I unhooked my bra and he watched me take it off, his greedy eyes fixed on me. He stood up, his thumbs brushing against my painfully erect nipples then he used his tongue to circle them slowly while I clumsily tried to unfasten the buttons on his shirt. As my fingers grazed his skin, he gave a guttural growl and pulled away, taking it off himself. As soon as it was discarded, he moved onto his trousers, kicking them away. And enjoyable as it was letting my eyes travel across the tight bulge in his perfect white underpants, he wasted no time in divesting himself of those too. He stretched out his arms, inviting my gaze to take in every inch of him. Despite the obvious fatigue lining his face and the visible weight loss, he still possessed a taut washboard stomach. The sight of him standing in front of me like some kind of sacrifice made my heart skip a beat.

He gestured at my jeans, his meaning clear. I smirked and shook my head, pointing down at his feet. He frowned then, realising I wanted him to take off his socks, did just that. Only then did I unbutton my jeans and slide out of them. I hooked my fingers teasingly into the waistband of my panties, threatening to wriggle them down over my hips but not quite seeing it through. Byron’s eyes narrowed enough to make me quit playing the flirt. A moment later, the pants joined the pile of clothing on the floor. Forget Chardonnay – this was much more my kind of striptease.

He tugged at my hand, leading me over to an elegant chaise longue. I draped myself across it, the very image of lady of the manor – apart from the fact I was stark naked. He smiled slowly and lifted his foot, gently nudging my legs apart until he was satisfied I was completely exposed to his hot gaze.

He knelt down, turning his attention to my feet and using the same feathery light strokes to caress my skin. He swept upwards with his fingers before going back to the beginning and doing the same with his tongue, inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, gradually getting closer and closer to the top of my thighs. I shuddered and moaned with both the sensation of now and the expectation of soon.

Just as he reached my inner thigh and I could bear it no longer, he shifted and moved onto the chaise. He blew gently and I almost fainted. His head lowered, his tongue darting down my clitoris, mimicking the same circular motion he’d used everywhere else. I let out a ragged sob, my fingers clutching the crushed velvet of the chaise. At the sound, Byron stiffened and lifted his head. His eyes met mine with an odd note of regret that I didn’t understand at first. When I focused on the tension of his body and the flaring desire in those emerald depths, however, I realised what it was. He wanted this to be perfect. He wanted it to be slow and sensual and to last for hours. The trouble was that he couldn’t wait.