She just smiled, because she felt like one, as if she had new powers. She had touched his chest the last time, felt the hard muscles flexing beneath his skin, but she hadn’t been able to do anything more. He’d been so quick to make everything about her. When his hands had run up and down her body, she’d lost control, and when his mouth covered her most private place she’d lost all thought.

But not this time.

This time she wanted to explore.

She listened to the heavy rasp of his breath as her fingers trailed along his taut abdomen. A thin line of hair, dark and crisp, trailed from his navel to the waist of his breeches. When she touched it his entire belly sucked in, almost enough for her to slide her hand under the fabric.

She didn’t, though. She was not that audacious. Not yet.

But she would be. Before the night was through, she vowed that she would be.

The food was forgotten as Richard swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down—not roughly, but not gently, either—and Iris felt a frisson of feminine glee as she realized how close he was to the edge of his control.

Emboldened, she let her hand drift back down toward his breeches. But just before her fingertips slid under the waistband, his hand landed heavily on hers.

“No,” he said roughly, holding her still. And then, before she could voice her questions, he said, “I can’t.”

She smiled up at him, some flirtatious inner demon finally waking up in her soul. “Please?” she murmured.

“I’ll make you feel good.” His free hand moved to her leg, squeezed her thigh. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

“But I want to make you feel good.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment Iris thought he was in pain. His teeth were gritted together, and his face was a harsh, tense mask. She reached up to smooth his brow, sliding her fingers along his cheek as he turned his head into the cradle of her hand.

She felt him acquiesce, felt a little bit of the tension slide from his body, and her other hand, the one resting so dangerously on his belly, edged under his breeches. She did not go far, just to the springy hair that lay on his flat abdomen. It surprised her, although she didn’t really know why, and she caught her lower lip in her teeth and looked up at him.

“Don’t stop there,” he groaned.

She didn’t want to, but his breeches were flat-fronted and snug, with barely enough room for her whole hand. She moved to the fastening, then slowly set him free.

She gasped.

This was not what she’d seen on the statue at the museum.

A lot of what her mother had said began to make sense.