Emmeline’s breath caught as his mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the upper swell of her breast above the loosened chemise. He tugged the linen down with his teeth and hand together, baring her breast to the firelit room, and the first stroke of his tongue over her nipple made her cry out.
Rowan groaned.
“Again,” he said against her skin.
She did not know whether he meant the sound or the movement, but he drew both from her. His mouth closed over her breast, hot and slow, while his hand shaped the other with devastating patience. Her back arched. Her fingers tangled in his hair. He praised her between kisses, low words against damp skin, telling her she was soft, perfect, lovely, telling her he had thought of her until thought had become torment.
By the time his hand slid beneath her chemise, she was trembling so hard she could hardly breathe.
“Rowan,” she whispered.
His fingers moved along her thigh, slow over the stocking, then higher where the bare skin began. Emmeline’s knees drew together instinctively, but he kissed the inside of one and murmured, “My wife.”
The shame and want tangled until she could not tell one from the other.
He kissed her knee, her thigh, the delicate skin above the garter. Every inch higher made her breath shorter, her hands tighter in the bedding. When he reached the place where she ached most, he did not touch her immediately. He pressed his mouth to her inner thigh and breathed there, as if he were steadying himself.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are like this… all undone, just for me.”
Her eyes flew open, and he looked up at her from between her thighs.
The sight nearly stopped her heart.
His dark hair was disordered from her hands, his gray eyes burning, his mouth still against her skin as he knelt before her.
His hands slid beneath her knees and opened her gently.
The first touch of his mouth made her gasp so sharply she nearly sat up. Rowan held her down with one hand spread over herstomach, while his tongue moved slowly against her through the wet heat of her own desire.
“Oh,” she whispered, then broke into a sound she did not recognize.
Rowan groaned as though the pleasure were his.
“Sweet,” he murmured against her. “You taste so sweet.”
Her eyes closed, head falling back.
He took his time.
He kissed her there as though he had all night to ruin her, slow licks and soft suction, his fingers tightening on her thighs when she moved restlessly against him. Each stroke of his tongue made the tension coil tighter, low and bright and unbearable.
Then one finger slid into her.
Emmeline cried out.
Rowan stilled immediately. “Pain?”
“No.” Her voice was broken. “No, please.”
His control snapped enough for her to hear it in his breath.
He moved again, slow at first, his finger pressing deep while his mouth found the aching point above. Her body clenched around him, shocked by the fullness, the rhythm, the heat. Then another finger joined the first, stretching her carefully, and his praise grew rougher.
“That is it,” he murmured. “Just like that.”
Pleasure rose too quickly then, terrifying in its force. Emmeline grabbed at the sheets, at his hair, at anything that might keep her from flying apart, but Rowan would not let her escape it. His mouth worked her with relentless tenderness, his fingers moving inside her in a slow, sure rhythm that made the whole world reduce to firelight and breath and the sound of her own helpless cries.
“Rowan,” she gasped. “I cannot?—”
