I can’t feel myself breathe, but I hear the heavy pants that escape my mouth. We’re supposed to be angry. We’re supposed to hurl wildly inappropriate insults with wicked grins and keep our distance until one of us storms off into the night.

We’re not supposed to be this close.

But the magic trickles through me in tiny rivulets, spilling words that I’d never before admit to him.

“I want you to tell me,” I say, trying to steady my breathing. From the sound of it, he struggles to do the same.

“Tell you what, Little Sparrow?”

“What you would do to me.” My answer nearly trips over his sentence.

My skin prickles as if I’ve jumped into one of Verdana’s icy lakes, but I know I must keep moving if I wish to stay warm. “I want you to tell me where to put my hand as if it’s your own.”

His brows dive deep towards the bridge of his nose, his breath is jagged, and his eyes rove over me with wild hunger. Like a starving feline that’s just spotted a lone fawn. A predator that can’t play with his food.

Bringing my hands behind me, I begin to untie my dress. As the fabric loosens, I whisper, “Tell me where you’d touch me first.”

He stumbles back, a hand over his heart. For a moment, I’m sure he’ll flee up the stairs, leaving me in a dim cellar to face my humiliation. Then his hand shakes as if it’s caught in a flame. He stares at it, his expression unsure, and all at once, his eyes are back on me, and it’s my turn to stumble back a few steps.

His stare is a commandment.

“I would undress you faster.” He smiles arrogantly, breaking the tension immediately.

I grin, and a light laugh tumbles from my lips as I wrestle with the ribbons behind me. I’m not used to undressing myself.

I keep my eyes on his as I work the strings, knowing damn well the corset beneath will be the real trouble. My body calls out to me: Faster. Faster!

He stands completely still. Anticipation floods his eyes, and I feel a spark leave my fingertips. His stare widens as my dress falls to the floor, the corset neatly dropping with it. My chest heaves as he feasts on the sight of me in my chemise. His lip curls, and I sense his need to devour. His plea to ravish.

“Little Sparrow,” he whispers. His voice is low and rough.

My back arches, and my breasts push forward, beckoned by the very sound of it.

He moves his hands down to his trousers and unbuckles his belt.

My eyes drop to his pants and then back up to his face. They can’t decide what’s more pleasing; I can’t decide what’s more pleasing.