His expression was shuttered, no emotion showing in those bright, compelling eyes, the hard planes of his face. When he took a step toward her, a wild sensation fluttered in her middle, a deep primal fear.

Sloan came to an abrupt halt. Her eyes were clear and huge, her mouth soft and vulnerable. He cursed silently. He’d spent half the night dreaming about that mouth, that softness. He clenched his teeth at the heavy surge in his loins. He could simply take her, with no emotion, no tenderness, no passion. A brief, impersonal coupling, all business. Or he could make her first time good for her.

Damn, but he really had no choice. He didn’t want to hurt Heather. Didn’t want her to fear him.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” he murmured, his voice hoarser than he liked.

He stood very still, letting her take in every detail of his body, giving her time to grow accustomed to the prospect of nudity between them, aware that she was getting her first eyeful of a naked man. And he was a highly sexed man at that. Desire pulsed in his groin with a sweet, almost unendurable ache, yet he tried to repress it. He would have to go slow with her. He couldn’t treat Duchess Ashford like a saloon whore. She was nothing like the experienced women he used to enjoy before his first marriage. She was nothing like the women of the Cheyenne, who found great pleasure in open, uninhibited sex, mating like wild animals.

Only when her look of alarm faded did he stir a muscle. Then silently Sloan drew down the brocade coverlet to expose ivory satin sheets. Then, without a word, he took her hand and led her to the bed.

She moved stiffly, and he could feel the tension in her slender fingers as she followed hesitantly. Yet she made no protest as he held the sheet for her to climb into bed.

Sliding in after her, Sloan untied the near sash of the bed hangings and let the curtain fall, enveloping them in semidarkness. When he turned on his side, he could see the soft gold-red glow of her skin cast by the crimson brocade. She lay watching him, clutching the sheet to her breasts, her eyes wide, bottomless pools.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you, duchess?”

“Perhaps … just a little.”

“There’s no need to be. You were right. I’m not the sort to hurt women.”

“Not intentionally, I suppose.”

An unconsciously tender smile touched his mouth. “I promise, I’m not going to do anything you don’t ask me for. Now why don’t you relax and roll over.”

“What?”

“Turn over. Give me your back.”