Lips parted, she whispered, “Claxton—”

“Instead I’ll do my best within the boundaries you yourself laid out.” His hands skimmed down the length of her torso to her hips, which he planted firmly against him, before seizing her arms again.

“Very well.” She gasped, feeling the distinct outline of his member against her belly. “If you must.”

“As I recall,” he whispered near her ear. “Neither was there an edict against licking.”

Oh yes. Licking.

“Ah…correct.” She sighed.

His head swooped again, this time to her bare breast, his tongue licking up from the underside to encircle and lave her nipple. His unshaven jaw abraded her skin. She watched, transfixed, until she could bear it no longer. She needed completion now or she would go mad.

“Claxton, I’m ready.”

“No, you’re not.” He chuckled. “Not just yet.”

Oh, but she was. She knew what body parts went where, and she was ready for all of that to take place now, but he refused to relent, fixing her helpless against the wall, like a quivering butterfly, pinned. He caught her nipple between his tongue and teeth. Everything inside her went wet and slick and hot.

“And biting,” he murmured. “Not forbidden.”

She whimpered when he sank to his knees, releasing her arms at last. He shoved the hem of her chemise above her waist, exposing her. With his teeth, he nipped the sensitive skin at her waist, her hip, and her thigh, sending off little shocks of sensation along her spine. She moaned, half-senseless. Such an indelicate response, but she could not help herself. Refusing still to touch him, she pressed the flats of her hands against the wall. Reached to grip the drapery. Thrust her fingers into her hair.

With a curse, he unfastened his breeches. No drawers encumbered him, and his member sprang free, magnificently aroused.

His hands swept up her legs, again lifting her chemise, rubbing her thighs, urging them apart until at last, his hand was there, stroking, massaging, one finger slipping inside to glide against her slickened center. Without preamble his mouth joined his hand.

“Claxton, please,” she cried. “I can’t bear it.” Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. Her legs almost failed her. “Oh, my, that’s sucking again.”

“You smell good,” he murmured. “Taste so divine. Sweet. Better than sugar. I knew you would. Mere observations of fact, of course, naught to do with romance.”

In the next moment, the room spun around her, he carrying her to the bed, where he dragged her chemise up her body and off, leaving her naked.

He’d been playing with her before, but now a different expression ruled his countenance, one of controlled reverence.

“Are you cold?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” She shivered, crossing her arms over her breasts, miserable without his touch, conscious of his gaze always on her body. He did not deny her long. Divesting himself of boots and breeches, he joined her, stretching across her, pulling a blanket over them both.

Surrounded by shadows and firelight flickering on the bed hangings, they seemed in a place removed from the rest of the world. A haven of warmth, linen, and naked skin. She lay beneath him, half-drunk in anticipation. She remembered how he would feel inside her and knew she would cry out from the pleasure.

He lifted her hair, fanning it out over the pillow.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Like chocolate silk.”

He disappeared beneath the blanket, suckling her breasts and spreading her thighs to again taste her there, squeezing the swollen part of her with his hands and mouth. He’d never kissed her there before. Made love to her in this way. She hadn’t known such sensations were possible.

Stretching, she gripped the headboard. She felt languid and beautiful. Like a wicked goddess, taking pleasure at the hands of her immortal lover.

When his tongue went suddenly deep and flat, massaging the most intimate part of her with quick, rhythmic thrusts, she felt herself slipping into a sort of delirium. Forgetting her own promise not to touch, she grasped his head, fingers staving through his hair.

“Claxton, I want—”

She couldn’t say it. She’d never been one to speak her desires aloud.

“Please,” she begged, awash with a sudden fever. She lifted her hips, seeking. “I need—”

Suddenly, he was there, massive and strong, his breath on her cheek. His sex lay between them, pressed into her stomach, as large and pleasing as she remembered.

“Tell me, Sophia. Tell me what you need.”

He lifted his weight from her and readjusted so that he nestled against her more intimately. She gripped his arms.

“I need this,” she said.

“Show me,” he murmured.

She had to. She couldn’t wait. She’d never touched him so brazenly, but she did so now. She gripped him, savoring the hot, velvet-over-steel texture of his member against her palm. She guided him until she felt him against her entrance, a sudden, probing pressure.

He shifted, cupped her buttocks, and entered her several inches.

She gasped.

“Oh, God.” His arms came round her, his face stark and tortured, and his eyes glazed. “Just let me—” He moved, pressing further inside her. She forced herself to hold still, not to scream. Her body for so long unused to such invasion cried out in pleasure and discomfort. He let out an agonized groan. “I can’t not kiss you.”

His hands crushed in her hair. His lips pressed against the corner of her mouth, tentative, a passionate request for her permission.

“Please,” he said.

That he would take her body so unapologetically, but beg for the kiss she’d so pettishly withheld broke one of the bars she’d installed around her heart and she relented.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

His mouth captured hers, his lips and tongue claiming her with such fervor, she could hardly breathe. With a growl, he eased even deeper inside her. She arched against him, all discomfort slipping away.

“Kiss me back,” he said against her mouth.

She did so, meeting each turn and slide of his lips with equal passion. His hips pumped, slowly, then faster. Amid the discomfort came the return of pleasure. She thrust her feet into the mattress, lifting her hips, seeking it, wanting it.

Her movement pleased him. He grunted, and his movements became more urgent.

“I can’t be gentle,” he whispered against her throat. “Please forgive me. I’ve waited so long.”

With a groan, he rose up on his knees. The blankets slid from his body. He lifted her buttocks and speared her deep.

A sudden pulse of pleasure erupted at the center of her womb to crash outward through her body, all the way into her toes and fingertips. His head fell back, and he rocked into her, hissing between his teeth. She cried out, never having expected such power. Her heart stopped beating—certainly it did—and she glimpsed a paradise created of violet and velvet and stars.

He throbbed deep inside her. With a groan, he collapsed over her, his arms braced on either side, his blue eyes staring down into hers.

In that moment, the look he gave her, she could almost believe he loved her.

* * *

Claxton’s first awareness the next morning was of an uncomfortable chill. Without opening his eyes, he pulled Sophia close and tugged the blanket over the both of them. To his irritation, she’d donned her night rail, which come to think of it, was fashioned of a rather crisp and unwieldy fabric. Her perfume clouded his nose.

All wrong.

He opened his eyes to find himself in the midst of a living nightmare.

Annabelle stretched and yawned, giving the appearance that she’d only just awakened. “Good morning, Claxton.”

The sudden realization came over him as to why he’d been so cold and devoid of a blanket. Annabelle hadn’t been asleep at all.

“Bloody hell.”

He shot across the bed, as far from her as possible, snatching a pillow over his nakedness. She, thank God, was fully clothed, wearing even a heavy pelisse and matching hat tied under her chin. An enormous fur muff lay discarded on the chair.

“Where is the Duchess of Claxton?” he demanded.

He’d only just managed to seduce his wife into his bed. He did not need this to frighten her away again.

Annabelle looked about, wide-eyed, as if she’d only just realized Sophia was not present. “I don’t know. She was here when I fell asleep.”

“More importantly,” he growled, eyes narrowing. “What in the devil are you doing here?” He slid backward off the mattress, pulling the bed curtain across his hips.

She lolled languidly, smiling like a naughty cat. “Things have become unbearable at the inn. Meltenbourne is being very bad tempered. It’s so very disconcerting. Your brother and I made our way here early this morning while everyone was still asleep.”

Of course, the house had been made secure last night, safe against all intruders except the one other person in Lacenfleet who had a key.

“I mean why are you here?” he snapped. “In my bed?”

She blinked innocently. “I was so cold and exhausted once we arrived. I just wanted to get warm and go back to sleep. Why are there no servants to lay fires or make up rooms?”

“This bed was already occupied, if you did not notice. There’s another perfectly good bed across the hall, or did you simply not look?”

She shrugged. “The common people do it all the time, sleep three or four or more to a bed, especially in cold weather when it’s too cold to sleep alone. I don’t see why we can’t as well when circumstances warrant. It is the country, after all.”