He could feel her every curve, from the lush swell of her breasts to the gentle flare of her hips. The wool of her dress was thick, but it didn't hide the way she peaked under his touch. And nothing could have hidden the soft sounds escaping her mouth.

She wanted him. She might not understand it, but she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her.

He lowered her to the ground, hastily spreading the picnic blanket beneath them. He had long since disposed of her bonnet, and he now loosened her chignon, letting the long strands of hair float between his fingers. “Softer than silk,” he whispered. “Softer than the sunrise.”

She moaned again, a sound that vaguely resembled his name. Charles grinned, thrilled by the fact that he had inflamed her desire to the point that she couldn't even speak. “I've kissed you senseless,” he murmured, his grin sliding into a lazy, masculine smile. “I told you I'd sneak in number six.”

“What about seven?” she managed to get out.

“Oh, we're already well past that,” he said in a husky voice. He lifted her hand and placed it to his chest. “Feel this.”

His heart pounded furiously beneath her small palm, and she looked up at him in wonder. “Me? I did this?”

“You. Only you.” His lips found her neck, distracting her while his nimble fingers worked on the buttons of her dress. He had to see her, had to touch her. He'd go insane if he didn't. He was sure of it. He thought about how he'd tortured himself by trying to imagine how long her hair was. Lately he'd been subjecting himself to an even more acute agony, spending his time imagining her breasts. The shape of the them. The size of them. The color of her nipples. The mental exercise always left him in a most uncomfortable state, but he couldn't seem to make himself stop.

The only solution was to get her naked—totally, thoroughly, blessedly naked, and then his imagination could take a break while the rest of him enjoyed reality.

Finally his fingers reached a button near the bottom of her ribs, and he slowly spread open the folds of her dress. She wasn't wearing a corset, just a thin cotton camisole. It was white, almost virginal. It excited him more than the most provocative piece of French lingerie ever could, because she was wearing it. And he had never, not once in his life, wanted anyone the way he wanted his wife.

His large hands found the bottom of her camisole and slid beneath, touching the silky warmth of her skin. Her muscles leaped beneath his touch, her stomach instinctively sucking in. He shuddered with need as his hands moved higher, molding themselves over her ribs, then inching even higher until they found the soft, womanly curve of her breast.

“Oh, Charles,” she sighed, just as his hands closed around her and gently squeezed.

“Oh, my God,” he replied, thinking he might explode then and there. He couldn't see her, but she felt perfect. Just the right size for his hands. Hot and sweet and soft, and damn it, if he didn't taste her right then and there, he was going to completely lose control.