That frisson I had felt strengthened. My skin felt strange. Needy for his touch just as my hands itched to give the same to him.

I pulled at his shirt to free it from his trousers in order to find skin.

Stymied by his waistcoat, I mentally cursed it, planted my foot in the bed and heaved him.

Now I was on top and he was on the bottom. I shifted to straddle him, but my damnable fingers did not work for desperation at trying to release the dratted, confounding buttons.

“You wear too many clothes,” I complained.

“You wear just enough,” he murmured, his fingers gripping my short gown and pulling up, my arms going with it.

Leaving me in nothing but panties.

He tossed it to the floor, his eyes hit my body and grew hungry.

Thus, there I had it.

He very much liked what he saw.

That expression on his face, I felt a spasm at the core of me, and I grew wetter.

“Sirens, your beauty,” he growled.

I then gasped, for Aramus flipped me and got to his knees between my legs.

In a trice, gone was his waistcoat.

In a blink, he’d pulled off his shirt.

His wide chest with that expanse of smooth, dark skin, the swells, the dips, the peaks of his nipples.

Phenomenal.

But too far away.

I pushed up to take a nipple in my mouth.

Before I succeeded in this endeavor, my husband pushed me down and did what I wanted to do to him to me. He fed my nipple into his mouth with a stroke of his tongue and then he drew.

The searing sensation that fired from nipple to between my legs had me arching off the bed, lacing my fingers at the back of his head, holding him to me, demanding more.

“Aramus,” I moaned.

He lifted up, taking possession of my mouth, his tongue sweeping inside, as he grabbed my hand and pressed it flat against his crotch.

Oh.

My.

All of that was mine?

I whimpered into his mouth.

“See what you do to me,” he growled in mine.

I didn’t see.

I felt.

But I wanted to see.

And so much more.

“Aramus—”

“Yes.”

“I want to see—”

“Yes,” he grunted.

He then pulled away and I scrambled to my knees, raining kisses on his shoulders, the back of his neck, running my hands down his sturdy arms as he sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off boots, socks…

He stood and turned to me, his hands at the belt of his trousers.

I reached out, running my fingers over the silken, heated skin of his chest, but my head was bent.

I so very much wanted to see.

He unbuckled then unbuttoned his trousers…

And then he sprang free, long, thick, proud.

By Medusa.

So, so beautiful.

And all mine.

The heat of me saturated, my mouth watered, my head dipped…