But he didn’t leave. For a long moment they simply stood there, staring at each other across the small space.
“I want to come in, lass.” The words sounded rough, strained.
Francesca swallowed. “Okay.”
The single word was barely a whisper, but it was enough. He followed her inside, closing the door behind them with a soft click that sounded final in the quiet chamber.
Francesca’s heart hammered so hard she could hear it in her ears, could feel it pulsing in her throat, her wrists, everywhere.
He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough in a way that made her knees weak. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, exploring, learning her with patient thoroughness. One hand tangled in her hair while the other traced down her spine, pressing her closer until there was no space left between them.
“Too many clothes,” he muttered against her lips. “Ye’re wearin’ far too many clothes, lass.”
“So are you.”
His laugh was rough as he pulled back just enough to work the buttons of her dress. His fingers were surprisingly deft despite their size, each button releasing with methodical precision.
“I’ve thought about this,” he confessed as fabric parted beneath his hands, “every night since we married. How it would feel to undress ye properly. To take me time instead of—” He broke off, pushing the dress from her shoulders so it pooled at her feet.
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of rushin’ like a lad who cannae control himself.” His eyes darkened as they traced over her in nothing but her chemise and stays. “Ye’re the bonniest lass I ken.”
He kissed her again, walking her backward toward the bed. “And I’m goin’ to prove it to ye.”
The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she sat abruptly. He followed her down, his weight pressing her into the soft bedding as his mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above her stays.
“Declan.”
“Let me.” His hands worked the laces of her stays with the same patient skill he’d shown with her buttons. “Let me make ye feel what I feel when I look at ye.”
The stays loosened, fell away. Her chemise followed, and then she was bare beneath him, exposed and vulnerable and more aroused than she’d ever been in her life.
“So soft,” he murmured, his calloused palm skating over her ribs, her belly, the curve of her hip. “So perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“Ye are.” His mouth followed the path his hand had traced, pressing kisses to her heated skin. “Every inch of ye is perfect.”
She arched into his touch, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he explored her body with thorough attention. When his mouth closed over her breast, she gasped, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.
“Ye like that?” His tongue circled her nipple, making her writhe beneath him. “Tell me, lass. Tell me what ye like.”
“Everything.” The word came out breathless. “I like everything you do to me.”
“Good.” He switched to her other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. “Because I plan to do everythin’.”
His hand slid lower, over her belly, her hip, finding the place where she ached for him most. When his fingers touched her there, she nearly came off the bed.
“Easy,” he soothed, his free hand pressing her hip down. “Let me learn ye. Let me find what makes ye…”
She cried out as his fingers found exactly the right spot, circling with gentle pressure that made stars burst behind her eyelids.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted to see. Ye fallin’ apart for me.”
“Declan, please.”
“Nae yet.” His fingers continued their maddening rhythm while his mouth trailed kisses down her belly. “First, I’m going to taste ye.”
