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He swallowed. That slight, involuntary betrayal, the only movement as he awaited her response.

“I did not anticipate an undisturbed night’s rest,” Gwen replied with all the primness she could muster.

Gwen had thought that admission would be all that was needed. That he would reach for her then. But instead, he merely curled onto his side, and for a time they simply lay there, facing one another like bookends—him with an elbow propped beneath his head, her with her palms pressed together beneath her cheek.

After some silent, private deliberation, he nodded once before easing closer, his arm sliding between her neck and the pillow to cup her shoulder. Her breath caught at the sudden closeness, and even though he’d scarcely touched her, the warm, supple strength, so close, was impossible to ignore. She knew he was strong, but God above, everything was so… visible. The bulge of his erection was right there, bold as brass and nudging her through whatever excuse for proper clothing he wore on the lower half of his body. Loose fitting trousers, perhaps?

Michael’s thumb began to move in a slow, steady rhythm over the curve of her shoulder, setting her body at odds with her mind, which insisted she ought to hate everything about this man. Leaning closer, his lips brushed hers once… twice… When she did not reciprocate, he slid lower to her jaw, her throat, the shell of her ear, his breath and tongue tantalizingly warm against her chilled skin.

“You’re cold,” he chastised lightly. “You need a better coat.”

If he was truly concerned about the chill, he’d tell her to put on another layer of clothes now, a scarf and mittens too.

But no, better to just get this over with.

CHAPTER 11

Gwen

Gradually, Michael’s mouth grew hungrier at her throat, his hand at her waist, more insistent, kneading and gripping, and oh… that. He sucked a tender patch at the curve of her shoulder, and she whimpered—then bit back the sound, but she could not stop herself from arching into him as he shifted more of his weight atop her body.

“That’s it, my pet.” His words rumbled in his chest, sinking through her skin and softening her bones. “You can still hate me in the morning, but let yourself have this. Let me take care of you now.”

Gwen stiffened, her fingers gripping the sheets, but Michael only chuckled, his warm breath wafting over the moist skin at her throat.

“So stubborn,” he chided, shifting lower, but there was only warmth in his words.

With his thighs bracketing hers, he eased the front of her night rail open, the thin material drifting over her nipples. Kissed by the cool air, they pebbled. Gwen squirmed, torn between the urge to cover herself and an equally fierce determination not to let him see her wavering resolve. But before she could succumb to the pull of either impulse, Michael lowered his head, resting his cheek atop the swell of one bare breast. His knuckles brushed back and forth over the underside, and oh, the way he did it made her feel… Sensation seemed to spill through her veins, warm as whisky, decadent and bewildering, too restless to be called contentment but not entirely dissimilar either.

This was nothing like her couplings with Walter. Michael was passion without urgency, desire without greed or expectation. And the selflessness of his touch—so far removed from anything she had expected—left Gwen with no notion what to do with this side of Michael Anson.

His fingers were splayed wide, hands bracketing her ribcage as he nuzzled into her exposed breasts.

A deep tremor wracked his body.

“Do you know how perfect you are? How desperately I want to please you?”

The solid weight of him atop her, his powerful thighs framing hers, all that overwhelming masculinity belonging to a man she had every reason to dislike, a man who’d bullied her into a life she hadn’t wanted… she should have hated it.

Instead, her body recognised only his gentleness. The deliberate care with which he restrained all that strength and desire. It was almost as though he’d shed every advantage he possessed along with his clothes: his title, his wealth, his power over her, leaving behind only Michael. The Michael she’d known before.

But this man was skilled at showing only the shiniest parts of himself. This version was no more genuine than the partnership they’d cultivated or the smiles he’d bestowed upon her.

She could not forget that.

Breath rasping, Gwen writhed against her self imposed stillness, a slow, heavy throb building between her legs as he ran the tips of his fingers up and over her breasts with one hand.

“So pink and lovely,” he said, easing back on his knees to look down at her. He watched the path of his own hands, slow and tortuously light. They trembled over her skin.

A breathy, frustrated grunt forced its way from Gwen’s throat and she flinched at the needy sound, then ground her teeth at the satisfied smile it brought to his lips.

“Mmm,” he hummed, the soft centers of his palms dragging languorously over her nipples. “Do you need my mouth here, sweetheart?” His fingers closed in a light pinch, and a bolt of pleasure splintered through her.

Her lips shaped his name on a soundless gasp.

Michael’s hands stilled, but she could see the tension in his rigid muscles as he waited for her. Why was he asking at all? She’d climbed into bed, hadn’t she? Was that not permission enough to do whatever it was he wanted to do?

“This isn’t surrender, Gwen. You’ve never been more in control than you are right now. Do you understand?” His voice roughened. “I’m yours, my pet. Every breath. Every part of me. You need only take what you want.”