“You need to kiss me first.” It came out a little high, almost squeaky. “I’m ridiculously nervous and I don’t know why, because it’s not that I don’t want to do this—I do, I really do—but I’m just, I don’t know, stupidly skittish and I know I have no reason to be, but if you kiss me, I’m sure it will be better, because when you kiss me—” She stopped abruptly.

“Yes? When I kiss you . . . ?” His voice was deep, knowing.

She smacked him lightly on the arm. “Oh, don’t look so smug. You know perfectly well what I’m trying to say.”

“I do indeed,” and he kissed her.

This time there was no hesitation, no light brushing of mouth against mouth, no teasing of the lips. It was neither gentle nor tentative—a bold possession—and her blood sang as she opened to him. The dark, familiar male taste of him flooded her senses.

This, this is what she craved. It was as if there was some deep ravening hunger in her that needed to be fed, and only he could feed it.

She pressed herself against him, twining her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, all doubts, all hesitation gone. He pulled her hard against him, deepening the kiss, drawing a response from her she hadn’t known was possible.

She ran her palms along his jaw, enjoying the faint abrasion of his bristles, and all the time kissing and being kissed, not knowing where she began and he ended. Intoxication.

The edge of the bed pressed against the back of her legs and she let herself sink onto the thick mattress. She needed him closer. She hooked a leg around him.

“Easy there,” he murmured. “Almost there.”

Almost where? She opened her eyes to ask him, and felt a cold draft on her upper body.

“Sit up a moment,” he said.

She sat up and her dress fell down around her hips. “You unhooked me while we were kissing?” She wasn’t sure whether she approved. She hadn’t been able to think of a single thing while he was kissing her, but he apparently had been able to unhook a dress and kiss her senseless.

“Lift up,” he said, and when she did, he slipped the dress out from under her. “I’m very fond of that dress, don’t want to ruin it.” He draped it carefully over the rail on the end of the bed. “Now, where were we?” He turned back to her and sighed. “I suppose your stays are laced.”

She nodded, impatient to have him back in her arms, but quite enjoying his frustration.

His eyes devoured her. “Pink silk drawers, George? Very dashing.”

She blushed a little. They were presents from Rose and Lily—along with a couple of even more dashing nightdresses. “I always wear drawers. It’s too drafty the old-fashioned way.”