“Oh, wecould,” he countered. He delved one hand into the neckline of her bodice, cupping her bare breast beneath her corset.
“It’s...” she tried. “It wouldn’t be...”
“Do not disparage bird-watching, Miss Trelayne,” he scolded. “You do love it so.”
She chuckled breathily, pressing against him. She couldn’t. Stop. Pressing.
“Can you look up into the trees, Miss Trelayne? Tell me about the birds.”
“Whi—?”
“The birds,” he whispered, “Look up.” He nudged her jaw with his nose, guiding her head back. She let her head fall, and he attacked the sensitive skin of her neck with his lips. Meanwhile, he shifted, sliding one hand behind her back and ever so slightly reclining her.
She tried to look down, to catch herself, but he warned in a throaty whisper, “Uh-uh-uh, Miss Trelayne. The birds in the sky.”
She chuckled again and did as she was told, opening her eyes, blinking up at the autumnal canopy. There were no birds—or, if there were birds, she didn’t care to see them—she saw only red and gold. She was submerged in a pool of sensation, and she wanted to sink deeper, not rise to the surface.
“What do you see?” he whispered in her ear. His words were calm and curious, but his breath was labored. One of his hands held her in a reclined slant on his lap, the other was a quick but scintillating tickle of movement.
She whimpered when his fingers left her breast; but he trailed a line of pleasure from the curve of her waist, to the rise of her hip, down the expanse of her leg. When his hand reached her foot, it encircled ankle and then disappeared upward beneath her skirts. He massaged his hand up her stockinged leg with seeking fingers.
She blinked at the leafy bower above, aware now of his intent. The center of her body tingled and burned, anticipating the destination.
“Surely not,” she whispered, but she widened her legs. She tried to sit upright.
“I’m waiting, Miss Trelayne, to learn of all the lovely birds we’ve seen,” he rasped. He sucked her earlobe, kissed her jaw, her eye; he nuzzled her nose.
Beneath her skirts, she felt his hand tangle in her drawers, and for a rapturous, breathless moment, he touched her where she needed it most, sliding, testing. Drew cried out, the pleasure a piercing thrum ofgood, so good.
“Careful not to frighten them away,” he warned.
“You are wicked, Your Grace,” she whimpered.
“Wickedly devoted to bird-watching,” he grunted, and then his hand was gone, and she felt him fumbling with his trousers. Next he rose up, ever so slightly, from the stump. His powerful thighs supported his own weight and hers. The movement unsettled her, and she grabbed his shoulders, but he was already dropping back to the stump.
“Now, let’s take those beautifully long legs of yours and wrap them like . . . this . . .” His hand moved quickly beneath her skirts, hitching her right leg over his hip.
“Oh,” she said.
“For the birds,” he said.
Drew laughed and repeated the position with her left leg, closing her eyes against the sheer wantonness of it.
He’d tipped her upright again, nose-to-nose; but there was a newness. For one, a bareness. Her drawers had been pushed aside. Also, an unmistakable hardness. Aligned perfectly, irresistibly, with her own need.
“Do you dare, Miss Trelayne?” he whispered, sliding against her.
“Please.” A gasp. She didn’t stop to consider.
“I knew you were more than a hobbyist,” he said, kissing her, “you’re so very good at this.”
Next he grunted, “Up you go.”
He buried another hand beneath her skirts, hooked it beneath her bottom, and lifted her. Using one hand to guide them and the other to raise her up and slide her down, he entered her in one, deep thrust.
Drew’s body was ready for him—yearningfor him—but she was unprepared for the fullness or the depth. She cried out in surprise.
He kissed away the sound, his breath ragged, sawing. He was motionless except for his hands. He slid them from her waist to gently palm her bottom.
