He used his other hand to work off his waistcoat.
While he disrobed, her mouth parched.
Towering over Meghan, he frowned. “You need to change and bathe before you take chill, Meghan,” he said quietly. “I will summon Scarlet.”
August was already turning to the door.
Scarlet? The hell Meghan would have that woman back here.
She caught August by the wrist.
His gaze swung to where Meghan touched him. His eyes smoldered.
Meghan trembled.
He had spoken about working himself up to bedding her, but the unmistakable desire in his eyes was his truth.
“August,” she said softly, “I trust you.”
A tight, rhythmic throb appeared on his cheek.
August awaited her approval.
Too overcome for words, Meghan, fighting to swallow, managed only an uneven nod.
Like a falconer with a restless hawk, August guided her to stand. Twining his fingers in hers, he guided Meghan about with the languid grace of the Minuet de la Cour, until the very heat of him poured onto her.
Her lashes grew heavy, and her eyes slid shut.
A tremble took hold.
The sough of his breath fanned warmth down her neck, a sensation that tingled and tickled, and it brought her shoulders up.
He glided his fingers along her shoulders and trailed them to the top of pearl buttons down the back of her wedding dress.
Meghan stilled, her breath caught.
Pop.
Her lashes fluttered and she arched in the direction of that faint pull of fabric.
Pop.
Meghan’s neck moved towards that next tug.
August worked the tiny pearls with a skill the Queen’s own lady’s maid couldn’t have mastered.
Pop.
Another button surrendered to him.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
With every fastening released, her chest rose and fell harder.
