“Please,” she murmured against his lips.
“Please?” He pulled back, gaze searching. “I will not. I canno—”
“Hush,” she said. “Stop when you must, but not now.”
She watched in fascination as the haze behind his eyes cleared. He released her and went to fumble through his discarded waistcoat.
He returned with something clasped in his fist. “Your hand, my lady.”
She rested her palm in his. His warm hand spread her fingers and then cold metal slipped into place.
“There,” he said, with satisfaction.
She lifted her hand. Rubies glinted in the firelight, dark and mysterious. Such a thoughtful touch. She blinked back her tears. Twice betrothed and she’d never worn a ring.
“Giles,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”
“In Scotland,” he said with tipsy pride, “we’d be wed.”
“We are not in Scotland,” she replied with a mad little laugh.
“Shall I stop?” he asked.
Her breath hitched. “No.”
He lowered his chin to look deeply into her eyes. “Iwillbe worthy.”
“Of course.” She leaned in. “You are already worthy.”
His lips brushed hers with growing demand. His desire was like music, the coordinated percussion of lips and breath. While his lips tantalized, his fingers found her breast. His rough breath burned her cheeks as he teased, tracing a lazy spiral from under curve to nipple.
Her heart leaped with anticipation and need. And then, he took her full breast into his palm. Ache spasmed through her body. As if responding to a silent call, he slid the pad of his finger over her nipple. Her knees buckled. He caught her before she fell.
Lifting her as if she weighed no more than a doll, he carried her to the bed and settled her against the pillows. His eyes met hers, blazing with possessive heat, before they dropped back to her chest. He lowered his head. Over the fabric, he took her nipple into the soft, wet heat of his mouth.
She moaned.
“Do you like that?” he asked.
“Like” was not the word she would have chosen. She came alive with that. The sensation made her want to sing.
“Yes,” she laughed. “Yes!”
He slid down on his haunches. Holding her with his eyes, he inched his hand up her leg.
“Where are your stockings?” He traced her calf.
“Drying by the fire.”
“Were you wearing the silky pink fribble you had on the day we went to the folly?”
A smile spread her lips. “I thought you had not noticed.”
“Of course, I noticed.” He rested his cheek on her thigh, and his breath seeped through the linen, tickling her delicate flesh. He traced a long, maddening oval up and down her thigh.
“What color were the ties?” he asked. “Matching pink? Or white?”
“Black,” she replied.
