“You’re so beautiful.” His voice was guttural, deep and rasping. “Here”—he touched her swollen nipples—“they look like red berries in snow. Here”—he smoothed his hand on the curve of her belly—“so soft, like down. And here.” His fingers combed into the auburn curls surrounding her womanhood. His hand tightened on her mound for a moment. His face was carnal in the firelight, the lines in sharp relief, his lips drawn back. He slid his long middle finger between her folds.

She shut her eyes as he touched her there.

“Do you like it softly?” His finger brushed over her. “Or firmly?” He stroked.

“L-like that,” she sighed. She spread her thighs a little more.

“Kiss me,” he whispered, and turned his head to brush feather kisses across her lips.

She moaned into his mouth. Her hands tangled in his hair and roamed over the warm skin of his shoulders. And all the while his finger stroked until the tension built to unbearable levels, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth. George arched, feeling her heart beat out of her chest and the warmth seeping, spreading, from her middle. She felt shaken, as if she’d taken a journey from which there was no return.

He petted her, gentle and consoling.

When she began to drift, he lifted her, stood, and walked to his bedroom. He lay her down on his narrow bed and stepped back deliberately. Harry watched her—for resistance?—as he stripped out of his remaining clothes. She lay there limply, anticipating whatever he would do next. Then he climbed over her and poised for a moment on all fours, a hungry beast about to devour his prey.

His very willing prey.

“It may hurt.” He searched her eyes.

“I don’t care.” She pulled his head down to hers.

He met her lips and nudged her legs apart with his own. She felt him at her entrance. He lifted his head and braced himself on one hand, then thrust himself into her. Or at least she thought he did. He drew back a little and thrust again, and more flesh entered her. Good Lord, would all of him . . .? Another thrust and she gasped. It hurt. It pinched. It burned. He glanced at her face, grit his teeth, and thrust powerfully. His pelvis met hers.

She whimpered. She felt full—too full.

Above her, he was still. A bead of sweat dripped off the side of his face and fell on her collarbone. “All right?” It was a grunt.

No. She nodded and hazarded a smile.

“Brave girl,” he whispered.