She wanted it to be her hands stroking down his body. She wanted to feel the slickness of his wet skin. She longed to run her fingers down the long hard muscles that wrapped his broad shoulders and twined down his arms. She wanted to stroke a fingertip down the raised veins of his forearms, down over the inside of his wrist to feel his speeding pulse, to spread her hands in his, palm to palm, and let their fingers interlace.

She wanted it to be her fingers thrusting into the thick black hair to push it away from his face, her fists tangling in the unshorn length, pulling his head down and his mouth down to hers. The front of her gown would soak up the water on his chest and it would dissolve against her until he would feel her hard nipples jutting into his rippling chest.

She wanted to kiss him and to be kissed by him. Oh, how she wanted to be kissed! She wanted him to wrap his long arms around her and pull her hair down free and press one large palm against the small of her back to pull her as close as he could.

I miss kissing. I miss wanting and being wanted. I miss the hardness in my secret softness. I miss gasping and sighing. I miss the Chinese rockets of orgasms.

I really, truly miss orgasms.

Until this man had arrived in her dale, she'd not touched herself since before she became a bride. She was tempted to do it now. Instead she squeezed her thighs together beneath her gown and leaned so far across the table to the window that her breath began to fog the glass.

He stood there, magnificent, tall and lean, rippling with muscle, just like his fine thoroughbred horse. The light gleamed across his wet collarbone and the cords of his neck as he turned his head.

And gazed directly into her eyes.

LYSANDER FROZE. FROM THE first moment he'd spotted her in the village, Mrs. Oakes had snared his attention. Now, the sight of her gazing at him with open, aching hunger — with her palm pressed to the window as if reaching for him — now he was absolutely riveted by her.

No one had looked at him that way for very long time. Possibly never, not with that particular lonely, aching longing. She had seemed so cool, so distant and controlled. Now, there was darkness in those eyes, sweet and wild and primal. Mrs. Oakes would not be prim in the bedchamber, he understood that well enough. Unleashed from her ladylike bindings of practical hair and drab gowns, she would be hot and writhing and eager.