Ophelia’s mind had split in two. Part of her brain was busily informing the rest of her that this behavior was utterly inappropriate. She couldn’t take her eyes off the part of him that rose proudly, bobbing in the air. The sight of him made the melting sensation in her stomach increase. Probably that was sinful. Certainly it was embarrassing.

The other part of her mind suggested she tuck her arms behind her head, so she did, causing her bosom to rise into the air. He wasn’t the only one who had impressive . . . parts.

She did as well.

“Are you commanding my attention?” Hugo inquired.

“Yes,” Ophelia said, breaking into a giggle. “This is so funny,” she added, allowing herself to say precisely what she was thinking. “I never imagined laughing in bed.”

“Huh.” Hugo slid his hands to her front and then they curved around her breasts. “I don’t feel like laughing,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t mind if you do, Ophelia. Laugh as much as you like.”

Ophelia sucked in air, all impulse to giggle leaving her. His lips drifted across the curve of her right breast, lingered just long enough to make her quiver, and then closed over her nipple.

Sound rasped through her throat and her hands flew from behind her head, winding into his hair, holding him in place. Not that he showed any particular wish to move. For long minutes his mouth caressed the curve of one breast or the other, returning to her nipples.

And Ophelia just let it happen. Behind her closed eyes, the world receded until nothing existed but a hot, heady pleasure that melted into desperation. Reason and logic floated into the dark. Desire was like hot tea on a cold day: she actually felt it slip through her body, warming her in places that hadn’t felt frozen.

But had been, obviously.

Gradually, she began feeling slightly anxious, nervousness thrumming alongside desire. She didn’t want to orient herself to the real world. She wanted to stay in the warm darkness, her body twisting under his caresses, low moans coming through her lips.

But . . .

Peter would have stopped long ago, moving on to the next, for lack of a better word, activity. Surely Hugo would rather be doing something else. Something less one-sided. Unfortunately, she was selfish. Self-interest choked the words in her throat.

Instead she clutched his hair more tightly, embarrassing noises flying from her mouth every time he tightened his lips or curled his tongue around her nipple.

A shrill inner voice made itself heard. She and Peter had been considerate bed partners, and after hearing stories from other women as a young bride, she had redoubled her efforts to express her appreciation for his kindness.

Yet here she was, taking without giving.