He’d earn it now.
He tugged again, and the fabric slid over her thighs then higher to reveal the apex of those thighs, her rounded hips, the indention of her waist, and then he could not go slowly any longer, and he pulled the gown over her head. She raised her hands to cover her nakedness and then stopped herself and forced them back to her sides. He needed to reassure her, but his throat was too dry for speech.
She was magnificent. Not magnificent in the way the courtesans he sometimes glimpsed at the theater, when he could afford to attend, were magnificent with their sparkling gowns, large bosoms, and dazzling jewels. Eliza was magnificent because she had no pretenses—no face paint, no beauty marks, no corseted breasts. Petite and exquisitely formed, her legs were long for her height and perfectly shaped. Her hips flared out slightly from her waist, and her breasts were small and pert, the aureoles dark pink and the nipples red as wine. Her shoulders were pale and bony, and he could see some of her ribs. She didn’t eat enough, didn’t take good enough care of herself.
He could take care of her. He would.
He’d been clutching the nightgown, and now he dropped it on the floor with a swish. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “I have to kiss you.” Slowly, he reminded himself.
He stepped closer, and it was as though her naked flesh was a lodestone to his body. He wanted so desperately to press himself against her. Instead, he touched her lips with his, kissing her softly and sweetly. When she returned the kiss, he cupped her head and slid his hand into her thick hair. His fingers tangled in the curls, and he gripped them to keep himself firmly rooted on the ground.
The book had mentioned open-mouthed kisses and the use of tongues. He’d heard of this but had never thought to try it. Now he would, and if he shocked her, if she demanded he leave, then so be it. He’d come this far, and he had much further to go.
Gently, he opened his mouth and used the tip of his tongue to trace the seam of her lips. Her lips were soft, and she tasted of brandy. She stiffened slightly, and then she opened her lips to him, and he entered. When their tongues met, hers tentative and shy, he felt a jolt of heat that rushed straight to his groin. He was instantly hard as the poker he’d used to tend the fire and just as hot. He had to ignore that now. He had to ignore his own needs and focus on her. He nipped at her lips, teased her tongue, and as the kiss deepened, drew her closer and closer until her body was flush against his.
His hand dipped from her hair down her smooth, bare back. He hadn’t known women could have such soft skin, like warm satin under his fingers. He learned her curves and her planes, tracing them over and over again. Finally, his hands cupped her buttocks.
“Pierce—”
The word ended in a moan, the sound low and deep in her throat. The groan of pleasure caused him a strange thrill. He was the cause of that pleasure. Her hands tightened around his neck as he walked her back toward the small bed on the other side of the room.
Her legs bumped against the bed, and he gently lowered her to the coverlet, kissing her until she arched against him. She’d always been a passionate woman. What did one expect from a woman who enjoyed finding new and inventive ways to create explosives? The temptation when she responded so enthusiastically was to drink his fill of her and slake his lust.
But he would not do that tonight. He wanted to show her he hadn’t asked for her hand out of obligation. She wanted love. Did he love her? He didn’t know, wasn’t sure what love felt like, but surely they could discover what it meant to love and be in love together. He was using her passionate nature against her, making certain she was not quite so eager to push him away, but he was practicing self-denial. Surely that was punishment enough.
She dragged her mouth from his. “What are you doing to me?”
“Chapter three,” he murmured.
“Sweet Jesus. How many chapters are there?”
“Thirty-two.”
“I’ll never survive.”
He lowered his mouth, trailing kisses from her neck to her shoulder and back again. He would seduce her slowly, though the way she moved against him made the blood pound through his body and his heart beat like the horses that had kicked the damn walls of the stall half the night. He dipped lower, teasing the slope of her breast and then resting his mouth on the hard peak of her nipple.
The books had been explicit on this matter, and they had not been wrong yet. He darted his tongue out and licked the hard point. She smelled faintly of apples, a fragrance she probably used in her toilette. She’d stilled when he licked her, but she hadn’t complained, and now he bent and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking gently.
“Oh.” She offered her breast to him, pushing it into his mouth. “Still chapter three?” she panted.
“I believe I might have skipped to chapter five now.”
He repeated the action on the other breast. He liked kissing her breasts, but he wanted to feel them, and while he lapped and teased, he cupped one and fondled it. How many times had he wanted to touch her breast? Wanted to put his hands on her? Now he held that soft flesh, and it was all he could do not to take her then and there.
He had more pleasures to show her, more chapters from his books. His hand slid lower to the warm juncture of her thighs. With one knee, he edged her thighs apart and slid his hand between them. She was hot there, and when he cupped
