Helen froze.

Dear Lord.

No wonder the sexual act was such a secret. If women knew, they would never consent to it.

Although she tried not to look as aghast as she felt, some of it must have shown in her expression, because he gave her a glance of mingled chagrin and amusement.

“It’s better than it sounds,” he offered apologetically.

Although Helen dreaded the answer, she worked up the courage to ask timidly, “Inside where?”

For answer, he moved over her, spreading her beneath him. His hand coasted over her shrinking body, caressing the insides of her thighs and stroking them apart. She could scarcely breathe as he reached beneath the hem of the chemise. There was a light touch between her legs, his fingertips delving into the patch of intimate curls.

She went rigid at the peculiar feeling, the circling pressure that found a hollow place and began to push inward. And then, unbelievably, her body gave way to the silky-wet wriggle and glide of his finger as he . . . No, it was impossible.

“Inside here,” he said quietly, watching her from beneath a sweep of ink-black lashes.

Moaning in confusion, she twisted to escape the invasion, but he held her firmly.

“When I enter you”—his finger sank to the last joint, retreated an inch, slipped in again—“you’ll feel pain at first.” He was stroking places she had never known existed, his touch clever and gentle. “But it won’t hurt after the first time, ever again.”

Helen closed her eyes, distracted by the curious sensation that had awakened inside her. Ephemeral, elusive, like a hint of perfume lingering in a quiet room.

“I’ll move like this”—the subtle caresses acquired a rhythm, his finger nudging in, and in, her inner flesh becoming silkier and more slippery with each sinuous penetration—“until I spend inside you.”

“Spend?” she asked through dry lips.

“A release . . . a moment when your heart begins to pound, and you struggle in every limb for something you can’t quite reach. It’s torture, but you’d rather die than stop.” His mouth lowered to her scarlet ear, while he continued to tease her relentlessly. “You follow the rhythm and hold on tight,” he whispered, “because you know the world is about to end. And then it does.”

“That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she managed to say, brimming with a strange, squirmy, guilty heat.

A dark tendril of laughter curled inside her ear. “Comfortable, no. But an unholy pleasure, it is.”

His finger withdrew, and she felt him stroke along the delicately closed seam of her sex. Parting the soft crevice, he began to toy with the pink folds and frills, grazing a place so exquisitely tender that her entire body jerked.

“Does this hurt, cariad?”

“No, but . . .” There seemed no way to make him understand an upbringing in which certain areas of the body were too shameful to be acknowledged, let alone touched, except for purposes of washing. One of many rules instilled by a stout nanny who had been fond of smacking naughty children’s palms with a ruler until they were red and sore. Such lessons could never be entirely unlearned. “That’s . . . a shameful place,” she finally said breathlessly.

His reply was immediate. “No, it isn’t.”

“It is.” When he shook his head, she insisted, “I was taught that it most definitely is.”

Rhys looked sardonic. “By the same person who told you that babies are found under gooseberry bushes?”

Forced to concede the point, Helen fell into a dignified silence. Or at least as dignified as she could manage in the circumstances.

“Many people are ashamed of their own desires,” he said. “I’m not one of them. Nor do I want you to be.” Lightly resting his palm on the center of her chest, he drew it slowly down her body. “You were made for pleasure, cariad. No part of you is shameful.” He seemed not to notice the way she stiffened as his hand drifted down between her thighs. “Especially not this sweet place . . . ah, you’re so pretty here. Like one of your orchids.”

“What?” she asked faintly, wondering if he were mocking her. “No.”

“You’re shaped like petals.” One of his fingertips traced her outer folds. Resisting her desperate tugs at his wrist, he spread her open. Gently he took a rosy inner flange between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed with the softest possible pressure. “And these. Sepals . . . aye?”

It was then that Helen understood what he meant, the accuracy of the comparison. She went crimson all over. If it were possible to faint from embarrassment, she would have.

A smile flickered across his lips. “How can you not have noticed?”

“I’ve never looked down there before!”

Absorbed in every minute variation of her expression, he swirled his fingertip up to the crest of her sex. Gently his thumb pressed the hood back, while he tickled around the little bud. “Tell me the word for this. The tip inside the blossom.”

Writhing in his hold, she gasped, “Anther.” Something was happening to her. Fire was creeping up the backs of her legs and gathering in her stomach, every sensation feeding into a pool of heat.

His finger slipped inside her again, where it had become deep and liquid. What was it? What—her body closed on the invasion, pulling at him in a way she couldn’t control. He brushed silken kisses over her mouth, catching at her lips as if he were sipping from a fragile cup. The tip of his thumb found the sensitive peak. Electric tension spread through her in widening ripples, an alarming wave of feeling approaching . . . too strong . . . almost like pain. Sliding out from beneath him with a low cry, she rolled to her stomach, suffocating on her own heartbeat.