She splayed her hands over him, fascinated by the dark furring over the defined mounds of his chest. The disks of his nipples were flat but pebbled beneath the light graze of her fingertip, the sight of which caused her own pulse to quicken. Her nostrils flared, drinking in the balmy scent rising from his wine-stained skin, tempting her to lower her open mouth and taste him.
He sucked in a breath, his hand sliding into her hair, cupping her face. “The way you look at me—”
His words faltered on a rush of breath as her hand descended, following the dark trail of hair from his navel all the way to where it disappeared beneath his trousers. The muscles of his abdomen bunched.
She grinned at him. “Are you ticklish?”
“Not usually, but when you do that”—he sucked in another breath when she did it again—“it feels like your fingers release tiny bolts of lightning.”
He shifted beneath her, situating her on his lap, his hands lingering on her hips and thigh.
“Why is your front fall unbuttoned if you only had to remove your shirtsleeves?”
“Men’s shirts are tucked in and under and . . .”
“And?” she asked distractedly, intrigued by a substantial shape outlined beneath the placket. She boldly traced her fingertips along the length, discovering that it was impossibly hard and thick.
A choked sound left him. “I cannot think when you touch me there.”
“Not at all?”
“Afraid not.”
“Completely insensible?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Then, should I stop?” Encouraged by his momentary speechlessness, she tentatively peeled back the flap to see a thatch of tight, dark curls through the opening, their texture coarse to the touch as she slid her hand inside.
He cursed, his head falling back. “Aye . . . actually, no. Yes. I mean . . . don’t stop. Not ever.”
Meg didn’t have a single clue what she was doing. All she knew was that it thrilled her to watch him like this, eyes closed, throat tight as he swallowed. To touch him and to see him fall apart . . . because of her.
If this was even close to what Lady Avalon felt when she’d reputedly seduced dozens of men, Meg suddenly understood why.
But for her, Lucien was the only man she would ever want.
She was captivated by the feel of him, the flesh scalding hot and taut over the impossible hardness. Her fingers had to stretch to span the circumference to grip him. But when he issued a gruff grunt, her eyes flew to his. “Acceptable?”
In response, he nodded wordlessly and she took that as a good sign. And he was patient, too, which she appreciated. He would make an excellent model for one of her sketches.
Wanting to see him, she maneuvered his girth through the opening. The flesh was dark and dusky, the shape . . . well, it was rather intimidating . . . large and rearing. She would definitely require a sizeable canvas.
Exploring, she slid her hand down and then up again. Her tentative stroke earned a fluttering surge beneath her palm. Then she saw a glistening bead of dew resting on the mushroomed head. Rolling the pad of her thumb up the underside, she touched the liquid, surprised to discover that it was warm and sticky, like honey.
Curious, she lifted her thumb to her lips and sucked on the tip. The flavor wasn’t at all sweet, but salty and briny and . . . him.
Their eyes met, his blazing, hungry and dark.
Then he moved suddenly, kissing her, lifting her. And before she knew it, he was carrying her across the parlor and to his bed.
Meg wasn’t a simpleton. She knew what would happen next. Well, vaguely. There would be mounting involved. And even though what she’d witnessed in the paddock all those years ago had been rather alarming, she wanted to . . . do that . . . as long as it was with him.
When he lowered her to her feet, she turned around, ready to present her hindquarters.
But before she could bend at the waist, he slid his arms around her and pulled her back against him, his mouth hot on her nape as he undressed her. His fingers must have been terribly deft on her buttons and laces, because she was standing in only her stockings in a matter of seconds.
Her breath came out in an astonished whoosh, her arms reflexively moving to cover her nakedness. “You’re very quick.”
“Not when it matters,” he said, gently lifting her hands away to cup her breasts, her nipples instantly pebbling against his palms. His voice was husky and deep when he murmured, “I knew I had calculated your dimensions correctly.”
Spoken by any other man, it wouldn’t have been nearly as romantic or thrilling. But with him . . . yes. As he grazed the tender peaks with the pads of his thumbs, her head fell back against his shoulder, her arms lifting to twine in his hair, spine bowing, drawing her derriere against the hot, imposing shape of him.
He grunted in response, hips flexing against her. “You are diabolical. The way you move, the way you tease and touch”—he kissed the curve of her throat, then nipped her shoulder in a playful reprimand—“it makes me insensible. But I won’t allow you to unman me. Not yet. I want to take my time with you.”
His fingertips plucked at her nipples, sensations tunneling low inside her body, shifting, tilting. A warm, liquid ache throbbed at the juncture of her thighs, and she pressed her knees together as if to hold it in. “How much time?”
His hand skirted lower, splaying over her abdomen, pressing in a slow circle that seemed to rub a place inside and draw it tight.
“Just enough,” he said, gliding farther downward to the thatch of dark curls guarding her sex.
She inched back again in reflexive modesty as he cupped her. Then he groaned, telling her how wet she was, how warm and perfect as his fingers deftly navigated along the swollen folds, making her gasp and arch as he circled the tender throbbing bud, her fingers gripping his hair.
Meg squeezed her eyes shut, the pleasure too intense, swiftly bringing her to an unbearable peak. She thought about their first kiss in the market, the shock and wonder. And she thought about the way he’d practically dragged her into the bell tower because he couldn’t stand another moment without having his mouth on her, touching her, gripping her . . . And she felt herself tumble over the edge of something wonderful.
Then suddenly, her hips hitched, jolting on a shudder. She heard the catch in his breath as rapture broke over her, flooding her in molten waves that rippled outward, tingling all the way to the tips of her fingers and strands of her hair.
He turned her in his arms and kissed her deeply, intimately, her body still quaking as she melted against him. And then they tumbled together onto the bed.
“You’re very quick,” he teased, but there was an urgency in his gaze as he looked down at her, his body tense.
She could feel the heat of him between her thighs, and it caused another sweet clench inside her, sending out another ripple of pleasure. “I don’t think so. I’ve been waiting my whole life for you to do that.”
Apparently, that was the right thing to say, because he kissed her, deeply, hungrily. His thick arousal was poised, nudging against her opening. Her arms wrapped around him, her back rising, arching, wanting to be closer. She reveled in the feel of skin on skin and the tickling brush of his crisp hair against her breasts.
But when he barely pushed inside, they both hissed. Her body clamped around him tightly, stilling his progress, her damp flesh stinging from being stretched.