He slid a finger into her channel. She lost control. Everything within her came undone. The bliss was more intense than anything she had ever experienced, rolling through her like a summer’s storm. It was violent, intense, and beautiful. She clenched on his finger and he added a second, stroking deeper as she rode out the wave of her pinnacle.
She lay there, a sated puddle of her former self, her heart pounding, the effervescent glow surrounding her, tangling her thoughts.
He kissed her inner thigh. First one, then the other. “And did you like that, sweet Mira?”
“Oh yes.”
* * *
Demon could not get enoughof her.
The delectable woman lying naked in his bed, a flushed blend of cream and pink, had come beneath his tongue. The memory of the wet clamp of her cunny on his fingers taunted him. His cock ached to be inside her.
But damn it, he was still wearing all his togs. He had been so intent upon giving her pleasure that he had not spared a thought for having to wrest himself from coat, cravat, and trousers whilst sporting a raging pego.
He tore at his coat.
She was so responsive, the last of her ice thoroughly melted. He had done that. He had torn down her walls. Had removed every scrap of her clothing. Had brought her to climax. He still tasted her on his tongue, musk and honey.
His.
Somehow, he could not shake the sense of possession he felt for her. From the moment he had first seen her, all queenly elegance behind her mask, he had felt the inexorable pull.
The same pull he felt now.
This was not going to last, he reminded himself.
They were from different worlds. She was a widow, eager to be touched and to learn passion for the first time. He could give her that knowledge. But that would be all he could give.
“Damian.”
His name in her soft, mellifluous voice—the aristocratic accent giving it an edge it had never possessed when his mother had spoken it—shook him from his thoughts. His coat was around his elbows, and he was still wearing his goddamn boots.
“Let me help you,” she whispered shyly, rising to a sitting position as she reached for his sleeves.
He allowed her to aid him, ridiculously pleased by the eager way she plucked at his garments. Whoever her husband had been, he had not appreciated the gift he had been given. Demon was glad of it now, for it meant he could be the one to teach her the meaning of pleasure. To discover what her body wanted and needed.
Together, they rid him of his coat, cravat, and waistcoat. He paused to toe off his polished boots. They fell to the floor with two thumps. His shirt was flying over his head and his trousers and stockings were gone as well. They were a tangle of naked limbs. The lush fullness of her breasts against his chest was enough to draw his ballocks tight. As was the sight of her fiery, unbound tresses cascading over his pillow. She was wearing nothing but her jewels, and what an exquisite sight she was to behold.
Mine.
There was that thought again. Wrong, but he would make her his as much as he could before he was through.
Her fingers traced over the inking on his upper arm, the work of Gen, who had painstakingly marked the initials of each bastard Winter sibling there. Soon, he would need to add the rest of his siblings as well, now that they had all become a true family.
“What is this?” Mira asked softly.
“The initials of my brothers and sister,” he explained. “We are bound by blood and loyalty, and this is a permanent reminder of that.”
The women he had bedded in the past had never asked after the tattoos. It pleased him that Mira cared enough to take note. Her fingers traced the letters slowly, worshipfully.
“It is uniquely beautiful,” she murmured.
Ah.If he did not take her soon, he would lose all control. He desired her far, far too much.
“You want this,” he said, leveraging himself on one elbow as he cupped her cheek with his free hand.
“I want you,” she confirmed.
