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She loosed her grip and then just as he was about to answer, swept her fingers down the length of him. The words died and he couldn’t stop the muffled sound in his throat. She liked that; he saw a gleam in her eyes.

And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? Because she was experimenting now, holding him close, sliding—

“No,” he managed.

“Yes,” she said, tightening her hand, sliding…And her other hand, it was—

Fire raced up his thighs. He put his hands on her wrists and pulled them from his body, holding them for a moment before he let them drop.

“No.”

She pouted and her lips were so plumply alluring that he forgot his plan and pulled her into his arms. She gasped and then fit herself to him perfectly, like parts of a piano coming together to make music. Like a violin reunited with its bow.

“You’re mine,” he said. His voice was guttural and not calm. Not soothing. Not in control. He didn’t even care. She put her lips against his chest and gave him a little kiss, and another. The touch of her lips burned. He couldn’t remember what the next phase of the plan was. But that part of his brain was still beating out the same reproach: gentlemen don’t make love to their ladies out-of-doors. It’s not proper. It’s not right. It’s not calm and collected.

It’s—

“I’ll show you,” he said, his voice catching because her hair against his cheek was as soft as spun silk and he just wanted to eat her. To lick her. It could rain on them and he would lick every drop from her body and keep her warm.

But the gentleman in him was shouting No. Still.

“Show me what?” Her whisper was languid, sweet. “Simeon?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want to help with my lacings?”

Madness fought with the plan, fought with civility, fought—and lost. “No.”

That was definitely disappointment in her eyes.

“When I—” What word was he supposed to use? Not cock and not pizzle. “This is is my prick.” The word fell harshly from his lips.

She surprised him; she’d probably always surprise him. She laughed. “The bawdy prick of noon!”

“Shakespeare was very fond of punning and pricks.”

“I like that word,” she said, reaching out. It was unfortunate that his brain stopped working the moment her cool fingers began running over him, touching him, tightening.

He tried. “When I—” The words were lost in a groan.

“Your naked weapon is out,” she said, gurgling with laughter. But he couldn’t join her in a game of Shakespearean quotes, not when his body was on fire. He jerked in her hand and she laughed again, the triumphant sound of a woman who’s discovered a power she didn’t understand she had.

“When I come—” he said, pulling himself together.

“When you what?”

“Come. Oh God, Isidore, if you keep doing that I am going to come.” He leaned into the pillar at his back. The marble was chilly and gave him some sanity.

“Do,” she breathed, swaying closer to him. Her hand was trapped between the silk of her skirts and the rough hair of his belly. But he didn’t want to frighten her, to have her disgusted.

He pushed her back. “Just watch, this time.”

Her eyes were huge, excited. He managed to pull his thoughts back from his groin. “In order for us to be successful between the sheets, we have to understand what makes the other person feel pleasure.”

She opened her lips but said nothing. Still, there was something in her eyes that made him keep going. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask you to show me.”

“Show you what?”