The words, low and graveled with emotion, sent pleasure pooling deep within her. When she replied, she did not recognize the woman who spoke. “And if I say I want you to stay?”

He did not reply for a long moment, and she was mortified to think that she might have said the wrong thing. He took a single long step, and set her on the table by the door. He cupped her face in his large, strong hands and set his lips to hers again, robbing her of thought and breath in one long, lovely kiss.

When he lifted his head, they were both breathing hard. “If you want me to stay, it would take an army to get me to leave.”

Isabel raised her hands then, plunging her fingers through his sable locks, drawing him down for another kiss. Before their lips touched, she said one word, more breath than sound. “Stay.”

He growled his response, plundering her mouth as he tugged her shirt free of her breeches and set his hands to the warm, soft skin beneath. Not breaking their kiss, he stroked upward, pulling the linen with him until, finally, she lifted her arms above her head and let him remove the garment from her.

Immediately shy, Isabel covered herself.

“No,” he whispered, dropping several soft, distracting kisses on her lips. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.” His hands traced down her arms, their fingers entwining as he lifted her hands away from her br**sts. “Tonight, they are mine. To do with as I please.”

He set his lips to one of them, and all nervousness was gone—lost to pleasure. He closed his mouth around the tip of one breast, tugging, licking, teasing until she cried out and arched toward him, desperate for more of him. At the movement, he clasped her thighs in his hands and tugged, pulling her flush against him, her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted her up to gain better access and suckle harder.

She writhed at the movement, rubbing against him, his hardness sending a wave of feeling straight to the core of her. He growled his pleasure, and she pressed against him, rocking her hips once, twice, before he tore his mouth from her breast with a gasp. Meeting her gaze, he saw the feminine power there, and he took her lips in a bold, welcome kiss before trailing his mouth across her cheek and finally taking the lobe of one ear between his teeth and biting gently. “Minx.”

Isabel whispered his name, half plea, half protest, and the sound spurred him on. She felt the shift in him … the change from man to something more primitive—and when he lifted her again, she knew precisely where they were headed.

He followed her down onto the bed, capturing her mouth once more in a desperate, rugged kiss—a lavish caress that left only passion in its wake.

His hands were free to roam her body, and he stroked down her torso, smoothing the heated flesh there until he reached the edge of her breeches, the palm of one hand flatting against the curve of her stomach. He stayed his movement then, and all feeling—all heat and touch and trembling pleasure—pooled there.

He lifted his head, waiting for her eyes to open and meet his, and when they did, she found him watching her intently, a wicked gleam in his gaze. “I have never had the pleasure of removing breeches from a lover.”

Lover. The word echoed between them, a dark promise, and Isabel was struck with the intimate knowledge that, after tonight, that was what she would be. His lover.

His hand hovered, waiting for her permission.

“I think it is time,” she whispered, timid and bold all at once, and it was all the freedom that he needed. Within seconds, she was naked beneath him, eyes closed against the truth of the moment, embarrassed, nervous, self-conscious.

“Isabel, open your eyes.”

She shook her head. “I cannot.”

“You can, darling. Look at me.”

She took a deep, shaking breath and peeked up at him, aware of her position, bare to his sight, to his touch. She moved one hand, covering the thatch of curls between her legs, unable to remain entirely bare for him. His blue eyes flamed at the movement. “No, love, don’t hide from me.”

“I—I must.”

He gave her a half smile. “You are so beautiful … and you don’t even know it.”

The words warmed her cheeks. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are.” He set one finger to her lips. “Here”—he trailed it down her neck to the tip of one breast—“and here”—down over the curve of her belly—“and here”—to the back of the hand that protected the very heart of her. “And here, Isabel … here you make me ache.”

The words sent pleasure humming through her. No one had ever called her beautiful. And now, here, in the quiet cocoon of this place where she had slept for her entire life, this man was showing her precisely how beautiful she was. “I should like to see you,” she said, softly. “I think you might be very beautiful yourself.”

His smile widened. “I do not think that is quite the word, love. But if you would like to see … far be it from me to deny you your whim.” She giggled at the words and he kissed her swiftly. “I like to hear you laugh. I do not hear it enough.” He rolled to his back then, stacking his hands beneath his head. “All right, beauty. I am yours for the taking.”

Her eyes widened in shock at the words, as she considered him next to her, unmoving, a gleam in his eyes, waiting for her. “I … I couldn’t.”

He laughed, and the low rumble shook the bed beneath her. “I assure you, Isabel. You can.”

She rolled onto one side, lifting one hand to touch him, but stopping just before she did. “I—I don’t know where.”