“You’re trembling. Are you cold?”

“No.” She didn’t think she could ever be cold again with the furnace that was pulsing away inside her. “Murphy, I don’t want you to think that this means . . . anything but what it means. I wouldn’t be fair to . . .”

He was smiling as he cupped her face gently in his hands and kissed her. “I know what it means. ‘Beauty is its own reason for being.’ ” Still soft, still tender, his lips skimmed over her cheekbone. “That’s Emerson.”

What manner of man was it, she wondered, who could quote poetry and plow fields?

“You’re beautiful, Shannon. This is beautiful.”

He would see to it, giving her his heart as much as his body. And taking hers. So his hands were soft, easy as he stroked her—her shoulders, her back, through her hair, while his mouth patiently persuaded hers to give more. To take more. Just a little more.

She trembled still, even as her body leaned more truly into his, as the sound of quiet pleasure sighed through her lips, then through his. A faint breeze danced up, through the grass, then swirled like music around them.

He drew back, his eyes on hers, and slipped the man’s vest she wore from her shoulders, let it fall. A murmur of surprise and longing whimpered in her throat as he kissed her again, his hands on her face, his fingers tracing.

She’d thought she’d understood the rules of seduction, the moves and countermoves men and women executed in the path toward pleasure. But this was new, this quiet, patient dance, this savoring of each elemental step. As with the waltz he’d taught her, she could do no more than hold fast and enjoy.

Her breath caught, released shakily when his fingers rested on the top button of her shirt. Oh, she wished she’d worn silk, something flowing and feminine with some lacy fancy beneath to enchant him.

Slowly he opened the shirt, spread it, then laid his palm lightly against her heart.

The thrill shot through her like a molten bullet. “Murphy.”

“I’ve thought about touching you.” He took the hand she gripped at his shoulder, brought it to his lips. “How your skin would feel. And taste. And smell.” Watching her, he slid the shirt from her shoulders. “I’ve rough hands.”

“No.” She could do no more than shake her head. “No.”

His eyes were solemn as he traced a fingertip above the downward curve of her bra, and up again. He’d known she’d be soft. But the way her flesh quivered under his lightest touch, the way her head fell back in stunned surrender, added sweetness to desire.

So he didn’t take—though he could already feel the way her breasts would cup, small and firm in his hands. Instead he bent his head and took her mouth again. Her lips were incredibly generous, opening and welcoming his. The dark, potent tastes curled through his system, hinting of more heated, and more intimate flavors.