Page 58 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“Will you let me see you, too?” she asked as she stretched out a hand to him.

His arms fell to his sides, so that nothing stood in her way as she dared to brush her fingertip over his shoulder and down his biceps. Her own imaginings had been severely hampered by a lack of information. She’d seen statues of naked men before, but they were mere marble, and while Graham’s muscles were almost as hard, his skin was anything but cold. And as for those so-called works of art, well, she could guess that whatever they hid behind their little fig leaves would not compare to what tented the front of his trousers.

Her hand moved lower, one finger snagging his waistband and slipping free the first button of his fall. Then another. And another.

“It’s hardly fair,” she cried after working half a dozen buttons loose. She’d meant to tease, but her voice sounded fretful. “My skirts hampered your desires not at all.”

“If I’d known, I would have worn a kilt for you.”

“How would that help?”

“Well, for one thing, there are no buttons.” He winked. “And for another, a true Scot wears nothing at all beneath.”

With that, he at last came to her aid, making short work of the remaining buttons and pushing his trousers over his hips. His member sprang free, ruddy and just as gloriously powerful as the rest of him.

Oh. She wanted to touch him, be touched by him, everything, all at once. Flailing one arm behind her, she reached for the edge of the bed and took a stumbling step backward.

He followed, grasping her shoulders, easing her onto the mattress, then lowering his mouth, first to suck the sensitive spot at the base of her throat, then to nuzzle her breast before capturing her nipple between his lips.

“Graham,” she gasped, arching her back and curling her fingers in the linens as his hands swept to her hips, caressing her skin and spreading her legs so that he stood between them, his erection hot and heavy where it pressed into her belly. She writhed as his ravening mouth moved to her other breast, then traveled lower, lower. His tongue swept along the crease at the top of her thigh. Surely, he wasn’t going to put his mouth—

Her whole body jolted as his hot breath stirred her thatch of curls and he began to kiss her mound. When his tongue began to tease the same sensitive spots that his fingers had found earlier, she cried out and would have closed her legs if not prevented by the breadth of his shoulders. “Nay.” The thrum of his deep voice against her aching flesh was the most extraordinary torment. “You must come for me again.” She drove her fingers into his coppery hair and once more gave in to his command.

Aftershocks were still rippling through her when he rose, lifting her higher on the bed. Setting his knee to the mattress, he caught her hand and brought it to his member. Her eager fingertips encircled his flesh, so hot and so smooth.

“Your skin is like silk,” she marveled, watching herself stroke him.

“And so is yours,” he said, as he curved his hand around hers to help her guide him to her slick entrance.

Her body was pliant, but still it was a stretch to take him. He eased forward gently, patiently, filling her. Then he caged her body with his, surrounding her with his strength, his heat, his scent.

“This, this is how it feels to be mine.”

She understood, now, why his ability to maintain control was so important. But a part of her still longed to know what it would feel like if his control began to fray. Impaled, pinned to the mattress by the wonderful weight of him, she could do nothing more than drag her tongue over the hollow at the base of his throat, tasting salt.

He shuddered and drew back. “No—Oh!” she gasped when he thrust his hips forward, driving into her again.

“No?”

“No. I mean, yes.” She tossed her head from side to side, her hair scrubbing against the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He set a steady pace of advance and retreat, the movements of a primal dance whose motions came to her as naturally as breathing. She began to rock her hips upward to meet his, feeling a now-familiar sensation begin to build once more. As another climax overtook her, he thrust and held himself deep within her, his neck and arms corded with desire. Then, as the pulses of her own body began to fade, he pulled free and rutted once, twice, against her belly. She felt his seed spurt in hot jets across her skin.

She might have dozed then, but not for long. She knew when he rose, listened to him pad across the room, heard the splash of water being poured from a pitcher into the bowl that sat atop the chest of drawers. A moment later, she started as he wiped away the evidence of his passion with a wet handkerchief.

“That’s c-cold,” she protested.

When he was satisfied, he helped her to sit up. She watched as he returned to the washbasin, admiring the taut muscles of his backside. He rinsed the handkerchief, then wiped himself clean. The white linen cloth came away faintly stained with pink. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

He sent a stern, skeptical glance over his shoulder, demanding the truth.

“It’s a pleasant kind of soreness,” she insisted. Already she could feel the twinge of previously unknown muscles in her thighs.

That softened his expression just a bit. “Ah. The kind that comes from a good day’s work,” he teased, coming toward her. “The kind that makes you eager to do as much again.”

They sank down to the mattress together, bodies relaxed and twined together, his kisses leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world.