crook of his elbow. “How could I not?”
“So you find me irresistible?” he teased as he guided her from the room and down a short hall to the staircase.
“I’m sure you already know the answer to that question.” Her tone was arch, but then she sent him a seeking look and asked him a question that nearly had him tripping on the first step. “Is this the house you reserve for all your paramours?”
Thankfully, he grasped the banister before he planted himself face first into the stairs. “It is a house I have used when discretion is needed, yes.”
Mater and Rhiannon lived in his town house, and neither of them had ever crossed paths with the lovers he took. A strange sensation lodged in his chest. Bringing Miranda here suddenly felt inherently wrong.
“Of course,” she said quietly.
Damn it.
Rhys stopped her there on the stairs, turning toward her. “You’re not my paramour.”
He didn’t know precisely what she was to him. There was no word in his lexicon to accurately describe her. All he did know was that she was necessary. Like air in his lungs, sun in the sky, like rain on a drought-ridden field. He simply had to have this woman.
Miranda smiled softly. “I know.” She tugged at his arm. “Now, come to bed with me before I perish from wanting you.”
His cockstand was instant, all noble attempts at sorting out his tangled emotions effectively abandoned.
“As my queen commands,” he told her, guiding her up the rest of the stairs to the room he kept as his own.
They scarcely made it over the threshold before she took him by surprise, kissing him soundly. His hands settled on the curves of her waist, and he answered her by giving her his tongue. She tasted sweet, like wine and the vanilla mousse that had completed their dinner, and he couldn’t get enough. He wanted to gorge himself on her, to devour her.
But she had other ideas.
Her hands flattened on his chest, lightly pushing as she broke the kiss.
“Wait.” She was breathless, her eyes glistening, her lips berry-red. “You said as your queen commands, did you not?”
His cock pulsed. “I did.”
“Then disrobe for me,” she ordered him.
Sweet God. This woman was going to be the death of him.
Rhys shrugged out of his coat, allowing it to fall to the Axminster. He toed off his shoes, then worked frantically at buttons, not stopping until he was bare-chested and clad in nothing other than his trousers.
“More?” he asked, holding her rapt gaze, his fingers on the fastening at his waistband.
“Not yet. I need some assistance.”
Ceding control to her was a more potent aphrodisiac than he could have imagined.
