Page 76 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

“That was wonderful.” She nestled into his embrace minutes later. The thrill of his affections for her astonished her.

“There is even more to this.”

“You did not show me all?”

He ran his fingers through her hair. “Intimacy can be gentle, but it can also become fierce.”

“And you did not want to hurt me.”

“Nor alarm you.”

She took his lips. “Oh, Rafe. This is the you I adore. And with you, I wish to know all the emotions, all the sensations of what we are to each other.”

“Still, I will go slowly.”

“But we will do this again?”

He laughed. “Again. And again. Until we are speechless.”

She twined one leg through his two and teased him with a brush of her breasts and a wicked brow. “Again. I promise not to say a word.”

*

His hall clock chimed twelve the next day when she awoke. Startled at her surroundings, she sat up. The sheets fell to her waist, and her display was met by the hot appraisal of her lover’s forest-green gaze.

“Good morning, or rather, afternoon.” She grinned at him and made no move to cover herself.

He sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped, and took his time admiring her. “You are the loveliest woman.”

Though barefoot, he had donned his breeches and a shirt.

“Come tell me that here, dear sir.” She inhaled, reveling in the wonderful effect the sight of her breasts had on his devastatingly sharp features.

“I have ordered up a bath and breakfast.”

She cast about. “Have servants been in here?”

“Only me. I do not wish to share you just yet. But they do know you are still here.”

“Of course.” She put one arm out and wiggled her fingers to beckon him. “I need you.”

“Sweetheart, that is not wise.”

“I feel wonderful,” she whispered. “And empty without you.”

He narrowed his eyes, pained, it seemed, at deliberating whether he should obey her. “We made love three times last night and once early this morning.”

“I may be good at numbers, but the total was not enough.” She giggled.

“My darling, I dare not do this again. You are tender.”

“And hungry.” She pushed the bedclothes to one side, put her bare legs to the edge of the bed, her naked toes to the carpet, and stood. “But not for breakfast.”

He sucked in air. “Zeph.” Her name was a plea for mercy.

She had none. Instead, she strolled to him, put her bare knees down at either side of his hips, leaned over him, and bent to speak on his lips. “Think of this as a sort of amuse bouche.”

“Tempting witch,” he growled. His discipline, long dissolved in his repeated consumption of her, left him no will—and with a groan, he took her down on him.