She gave a little giggle, but the sound seemed to startle her, and one hand flew to her mouth as though she wished to keep it in.

  He hated that, that she kept her pleasure bottled, and vowed that he would do all he could to show her the kind of pleasure that would not be contained as he worked at the buttons, loosening the green silk. “Someday, I would like to spend an hour or two watching you in these. But tonight—” Finished with the buttons, he tugged at the waist, loving the way she lifted her hips and let him strip her bare.

  He sucked in a breath at her laid out before him, the firelight casting shadows over her naked body, over the swell of her breasts, the muscles of her torso, the scar at her rib, the angles at her hips, and the thatch of auburn curls between her long thighs, muscled and strong from a lifetime of work.

  She was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

  A gift from the damn gods.

  He sat back on his heels and rubbed a hand over his mouth, distracted by the sight of her, long and beautiful.

  He didn’t realize how long he’d been looking at her until she moved beneath his gaze, to cover herself. And only then, when he realized what she was about, did he move as well, capturing her hands and threading his fingers through hers. “No.”

  She blushed, and somehow the riot of red across her cheeks made her even prettier. Made him even luckier.

  “I—” She searched for words. Settled on, “Say something.”

  A dozen things came instantly to mind. He could have told her she was beautiful. That she fascinated him. That he wanted to know every inch of her. He could have told her that he’d never been as hard as he was, that he’d never wanted someone quite as much as he wanted her and that he certainly hadn’t ever wanted someone in quite this way—in the urgent, eager way that made him think he’d gone just a little mad.

  But he didn’t want to frighten her. And he wanted her to believe him.

  To trust him.

  So, instead of saying any of the wild, unexpected things that rioted through him at her words, Henry pressed a kiss to the soft skin above their entwined hands and painted a slow, leisurely circle there, until her breath came harsh and ragged and her fingers were once more in his hair.

  And only then did he say, “Shall we see what else you like?”

  Chapter Ten

  She’d done this before. Not much, but a girl born as she was learned quickly not to prize virginity. She’d been engaged to be married, and there’d been a few boys when she was young and angry. Once or twice it had even been pleasant.

  Of course, she knew that other women found the act more than pleasant—a year witnessing Sesily and Caleb’s habit of disappearing and returning wrinkled and mussed and glowing had proven it—but Adelaide had never really imagined it could be good.

  And then the Duke of Clayborn had taken a bath in front of her. And he’d called her Adelaide and he’d singed her with his touch and he’d kissed her in a dozen places where no one had ever kissed her before, and suddenly that act that had always been fast and fumbling and at best fine . . . seemed as though it might be . . . well . . . extremely good.

  And then he’d stripped her bare and looked at her as though he were hungry, and she’d gone hot and heavy and more willing than she’d ever been, and not just from his touch—though that was magnificent—but because he so clearly wanted her.

  He didn’t want her skills as a thief, or access to the power around her, or the vast amounts of information she had on the men of London.

  He wanted her.

  And Adelaide liked that more than everything else.

  Because she wanted him, too.

  He pulled her even further down the chair, sliding his big hands along her thighs, coaxing her open. She let him, marveling at the sensation—she’d never been so warm or heavy, never felt so needy before. She couldn’t resist reaching for him, letting her fingers slide over his chest and torso, exploring the muscles she’d admired earlier. She lingered over a bruise blossoming on his side. “You are hurt.”

  He caught her hand, pressing the palm flat to his hot skin. “This helps.”

  She liked that, too. Liked the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch as she traced over him, lower, to the place where his skin met his trousers.

  They both hesitated then, and a burst of delight exploded in Adelaide’s chest—a heady sense of exploration. She reveled in the low hiss of pleasure that came as she explored the hard length of him—straining against the fabric of his trousers.

  “Show me,” she whispered, ready for what came next. Eager for it.

  He shook his head. “You first.” And he opened her thighs, moving between them to hold her wide, exposed and hot and bare for him.

  She held her breath as he stared down over her, his gaze stern and focused, as though he memorized the sight of her. Seconds seemed to stretch into an eternity, until she couldn’t bear it any longer and moved to cover herself.

  He caught her hands before she could, setting them to the arms of the chair as he kissed her once, rough and wild. Before she could return the caress he was gone, moving to lick over the soft skin of her shoulder, to graze his teeth along the swell of her breast, to gently suck at first one nipple and then the other, until she didn’t care that she was bare to him—she only cared that he make good on the endless waves of pleasure he promised.

  She lifted her hips, empty and aching and wanting.

  As though she’d spoken aloud, he trailed his lips lower, sitting back on his heels, spreading her wide and open until she could feel his gaze on her core. “You like this, too, don’t you, love?”

  Another cant of her hips. Another gasp.

  She gasped his name. “Henry . . .”

  The bastard laughed, the sound low and full of praise. “Soon,” he whispered, turning the promise to the soft skin of the inside of her thigh. Pressing a line of kisses there.

  He was clearly doing it to torture her—it couldn’t possibly be for him. She didn’t fool herself into thinking that men enjoyed all the bits beyond the actual event. And though she was enjoying this more than she’d enjoyed anything ever, she found herself more than willing to get to the actual event herself. “You can—” She stopped, uncertain of how to say it. “What I mean is—” Another false start. “That is—”

  His tongue swirled in a circle, higher up her thigh, sending pleasure sizzling through her. She took a deep breath. “I have done this before.”

  Henry slowly lifted his mouth, and looked up at her from his place at her feet, on his knees. Oh, my. She liked that. He was broad and handsome and his lips, which had given her such pleasure, were set in a small, curious curve that sent heat crawling over her cheeks, especially when he said simply, “I have, as well.”

  She closed her eyes. That much was clear. With the way she felt, Adelaide imagined he was in high demand behind potted ferns in Mayfair ballrooms. Likely by women who were less embarrassed by this particular scenario. “What I mean—”

  He turned to her thigh again. Kissed again. Higher. Closer to where she ached.

  Dear God. “You don’t have to—”

  More kisses. Higher still.

  She squirmed, and he set one heavy hand to her stomach, staying her movement. But he did not stop, delivering another kiss—this one to the opposite thigh. A little lick. A suck.

  She exhaled on a little sigh. “You can simply . . . do it.”

  This time, when he looked at her, there was something new in his cerulean gaze. Something that cut through the desire. Something wild. “Do what?”

  She looked to the ceiling, wishing she could vanish into the shadows above. “I—”

  “No,” he said, his thumb stroking over her skin his only movement. “Tell me. Do what?”

  For a moment, she considered what a lady would say. And then she realized there was absolutely no situation in which a lady would say anything even approximating the answer to his question. So she settled on the words she’d heard her whole life. What she knew he wanted. “You can simply . . . fuck me.”

  The air came out of him in a whoosh.

  She closed her eyes. She’d been too crass. Dammit. He was going to stop.

  Except he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Hmm,” as though he hadn’t considered that as a possibility, and moved, his hands sliding down to her thighs and opening them wide. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

  “You’re . . . welcome,” she said, the words coming uneasy, as his thumbs circled over skin that had never been touched with such lingering purpose.

  “Tell me, can I do this? Touch you like this?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I—yes.” Very much.

  He moved, stroking up, over her skin. “And can I kiss you here?”

  A kiss at the seam of her thigh, where it met her torso. How did that feel so good? “Yes.”

  “You like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” That sound. It shouldn’t do things to her. It wasn’t even a word, and still it made her ache. “And would you mind if I . . .” He trailed off and blew a long stream of air over her core.

  “I—oh—no . . .” she panted.

  “You like that.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said, the word feeling like praise. Making her warmer. Wetter.

  A soft rumble came from his throat. “Mmm . . . You like that, too, don’t you, Adelaide? When I tell you how good you are? How much you please me when you talk about your pleasure.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good girl,” he said, the words sending a sizzle of pleasure through her.

  And then he rewarded her honesty with a long, slow lick that set her entirely on fire. She cried out at the pleasure, at the way he lingered at the top of her pussy, and when he lifted his head, she was panting and her body was no longer hers, her hips lifting toward him, her fingers itching to capture his hair and return him to his position.

  He knew it, too, the gleam in his knowing gaze an arrogant promise. “I have no intention of simply fucking you, Adelaide. There is nothing simple about what I intend to do to you. There is nothing simple about the ways I intend to touch you. About the ways I intend to kiss you.” God, his fingers were there, at her core, sliding one finger through the soft curls that shielded her, parting her folds. “And when I do . . . there will be nothing simple about that, either.”

  She was vibrating with excitement, the feel of the silken promise on the most private part of her. She’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted him.

  And then he said, “But I’m not going to fuck you tonight, love.”

  “You aren’t?”

  He wasn’t?

  “No,” he said to her core, stroking over the wet heat of her, two fingers now, up and down in slow, excruciating movements that made her want to scream and cry and laugh. He pushed them inside her heat, giving her a taste of what she wanted. A hint of what it would be like to be full of him, strong and deep.

  A pause, and then, “Well, maybe a little fucking.”

  How was it that the accent honed in Mayfair and Eton and Oxford and the House of Lords made the curse sound even more filthy? She couldn’t help herself. She moved against him, urging him deeper. “Yes. Please.”

  “Is this what you need?”

  She closed her eyes at the soft caress and let out a low moan of pleasure. “Hmm.” That sound, low and rich, and full of discovery. And then he added his thumb, circling, searching, finding the places that made her gasp and sigh, and the whole time, talking. “You’re so wet here. So soft.” He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Whispered, “So sweet.”

  He worked a tight circle where pleasure pooled and she cried out. “There!”

  “You like that, too.” His reply was so arrogant that she would have happily kicked him if he weren’t the instrument of her undoing.

  “Don’t stop,” she panted.

  He didn’t. But he did ask, “Are you sure?”

  “God, yes.”

  He moved faster, circling tighter, and she lifted herself again, riding his touch, knowing that later—much later—she’d be embarrassed of her wantonness. Of the spectacle she made with her desire. But right now, she did not care. Right now, all she wanted was his touch on her.

  All she wanted was him.

  “So pretty,” he whispered. “So perfect.”

  She wasn’t, she knew. But in that moment, she believed him. “Please don’t stop.”

  She tensed as her climax rushed toward her, just as his fingers thrust deep, deeper, matching the rhythm of her hips, the staccato sound of her breath, harsh and desperate.

  So desperate. It wasn’t enough. “Henry . . .”

  She didn’t have to say more. To ask for more. He already knew. “Hmm.” That noise she was coming to revel in—the one that said he was thinking about all the wicked things he might do with her.

  And before Adelaide could think of those wicked things, he was doing them, settling his mouth to the place just above his fingers, where she ached for him, wringing a curse from her.

  Sliding her fingers into his hair, she pressed against him, his growl of approval making her wild, making her beg for more even as he gave her exactly what she wanted, his mouth like a gift. Like paradise.

  His tongue licked over her, exploring the dark, wet, heat of her in every fathomable way—when long, firm strokes had her panting, he slowed to delicious torture that made her curse and thrust and ache and plead, and then, draping her thighs over his shoulders, spreading his large hands over her bottom, lifting her close, speeding up, dancing over her until her eyes flew open and she stared down her body to meet the blue fire in his gaze. Smug, satisfied, sinful fire.

  “That’s it.” He spoke to the core of her, the vibration making her tremble, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Take it.”

  She’d never done anything like this, but she wanted it. Wanted to follow his directions. And so she did as he told her, holding him tight to her, where his tongue worked in glorious rhythm, back and forth, again and again as she rocked against him, gasping, holding back her screams, chasing that glorious pleasure that was just out of reach.

  “Please,” she whispered to him. To the universe. “I can’t . . . please.”

  And then, the whole world was moving. No—she was moving. He was moving, releasing her—no. No. What was he doing? Why was he stopping?

  She clung to him as he lifted her from the chair. “What—”

  “You’ll like it better, beautiful.”

  Beautiful. What a lovely word. What a lovely name.

  Before she could correct him, either in her head or aloud, she was falling backward to the bed, and he was following her down, pressing her thighs wide to the counterpane. Pressing a little kiss to the aching nub at her core. Giving it a little suck, drawing a tiny cry from her. “Better, yes?”

  She met his eyes, glittering with pleasure. “No. Worse.”

  A slight furrow of his brow. “Worse?”

  She nodded, not understanding what had come over her. “You stopped.”

  “Ah,” he said, understanding dawning. “Terrible, that.”

  That hint of a smile was back, and she stroked her thumb over the corner of his handsome mouth. “I like that.”

  He nipped at the flesh of her thumb, running his tongue over it until she shivered in his arms. “My mouth? I could tell.”

  She gave a little laugh. “No. Your smile. It’s so rare. It feels precious.”

  It disappeared and she regretted her words instantly.

  “Shall I tell you what is rare and precious?”

  The heat of the question was undeniable. “Please.”

  “This,” he said, stroking over her again, setting her instantly on fire once more as he found the place where every nerve in her body seemed to end. He circled it once, twice, and spoke to it. “Soft and wet . . .” She made a little noise and rocked her hips against him. “And so responsive.” He leaned in and licked her, licking over the bud he’d been tempting. Stopped again. “You taste like summer. Like heat and heaven . . . and sin.” Another suck. Another long lick, rubbing over her until she grabbed his hair. “And when you ride me . . .” She closed her eyes at the words, so filthy in his grand voice. “It makes me want you to ride me in every way. Until you’ve come.”

  Before she could answer, as the words spread hot fire through her, he pressed her wide with two fingers and leaned in, licking and sucking, stroking in hard, firm, tight circles, giving her no quarter. She didn’t have to tell him not to stop now—he wasn’t going to. Didn’t have to tell him what she liked—he knew. Somehow, he knew her body better than she did now, and when it trembled against him, out of her control, it remained in his—his hands dominating it, controlling it, stroking over her skin, soothing it, leaving pleasure and praise everywhere he touched.

  Adelaide cried his name and a dozen other nonsensical things as he devoured her, unrelentingly, until she flew apart, and came, shattering beneath his caress, and the urgent, coaxing, delicious sounds he growled at her core. And when she’d come, hard and fast, he stayed there, his tongue flat against her as she quivered against him, lacking breath and restraint, everything disappeared but him and his touch, returning her to earth.

  And then Henry climbed up her body, tucking himself between her legs, pressing his hard length where she needed his touch, knowing somehow that she still ached for him, the rough fabric of his trousers the only thing keeping him from being inside her. He rolled his hips against her, slow and sinful. “You beautiful thing. Touch like fire. Hair like fire. Threatening to burn me up,” he whispered. “Where have you been?”

  Nowhere. The word whispered through her, and she bit her lip to stop herself from speaking it, even though—in that moment, as he pressed himself along her body, capturing her cheek in one hand and licking into her mouth in a devastating, deep kiss that tasted of her pleasure and somehow of his—she felt as though she’d been remade.