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She was trembling already, her thighs pressed together, and he drew his palm along the inside of one leg, not rushing, but she opened for him all the same.

Eager. Wanton.

Damnation.

He looked up at her face, his entire face heating up as the scent of her started to permeate his very breath. She was watching him just as ravenously, her chin tilted slightly up, eyes half-closed. She did not try to hurry him; she just lay there, open and waiting, with no performance in it at all.

“Will…you not feast, Your Grace?” she asked quietly, and his member jumped inside his breeches.

Enough for him to growl against her skin, fingers spasming against the flesh of her thigh before pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee.

“Ah.” The breath went out of her in a long, even draft, and he moved higher, encouraged, following the crease of her thigh, his hands spread at her hips.

When his mouth found the center of her, she screamed again, her back arching off of the bed so that he had to press her hips down into the bed to keep her steady for his…how did she put it…feasting.

“Oh, Adam!” She moaned, a low sound that came from deep in her chest.

He learned her all over again. He had certainly paid attention in all their previous encounters, but this was different; this time, he was going to take his sweet time with her beautiful body.

So, he found the rhythm that shortened her breathing and held to it, adjusting by the pressure of her hand and the changed quality of each sound she made above him, his own patience built on the understanding that she would tell him with her body exactly what she needed if he let her.

The hand in his hair went from looseness to grip. Her hips pushed toward him in wanton desire that made his mouth water. He spread his hands firmer at her waist and held her steady, unwavering in his onslaught, until she broke.

She did not scream this time; the sound she made was low, continuous, and breathless. Her fingers locked in his hair, her thighs pressed against him, as her whole body held the peak for a drawn-out moment and then came apart by slow degrees, shuddering as she did so. He held her through it all.

When she went slack, he moved up to her. She reached for him immediately, her hands going to the remaining buttons at his waist, and he helped her with them. She pushed the cloth down and away, and when her hand wrapped around him, she felt him exhale in a single controlled breath through his nose, his forehead dropping to hers.

“I… I missed you, my love,” she said, her voice still unsteady.

Her hand moved, and the breath above her went ragged.

He turned his face and caught her mouth. He kissed her hard, his hips driving forward into her grip once before he stilled them by force of will, and she felt how much it cost him.

“Juliet…” Pressed against her lips, her name came out as a warning, as if his control was quickly fraying at the edges.

“I know,” she said. “I’m not afraid.”

“Look at me.” He shifted his weight, and his eyes were dark, his breathing uneven.

He reached between them to fit himself against her, and her hand came to his hip—permission given in the lightest possible form—and then he pressed forward.

Slowly. He kept it slow even though nothing about the way she was breathing suggested she wanted it slow, because he knew his own dimensions and he was paying attention to every sound she made. When she drew in a short breath, he stopped.

“All right?” he said, into her hair.

“Yes,” she replied in a low moan, no hesitation in her voice at all. “Don’t stop.”

He pressed forward again, deeper, and she turned her face into his shoulder and breathed against his skin. He felt her adjust to him: the way her body gave way by degrees, the long exhalation she let out when he had most of the way.

He stopped again and waited, his own breathing deliberate and controlled, until she shifted her hips up in a small invitation.

He pressed fully in, and they both froze together, locked in the throes of the beginnings of ecstasy.

Her heartbeat was fast against his chest. He could feel it where they were pressed together, the quick, unsteady rhythm of it. He stayed motionless and pressed his mouth to the mark on her cheekbone—the one Penhurst had put there—and held there until he felt her body ease around him.

She was watching him right back, her eyes fully open in the low firelight, and the expression on her face was raw and unguarded, and entirely his. Then, she put her hand on his face, her palm to his jaw.

“Now. Please,” she said, her eyes glowing with want, and Adam could no longer resist.