He struggled for words, mad for her touch. “I have an estate outside of London … I like to work in the fields.”

Her heavy-lidded gaze met his, and he clenched his fists to keep from pulling her to him and taking her mouth. “You do not wear a shirt?”

He shook his head. “Not always.”

“How wicked,” she whispered, setting her lips to him and tracing moist, wet kisses along the rigid planes of his chest until he could no longer bear it.

He took control for sanity’s sake, capturing her lips, then turning her to make quick work of the long line of buttons at the back her dress, loving the nape of her neck as she sighed her pleasure on the wind. When the fabric loosened, Isabel caught it to her br**sts and turned, her brown eyes filled with a siren’s promise as she let it go, the lavender fabric pooling at her feet.

Nick took a deep, steadying breath, reaching for her again, whirling her around, and tearing at the ribbons of her stays. “I loathe the woman who invented the corset,” he growled.

Isabel laughed, looking over her shoulder at him. “What makes you think a woman invented the corset? ”

“Because a man would never have made it so difficult to get to you.” The undergarment fell away from her then, and he swung her back around, brushing the straps of her chemise from her shoulders until she was bared to him and the sky and the keep. His gaze raked over her beautiful body, flushed with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. “There you are,” he said, his voice made barely recognizable by the wanting in it. “Come here.”

He pulled her to him, her bare br**sts pressing against his chest, and he took her mouth in a thunderous kiss, stroking deep as his hands cupped her br**sts, teasing their tips until they were hard, desperate points of flesh. She cried her wanting against his lips, and he rewarded the sound by setting his mouth to one tip, worrying the flesh with teeth and tongue and a gentle, maddening sucking that set her writhing against him. With one hand, he reached down to stroke the eager core of her, parting the soft curls that shielded her sex with one finger, finding the place where her passion pooled and circling there, pressing until her gasps became too much for him.

He shifted them, laying her down on the soft grass like a sacrifice, parting her legs to bare her to the sun and the wind and the sky as he added a second finger to the first, driving her to the edge of pleasure, watching her eyes glaze with passion.

He wanted to watch her come apart in his arms.

She arched her back against the ground, her hips circling, lifting, showing him where—how—to touch, to stroke, to circle. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth, “That’s it, my love. Take your pleasure.”

He gave her that for which she did not know to ask … faster, harder, stronger, deeper … until she cried her pleasure to the ancient stones and clung to him as she spiraled out of control.

Afterward, she lay still for long minutes, and Nick drank his fill of her, naked and willing and his. When she finally opened her eyes, his breath caught at the wanton gleam there. She ran one hand down the length of his chest, sliding one finger beneath the waistband of his breeches, where he was hard and hungry for her.

“It is my turn,” she whispered, plucking at the buttons of his breeches altogether too slowly.

He stepped in, disposing of his boots and breeches quickly, until he was as naked as she, hard and hot and desperate for her. He took her mouth in a long kiss before saying, “I would hate to be thought of as unfair.”

She laughed, the sound low and wanton, and he hardened even more as she cupped him in her hand, stroking until he closed his eyes against the pleasure. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in eagerness; Nick opened his eyes to slits and watched her as she looked at him, fascinated as he grew in her hands, harder and longer than he had ever been.

As he watched, she leaned down to settle a soft, moist kiss on the tip of him, and he thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

At his groan, she stopped, lifting her head, concern flooding her face. “Did I hurt you? ”

He closed his eyes at the innocent question, unable to stop his hips from moving, desperate for more of her touch. “No, love. No …”

She looked down at him again, skeptical. “Shall I stop?”

His voice shook. “Do it again.”

She did, her lips soft and torturous against him. He held his breath, waiting for her next move, and when he felt the soft, tentative lick of her tongue there, he sighed his pleasure, “Yes … like that … God, Isabel.”

The words spurred her on, and in moments, her innocent caresses, the soft sucking of her mouth, were threatening to kill him. If she did not stop—she must stop.

He lifted her from him then, his strong arms moving her to straddle him, and he pulled her down to take her mouth. She lifted from the kiss and he met the uncertainty in her gaze. “Did you not enjoy it?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “It was the most incredible thing I have ever experienced, love. I enjoyed it too much.”

Her brow furrowed, and he realized that she did not understand. He took her mouth once more, long and deep and powerful until they were both panting, then set his mouth to the tip of one of her br**sts, suckling until it was hard and aching and she was crying out. “I do not want to take my pleasure without you with me. Not today.”

He moved her then, guiding her until the tip of him was settled against her. Her eyes widened at the sensation. “Can we? Like this?”

He raised a brow. “Let’s find out.”