He'd removed all the garments from the bed, and he laid her upon it, gently, spreading her long curls out over the pillows. Unable to resist him hovering above her, she reached to touch his bare chest, to smooth her palms over taut skin and muscle.
"You're beautiful," she said.
"That's supposed to be my line."
"But you are."
"You're beautiful," he countered, his gaze wandering the length of her in the transparent nightgown.
She knew he could see everything…and if his expression was any indication, he plainly liked the view. She flushed from her head to her toes. Wordlessly, his gaze locked on hers, he shucked off his trousers, climbed up beside her on the bed, and proceeded to kiss her until her head swam.
When he finally released her lips, his mouth trailed past her chin and down her throat, blazing a warm trail toward her breasts encased in the gossamer nightgown. His lips skimmed the violet flowers, his breath hot through the thin material. As she arched up to meet him, he closed his mouth over a nipple, suckling through the fabric.
A Lady of Distinction would definitely not approve of this nightgown. It was so flimsy and immodest, she felt his mouth on her almost as though the garment wasn't there. But it was there, and she wanted it gone. She wanted his mouth on her skin. This was torture. Pure torture. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, but he just switched to the other breast, lavishing it with similar torturous attention.
She really couldn't take it.
She tunneled her fingers into his hair and lifted his head, noting his look of stark surprise. "Here," she whispered, pulling one end of the black satin bow that secured the nightgown's tiny bodice. It fell open, baring her to him, and she held her breath.
After a moment, she raised her chest, offering her breasts to him like they were some irresistible sweet.
Not, however, a sweet there was a recipe for in her family's cookbook.
His lips quirked in a half smile, and he moved down, skimming his mouth across her nightgown-clad stomach instead.
More torture. He kissed across her waist and down her belly, tender kisses she could feel, but not the way she wanted. He kissed his way down one of her legs, slowly and sensually, and even more slowly and sensually up the other.
She was melting. She was dying, and she was melting. She was melting into the bed, and if he didn't touch her skin—bare skin—she'd dissolve into a puddle of need.
"Tris," she whispered.
"Hmm?" He spread her legs, pushing the nightgown down between them to kiss the insides of her thighs. Each kiss sparked a thrilling spurt of pleasure, not only where he was kissing, but also higher. Where a hot ache was building to unbearable proportions.
"I want this nightgown off," she told him. "I cannot stand this."
He raised his head for a moment, his smile one of masculine pride. "Ah, then I'm doing my job," he said. And he returned to it, spreading her legs even wider to place a kiss in the most intimate place imaginable.
She shuddered and gasped, and he kissed her there again. This was wicked. It was more wicked than the nightgown. It was more wicked than the most wicked thing A Lady of Distinction mentioned in her entire, pedantic book.
And it was making that hot ache escalate to something all but unendurable.
Then he inched the nightgown up to her waist and kissed her in the same place without it between them.
And that was more wicked than anything she'd ever imagined.
"Oh!" she breathed as she felt his mouth caress her, wet and hot, his tongue soft and slippery sweet. She wanted to say more—her mind shouted You cannot! and You shouldn't!—but all she could seem to manage was that little mewling oh!
He widened her legs with his hands, releasing a hum of pure enjoyment that vibrated all the way to her core as his tongue found the secret place her fierce ache was centered.
And then she quite simply couldn't say anything, couldn't form anything more than incoherent little moans. But that oh! must have made an impression, because he flicked that place again and again until she sobbed with pleasure, arching against his mouth as waves of exquisite passion rippled through her.
Only when the last tendrils of sensation had faded did he finally lift his head and draw the nightgown farther up and off.
Still trembling with the aftermath of his loving, she thought she might expire from utter bliss when his warm weight came over her, when he slipped inside her to join his body with hers. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight, wanting more than anything for him to find the same pleasure he'd given her.
And she was shocked to find the feelings building in her once again.
He moved slowly, reverently. "Look at me," he whispered, and she raised her languid lids to see him gazing into her eyes, the familiar silver darkened with desire. He bent his head to take her mouth, and she tasted herself on his lips. The blood rushed faster through her veins.
Tristan took his time, deriving joy from her reawakening, the warm slide of her skin against his, the sweet shudders as his tongue swept her mouth. He could feel warmth turn to heat, feel her wrap herself around him, feel her quiver as the passion spread through her supple body. And when they were both ready, her beautiful low moan sent him hurtling over the edge.
It was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous span of time he'd spent with any woman, ever.
And now he had to end it.
Their bodies still joined and clinging, he kissed her forehead, both cheeks, her nose. "I need to leave you now," he whispered before settling full on her mouth.
"Hmm?" she murmured when he finally allowed them both to draw breath.
He hated this. But he had no choice.
"I'm going to sleep in the Queen's Bedchamber. Vincent will lock me
