And take him in, she did. He was lean and strong, his chest covered in a smattering of dark hair, his stomach taut. Stanhope had never bothered to remove his dressing gown. Often, he had come to her wearing his night cap. But his body had not been at all similar in composition; he had been rendered soft by years of leisure and indulgence. There was nothing soft about Damian Winter.
Nothing at all.
And the rigid protrusion against the fall of his trousers was adamant proof of that.
“You are staring, Mira.”
Hot and flustered, she jerked her gaze away from the evidence of his desire, meeting his dark eyes. “Forgive me. It is merely that I am…you are…”
He held out his hand. “Come here.”
She went. What else was there to do? She was drawn to him, helplessly, hopelessly, deliciously. Her hand settled in his. Sparks flew past her elbow, then radiated elsewhere, landing between her thighs.
“You are lovely,” he said softly, tugging at the tips of her glove and pulling it off.
She swallowed.
He brought her bare hand to his chest, settling it over his heart. “Touch me as you like, love.”
His skin was warm. His scent washed over her. She absorbed the steady thumping of his life source. “I like touching you.”
His mouth kicked up in a sensual grin. “And I like when you touch me.”
She remained frozen as she was, wanting to explore more of him and yet hesitant. A sudden shyness swept over her. Being intimate with a man was so new to her. No matter how many times Stanhope had lain with her, it had never been close to this. Instead, it had been impersonal and polite, uncomfortable and hasty and awkward. Stanhope had been raised to believe pleasure was to be found with his mistress alone and that his duchess was purely for the purpose of siring heirs. Mirabel had been raised to believe the same, but that had not stopped her from longing for more.
So many wasted years.
At long last, passion was here, hers for the taking.
Damian reached for her other hand, pulling it free of the kid glove as well, before drawing her other palm to his chest. Such barely contained strength. He was so masculine. So forbidden.
So…hers.
At least for the night. For the next few hours before she had to return to her life as the staid, always proper Duchess of Stanhope.
Hesitantly, she caressed him. The dichotomy of smooth, warm flesh and coarse masculine hair delighted her. He was beautiful. She never wanted the night to end. Never wanted this connection between them to sever, though she knew it inevitably would.
“You are wearing far too many layers,” he grumbled, his fingers going to work on the fastenings at the back of her gown.
She thrilled at the frustration in his deep voice. For the first time, she became aware of her effect upon him, realizing this attraction was not one-sided. That she possessed far more power than she had understood last night in her wild state of desire.
Feeling bold, she caressed down his chest, over the firm, muscled slab of his abdomen. Then lower, to the waistband of his trousers. When she neared the fall, where his manhood stood in prominent relief, he caught her wrist.
“Naughty minx.” He kissed her swiftly. “I want you naked first, or I won’t last long enough.”
Together, they worked her out of her gown and all the rest of her trappings. Her slippers were likely ruined, but she did not care. She would ruin them again if given the chance. What she felt for him was wild and dangerous, reckless and wrong.
And yet, it would not be stopped.
Not as he kissed every bare expanse of flesh he revealed. Not as he led her to the bed. Not even as he took up his discarded cravat and met her gaze.
“Do you want me, Mira?”
His low query settled over her like warm silk. “Yes.”
“How much?” He kissed her throat.
“Too much.” The truth was torn from her.
