“I wanted to do this the moment I saw you in the tavern.” He ran his fingers through my waist-length hair, scraping trim nails across my scalp and coaxing a moan from my throat.

The torment continued in rhythmic strokes as he combed from roots to ends, taming my annoying spirals with more patience than any maid had ever shown me. He seemed content to do it, to just stand behind me, petting, untangling, and smelling my hair. His nose slid down my nape, over my shoulder, and across my back, scenting every inch within reach.

I failed to contain my raspy breaths, too far lost in the sublime pleasure of being touched by this man. My entire being reached toward him in anticipation of the next caress, and he gave it to me with startling tenderness.

When the last tangle pulled free, he gathered the weighty mass and rested it over my shoulder, out of the way. Cool air kissed my bare neck. Then the seductive, shivery heat of his breath.

“One of the many things I’ve missed,” he said, feathering warm lips across my nape, “is falling asleep with your silken curls splayed across my chest. With your cheek against my heart. With your arms, your legs, every inch of your magnificent body hugging mine.”

I missed that, too. Tremendously. And I despised myself for it.

His mouth trailed across my back, tracing the lines of my shoulders and spine. He took his time, doting upon every hollow and arch, kissing prickled skin, and fingering the top edge of the stays.

Continuing downward, he yanked at the laces, released a few more, and journeyed ever lower. Brazen fingers molded to the flare of my hips, clenching tight to curves that no man had touched since I’d met the Feral Priest.

Then, as promised, his teeth sank into the back of my gown and began an erotic assault on the satin, pulling at hooks, ripping through ribbon, and freeing me from the air-depriving restraints.

His breathing accelerated, and his hands dug into my waist, holding me immobile and recklessly affected. I was so distracted by the wreckage of his teeth and the sounds of his hunger I didn’t notice he’d finished with the gown until it landed around my booted feet in a puddle of shredded fabric.

A thin ankle-length shift and matching ivory corset of quilted linen covered what remained of my modesty. The undergarments failed to confine everything, and as he turned me to face him, my chest spilled out, right into his greedy hands.

“Look at you.” With a groan, he scooped up a breast in his huge palm, lifting it toward his mouth. “As stunning as I remembered. Irrationally beautiful.”

His thumb flicked the nipple, and his lips covered the swell of pale flesh. I felt it everywhere. Hot breath. Velvet tongue. Torture.

Exactly as planned.

I would let him believe I was his again. Then I would strike.