“I don’t fancy men,” Richard said tightly.

“I rather wish you did,” she muttered, glancing off to the side. “At least it would explain—”

“Enough!” Richard roared. Dear God, how much was a man meant to endure? He did not fancy men, and he did desire his wife. Quite urgently, as a matter of fact. And if he were living anyone’s life but his own, he would make sure she knew that, in every way possible.

He stepped in close. Close enough to make her uncomfortable. “You think I find you repulsive?”

“I-I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” He took her face in his hands and brought his lips down to hers, burning with all the torment in his heart. He’d spent the past week wanting her, imagining every delicious thing he was going to do with her once he could finally take her to his bed. It had been a week of denial, of torture, of punishing his body in the most primitive way possible, and he had reached his limit.

He might not be able to do everything he wanted, but by God, she would know the difference between desire and disdain.

His mouth plundered hers, sweeping, tasting, devouring. It was as if every moment of his life had coalesced into this one kiss, and if he broke contact, even for a moment, even to breathe, it would all disappear.

The bed. It was all he could think, even though he knew it was a mistake. He had to get her to the bed. He had to feel her under him, to imprint himself upon her body.

She was his. She had to know that.

“Iris,” he groaned against her mouth. “My wife.”

He nudged her backward, and then he did it again, until she was edged up against the bed. She was so slender, such a wispy little thing, but she was kissing him back with a fire that threatened to consume them both.

No one else knew what lay beneath her placid surface. And no one else would, he vowed. She might give others her breathtaking smile, or even a taste of her sly, subtle wit, but this . . .

This was his.

He brought his hands behind her, and then under her, cupping the delightful curve of her bottom. “You are perfect,” he said against her skin. “Perfect in my arms.”

Her only response was a heated moan, and with a stunningly quick motion, he lifted her skirt and jerked her up so that her hips were level against his. “Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded.

She did. It was nearly his undoing.

“Do you feel this?” he rasped, pressing his arousal hard against her.

“Yes,” she said desperately.

“Do you? Do you really?”

He could feel her nodding against him, but he did not ease the pressure until she whispered once again, “Yes.”

“Do not ever accuse me of not wanting you.”