His head fell back, and she knew the moment he gave in. The tension did not leave his body, but something told her he was through fighting himself. She peeked back up at his face to make sure his eyes were still closed—somehow she wasn’t brave enough to do this if she knew he was watching—and she bent over and placed the lightest of kisses on the tip of his manhood.

He gasped, his belly sucking in with his breath, but he did not stop her. Emboldened, Iris kissed him again, allowing her lips to linger a bit longer. He twitched, and she drew back, glancing at his face. He didn’t open his eyes, but he must have sensed her hesitation, because he gave a brief nod, and then with one single word, he made her soul sing.

“Please.”

It was so strange to think that just a few weeks ago she was Miss Iris Smythe-Smith, hiding behind her cello at her family’s awful musicale. Her world had changed so much; it was as if the earth had flipped on its axis, landing her here, as Lady Kenworthy, in bed with this glorious man, kissing him on a part of his body she hadn’t even known existed before. Or at least not in its present state.

“How does it do that?” she murmured to herself.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, blushing. “It was nothing.”

His hand found her chin, turning her to face him. “Tell me.”

“I was just, well, wondering . . .” She swallowed, utterly mortified, which was ludicrous. She was about to kiss him there again, and she was embarrassed to be wondering how it all worked?

“Iris . . .” His voice was like warmed honey, melting through her bones.

Not quite looking at him, she motioned to his member. “It’s not like this all the time.” And then, second-guessing herself, she added, “Right?”

He let out a hoarse laugh. “God, no. It would kill me.”

She blinked in confusion.

“It’s desire, Iris,” he said in a husky voice. “Desire makes a man like this. Hard.”

She touched him gently. He was indeed hard. Under the softest of skin, he was hard as granite.

“Desire for you,” he said, then admitted, “I’ve been like this all week.”

Her eyes widened with shock. She did not speak, but she rather thought he saw the question in her eyes.

“Yes,” he said with a self-mocking chuckle. “It hurts.”

“But then—”

“Not pain like an injury,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Pain like frustration, like unfulfilled need.”