"Lost to all shame."

He stood arrested for a flashing moment, the jeweled pin between his fingertips.

She smiled. "I didn't mean it literally."

He looked relieved.

And she laughed. "So you're aware of respectability."

Amusement flickered in his eyes. "Only from a distance."

"You were actually worried."

"Not worried, thinking," he replied, pulling out the second pin. "Such moral integrity is offputting."

"You mean you wouldn't be able to perform?"

He chuckled. "No, I didn't mean that."

"Because you always do."

Pulling out two more pins, he shrugged faintly. "I'm not about to answer that."

"As long as you perform for me, I'm content."

He tossed the pins in his hand onto the sheet and ran his fingers through her loosened hair. "No problem there," he assured her. Sliding his hand under her chin, he lifted her face. "How many times do you want it?"


The grass was cool on her back even through the sheet, and she trembled as he gently eased her thighs open. He was kneeling between her legs, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun, his lean torso limned by the light, and there was no explanation for the intense, fevered lust she felt. Nothing in all her past that would serve as a reference-not one lover, not one husband, not a hero from the pages of a book had ever made her feel such mindless desire. It was as if he exuded some potent allure, or cast a magical spell and, mesmerized, she was in thrall.

But he had more than bewitching allure, she realized, gazing at the enormity of his upthrust erection lying flat against his stomach. And she ached with longing to feel him deep inside her.

There was no question of his sexual accomplishments, nor of the reason he was so much in demand. Neither could she begrudge the legions of ladies in his wake. Like them, she'd been given the benefit of his virtuoso talents.

And like them, she wanted more.

He seemed to understand, or perhaps his emotions were in accord, for he entered her short moments later with a soft apology for his impatience, gliding in with a silken friction that touched her to the quick, overwhelmed her senses, gave credence to the phrase lost to all reason. And when at last he filled her completely, when she felt as though she couldn't breathe for the size of him, when ravishing sensation strummed outward from her tautly stretched tissue and pulsed through her body, she sobbed from the sheer, sublime, overwrought pleasure.

"Don't cry," he whispered, terrified he'd hurt her.

"I'm-not…" she sobbed, her hands hard on his back.

And then he understood and put away his brief apprehension and did what he did so well-what made him vaunted, pursued, cherished by females far and wide. He made love to her as though she were the first in his heart-in the world-taking care to please her, knowing how to please her, going slowly when she wished it and not slow at all when she wanted more. And when she came that first time-quickly, as she had before-and melted around him, the sun on his back and the heat of ardor merged in an uncommon feeling even he was forced to recognize as rare.

"You don't have to be so polite," she breathed, knowing he'd withheld his orgasm.

"It's not politeness." His voice was low, hushed, the warmth of his breath caressing her cheek. "It's a fucking game…"

She could feel him hard inside her, the smallest of tremors beginning again, rippling, shimmering up her stretched tissue. "I'm pleased you came back…"

"Not as pleased as I." He kissed the tender flesh behind her ear.

"I haven't had a playmate before."

He smiled at his good fortune when it shouldn't have mattered, when he'd had playmates galore. "I haven't either," he whispered, understanding he spoke more truth than lie. She fit perfectly, they fit perfectly, the notion of play had taken on a degree of pleasure hitherto unknown-the fluid rhythm of his lower body a gratifying case in point-and hedonist that he was, he wasn't about to let her go. "I'll be staying…" he said, sliding in deeper, holding himself hard against her womb.

"I'll… let… you." Breathy pauses punctuated her words, her fingers tightened on his back.

"Much obliged," he drawled softly.

But she didn't hear him, or if she did, the impudence in his tone didn't matter with another orgasm beginning to overwhelm her. And her soft cry a moment later drifted up into the bank of yellow roses tumbling overhead.

After a time, the scent of crushed grass rose in the balmy air-and the aroma of sex, and were it possible, the fragrance of bliss would have mingled as well in the sweet-smelling air.

She was insatiable, he thought, indoors and out, and he wondered if she'd truly been without a man at all. From a personal point of view he wouldn't have thought it possible, but after her fifth climax he was no longer so sure. Although, perhaps the lady was just hot-blooded.

No matter the reasons for her demanding sexuality, the mutual ravishment couldn't be faulted, and much later, when he considered his gentlemanly duties sufficiently performed, he finally allowed himself release.

Gazing up at him, she smiled sweetly and said "Thank you. I've really enjoyed myself" as though it were over.

"No need to thank me yet, I'm not finished." And grabbing a corner of the sheet, he wiped the come from her stomach, rolled away, and lay spread-eagle under the sun, content. "This is much better than being polite to the Prince of Wales all afternoon…"

"Your politeness to me can't be faulted," she replied, a small drollery in her tone.

Turning his head, he offered her a lazy smile. "But then, I'm having fun too."

"Fun?"

"Isn't it?"

Quicksilver, she rearranged a lifetime of perceptions. "Does anyone ever disagree?"

A transient pause brought the trill of birdsong suddenly to the fore.

"I've never actually-"

"Talked to a woman?"

He rolled upward into a seated position, the play of his abdominal muscles dramatic. "I'm not so sure I like your insinuation," he said, frowning faintly.

"Answer my question."

He exhaled softly. "If you must know, most women aren't interested in talking."

"Or you don't give them time."

"There're better things to do."

"What if I wanted to talk?"

A sportive grin lifted his mouth. "What do you mean 'what if?"

"I mean really talk."

Leaning back on his hands, he tipped his head. "Talk away."

"You'll listen?"

"I've plenty of time."

A small silence fell while Alex mentally scrambled to find a suitable topic.

"There. You see?"

"I dislike smug men."

"Do you dislike men who can make you come another dozen times?" His gaze flicked downward to his erection and then back again to her.

"That's exceedingly smug, Ranelagh."

"Answer my question," he said as she had only moments before.

"I suppose I don't," she noted grudgingly.

"You suppose?"

Her glance fluttered to his rampant erection and as quickly away.

"Why let this go to waste?" He looked up at the sun as though gauging the time.

"Is your schedule busy?" Taut, thin-skinned, not wishing to feel so needy and overwhelmed, she sat up quickly. "Don't let me keep you."

His laugh was beguiling. "I don't have a schedule, and if I did, I'd change it to stay here with you."

She found her temper subsiding under the charm of his reply.

"I'll have to mind my manners," he observed playfully. "Your temper is damnably quick."

"I'm sorry."

His eyes widened in feigned astonishment. "Have I finally done something right?"

"You've done any number of glorious things right, as if you didn't know," she said with a sudden grin. "And perhaps we really shouldn't waste our time."

"Are we done talking, then?" His voice was smooth as silk.

She nodded.

"Thank you, ma'am." Leaning over, he lifted her onto his lap, minutely adjusted her as though it mattered where their bare flesh met.

His power was awesome-the startling width of his shoulders, the solid, honed muscles of his chest and arms, the iron-hard thighs beneath her. "You're very strong," she said on a caught breath, feeling exceedingly small against his body.

"The better to handle you, my sweet."

"Even if I don't wish to be handled?"

"Even then," he replied quietly, swinging her around so she was straddling his thighs.

She touched the dark curve of one brow with her fingertip. "Should I take offense?" Their eyes were almost on a level, desire mirrored in their depths.

"You probably should," he whispered, lifting her bottom with one hand, guiding his erection to her damp cleft with the other. "If you didn't want this cock I'm putting-"

She sighed softly as he thrust upward.

"Here," he breathed, pressing her hips firmly downward.

She purred, a low, pleasurable sound, and clung to his broad shoulders, giving herself up to the rush of pleasure, no longer questioning his power to incite, only reveling in the wondrous feeling. Every cell, every nerve, was alive with delirious sensation, the world distant and ordinary, delectable rapture coiling in the pit of her stomach and in her brain, in the heated silk of her skin, most exquisitely where he rested deep inside her.

As he gently raised her, she resisted.

"There… there," he whispered, forcing her upward. "I'm coming back." And he held her suspended on the very crest of his erection.

"Now," she insisted, struggling against his strength.

"Soon…" His breath brushed the jewel-hard tip of one nipple. "If you behave," he promised, drawing the taut bud into his mouth.

She should repudiate his authority; she shouldn't be so in thrall, but at that instant his mouth closed on her nipple, a racing heat melted downward to the pulsing core of her body, and covetous lust inundated her brain. "Please… please-oh, God, please…"