“They don’t hurt, not anymore,” he assured her. “There’s only one part of me that hurts at the moment.”
Alarm coursed through her. “What? Where?” Then he laughed, she realized what he’d meant, and she hit him again. “You blackguard. You worried me!”
He laughed again and pulled her hand down to that part of him that was aching.
“I told you, sweetheart,” he told her, his accent rolling over the endearment. “There is nothing that will stop me from making you mine any longer. I am more than man enough, more than hale enough, to prove that to you.”
She’d had more than enough talk and not nearly enough action.
“You keep making promises,” she told him archly, “but I’ve yet to see the results.”
He rolled them so fast that Clio could do no more than gasp. Then she was atop him, her skirts bunched around her waist.
“You really shouldn’t taunt me,” he told her warningly. But his actions did not support his words, because he used those incredible muscles of his to pull himself up to sit, too, so they were face to face, and then he began attacking the laces of her bodice with determination.
This was, Clio thought dizzily, a marvelous argument in favor of taunting him.
Soon enough, he had her bare to the waist. His rough fingers came up to cup her breasts, the sensitive skin prickling with the feel of his calluses. He pinched one nipple, hard.
She yelped.
“Oh, yes, that’s right,” he purred as he sucked kisses along her collarbone and his thumb began stroking the place he’d pinched, soothing the hot skin. “Let me hear you. Let me see you.”
He rolled them again—Clio never wanted to get used to that—and guided the mass of her gown down over her hips, over her legs, then threw it aside. The dress would never be the same again, and Clio didn’t give a damn.
How could she, when her husband’s eyes were upon her, when he was looking at her like she was goddamn Aphrodite herself, risen from the waves? How could she care about anything except for his possessive hand as it traveled over her belly, her hips, then curved to cup her gently at the juncture of her thighs.
When he found her already slick and wanting, he groaned, and she gasped.
“God, how perfect are you?” he asked, his voice awestruck as he caressed her sensitive flesh. “Is there anything you cannot do? My perfect princess on the outside, and my delicious wanton on the inside. All wet and eager for me. Bloody perfect.”
He offered her the words in a guttural growl, which only added to their coarseness. And, despite what she’d been taught to expect from a gentleman all her life, Clio found that it was this very coarseness that sent a thrill through her.
Because this was Hector, her Hector. He was a gentleman, yes, but he was more than that. He was also the blacksmith at the forge. He was also a man who had carved and fought for the respect he commanded.
Any of the Society toffs who thought this made him less were wrong. They were dead wrong. He wasmore. And somehow, miraculously, he was all hers.
“Are you ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked, the cords in his neck standing out with the effort it took to restrain himself.
“Yes,” she gasped, her own body vibrating with barely suppressed need. “Yes, Hector, please.”
She felt a blunt pressure between her legs as he got himself into position, and then her whole body was heat and pressure andsensation. He moved slowly, taking care with her, and she was torn between an instinctual resistance to this strange new use for her body and a shrieking desire for more, more, more.
It was the latter feeling that won out.
When Hector was fully seated within her, he paused, his piercing blue eyes mere inches from hers. His hair flopped over his brow. His gaze searched hers, checking to make sure she was well, and a pang went through her.
Oh. Oh, she was so very much in danger with this man. Not with her body—his marvelous care made that clear—but with her heart.
“Am I hurting ye, princess?” he asked. “Tell me that you aren’t hurting. I couldn’t stand it if I harmed you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes at his earnestness, but she blinked them away, lest he think them caused by discomfort.
“No, Hector,” she assured him, her hand coming to his cheek, even though she worried it was too tender, that it would give her away. “Please. Show me the rest.”
“Thank the saints,” he muttered just before he stole her mouth in a searing kiss. She opened her mouth to him, then gasped as he began tomove.
Hector wrapped his rough palm around the curve of her rear—Clio gasped again—and used his grip to guide her up into the motion of his thrusts. They were slow at first, then faster, in a rhythm that stole Clio’s breath and made her pulse with pleasure at each movement.
