“Would you mind if I took the reins for a few minutes?”
If her face wasn’t already burning, it all but exploded now. What was wrong with her? Why had she taken the lead? He was supposed to be the aggressor. She was supposed to be submissive. She had simply wanted him so badly that she’d forgotten for a moment what her role in the marriage was. “I don’t mind at all, my lord,” she said.
He smiled and kissed her again. The kiss was slow and tantalizing, and she had to clench her fists to curb her urge to plunder his mouth. He put his hands on her waist and pushed her backward gently, moving with her so that they made their way across the room. She felt her bottom press against his bed, and that was when he lowered his mouth to nip at her jaw and her neck. “Genevieve?”
“Hmm?” The way his lips skated across her skin made her shiver and rendered her completely incapable of speech.
“In the bedroom, do you think we might dispense withmy lord?”
She nodded. “I’ll call you Rory.”
“I’d like that. Say it again.”
“Rory!” She gasped as his mouth went to her shoulder, and he took the thin strap of her nightrail with his teeth and slid it off her skin.
“Ticklish?”
“No,” she said, not certain how to describe what she was feeling. She had never been so aroused before. Her skin felt as though it might combust everywhere he touched. Her nipples were painfully sensitive where they rubbed against the fabric of the nightrail, and she could feel the damp proof of her desire between her legs. “It’s so very warm in here,” she said by way of excuse.
“Let me help with that.” He moved his hands from her waist, skating over one taut nipple and making her whimper, until hetook hold of the bow she’d made from the ties of the nightrail. He tugged it free, and the bodice opened. Genevieve had the urge to catch it before it could fall, but Rory made a sound in the back of his throat—almost like a purr—and she clenched her hands at her sides. She wanted him to make that sound again. The bodice slid down, catching on her breasts, and Rory reached up and freed it so the material pooled at her waist.
“Beautiful.” He licked his lips as he admired her. “No freckles here,” he said, lifting one hand to cup a breast. His thumb slid over her nipple, and she couldn’t stop a gasp. “You like that,” he murmured, thumbing her nipple again. Her knees buckled, but thankfully she had the bed behind her as support.
“I like you touching me,” she whispered. His look was a mix of heat and bewilderment, as though he couldn’t quite believe what she’d said.
“Get on the bed,” he told her. Genevieve didn’t think he meant it to be an order, but she rather liked the gruff way he said it. She tried to lever herself up and onto the mattress, but it was too high. She began to turn, thinking she would have to crawl onto the bed, but Rory took her waist in his hands and lifted her as though she weighed nothing. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him as he climbed up beside her, then he pulled her down and took her mouth again.
The bed was so much better than standing, Genevieve decided. She was quickly lost in Rory’s mouth and his touch as his hands roamed over her skin and the thin material of the nightrail bunched at her waist. He moved over her, kissing her neck, her shoulder, and the valley between her breasts. “Take this off,” she said, pushing at the robe he still wore.
Impatient, he rose to his knees, yanked at the ties to the robe, and shrugged it off, revealing a muscled chest and a flat abdomen. Genevieve’s mouth went dry, but before she could reach up to touch him, he came down on top of her, leveringhimself on his elbows so as not to crush her. She slid her hands over his back and into his thick hair. His mouth teased the flesh of her breasts until he took her nipple in his mouth.
Genevieve’s hands stilled, and her back arched as pleasure shot through her at the pull of his mouth.
“So sensitive,” he said as his teeth rasped the hard bud. She clutched at his back as he moved to the other breast, digging her nails in as he repeated the gesture on the other side. Then he slid down to kiss the underside of her breasts and her abdomen. “Careful with your nails,” he said, his voice rumbling against her skin.
She blinked then realized what she was doing and loosened her fingers. “Sorry.”
He looked up. “I like it, but I’d rather you don’t draw blood.”
Genevieve lowered her hands to clutch at the bedclothes. The coverlet was peacock blue and the softest material she’d ever felt. She gathered bunches of it, clutching it tightly as he moved lower, kissing her belly. His hands found the material of her nightrail, and he slid it down.
“Lift your hips,” he ordered her. She did as he asked, and then the nightrail was on the floor and she was naked before him. He buried his face against her navel. “Your skin is so soft,” he said. “And you smell so good.”
“Soap,” she answered stupidly. But how was she supposed to think when he was kissing the spot below her navel and sliding down even more? She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought, especially when he slid a hand between her legs. He must have felt the moisture there, because he looked up at her, appearing surprised.
“Sorry,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you apologizing for wanting me?”
“I-I don’t know. You looked shocked. I thought you didn’t like it. Maybe I’d done something wrong.” She was babbling, and forced herself to close her mouth before she talked half the night.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “This is my fault. I’m not used to this reaction.”
Genevieve frowned. He wasn’t used to women wanting him? The man was objectively handsome. What womanwouldn’twant him? She started to ask, but then the hand between her legs moved, cupping her, and all she could manage was a choked moan. He slid one finger over her sex, and she trembled violently. He slid lower, settling himself between her legs and pushing them open. At the same time, one finger slid along her seam and then inside. She clenched it, biting her lip to keep from moaning louder.
“May I kiss you here?” He slid his finger out and circled her sex, making her shiver.
“You want to—” She didn’t even know what to call it or what he was talking about. The few times she’d been with her lover had been hurried encounters in a hayloft or a cramped attic bed. She’d never been naked with a man, never had one positioned in this way between her legs.
