He trailed kisses across the line of her jaw to her ear, where he whispered, “He might have kissed you, love, but his kiss is nothing like mine, is it?”

She shook her head, her reply coming on heavy gasps of breath. “No.” He rewarded her honesty with a long lick along the curl of her ear, pulling the soft lobe of it in his teeth, worrying it until she sighed, “Cross.”

He lifted one hand to the line of her dress and yanked the fabric down, baring one perfect, pale breast, tracing his finger around and around her nipple until it went hard and aching. He tore his gaze away to find her equally transfixed by his touch.

Watching her beautiful blue eyes, he moved, pinching the straining tip, loving the way her head tilted back resting against the wall as she sighed his name once more. He kissed her softly at the soft spot behind her jaw, tonguing the skin there. “His kiss doesn’t make you cry out his name.”

“No,” she said, pressing her breast into his hand, asking for more. As though she had to ask. He dipped his head, taking her nipple into his mouth, sucking until she cried out, the glorious sound muffled by curtains and the din of gamers nearby, who had no idea of what happened mere feet from them.

He rewarded her unbridled response with a deep, thorough kiss, reaching down to lift her skirts, fingers tracing along silk stockings and then silken skin as they climbed higher and higher. Her fingers tangled in his hair, clutching him to her as she gasped against his lips. He returned to her ear, whispering, “Tell me, my gorgeous, honest girl, does his kiss make you want to lift your skirts and take your pleasure here? Now?”

“No,” she confessed, soft and strained.

His hand moved higher, finding what he sought, downy hair and glorious wet heat. He stroked the backs of his fingers along the seam of her, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. “But mine does, doesn’t it?”

He slid one finger deep into her softness, and they both groaned at the pleasure of it. She was wet and wanting, and he couldn’t wait to give her everything she desired. He stroked, long and lush, through the wet, wonderful core of her as he whispered in the darkness, “It makes you want to hold your skirts high as I give you everything you deserve—as I teach you about sin and sex, with half of London a hairsbreadth away.”

“Yes.” She gasped, and he lifted her skirts higher with one hand, working his fingers high against her, making good on his promise, one finger pressing deep into her as his thumb worked a tight circle at the hard, straining center of her pleasure.

“This isn’t a lie, Pippa. This is truth. Wicked, undeniable truth.”

She clutched his arm, moving against him, not knowing what to do.

But he knew. It had been six years, but he had been waiting for this moment.

For her.

“Take your skirts, darling.”

She did as she was told, holding them high as he sank to his knees before her once more, as he had several nights earlier, only this time, he allowed himself access to her, to her heat and her scent and the magnificence of her body.

He lifted one of her legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee, swirling his tongue against the finely spun silk there before hooking her knee over his shoulder and leaning forward to place a kiss against her beautiful mound. He stroked deep, first with one finger, then two as he blew a long stream of air over the spot where his thumb had been swirling. She sucked in a deep breath. “Cross,” she whispered. “Please—”

And in that plea, he lost himself. “Yes, love,” he said, inhaling her heady, glorious scent. “I’ll give you everything you want. Everything you need.”

He stroked into her softness again, and he wondered at the way she wept for him, not knowing what he would give her . . . what he could do to her . . . and wanting it nonetheless. “Do you feel it? The truth of it? How much you want me?”

“I want . . .” she started, then stopped.

He turned his head, nipping at the soft skin of her inner thigh, reveling in the softness there—that untouched, uncharted, silken spread. “Say it.” He would give it to her. Anything in his power. Anything beyond it.

She looked down at him, blue eyes fairly glowing with desire. “I want you to want me.”

He closed his eyes at that; trust Pippa to be forthright even here, even now, even as she bared herself to his eyes and mouth and hands. Trust her to strip this moment of all remaining shrouds, leaving it raw and bare and honest.

God help him, he told her the truth. He wasn’t certain he could do anything but. “I do, love. I want you more than you could ever know. More than I could have ever dreamed. I want you enough for two men. For ten.”

She laughed at that, the sound coming on a wicked movement of strong hips and soft stomach. “I don’t require ten. Just you.”

Even as he knew he would never be worthy enough for her, the words went straight to the hard, straining length of him, and he knew he would never be able to resist her—not when she asked with truth in her big blue eyes and passion on her soft, lyric voice.

He leaned in, and spoke to the heart of her. “And you shall have me.”

And then he was where he had wanted to be for a week. For longer. He removed his hand from where it had been working its irresistible rhythm, retreating slowly, killing them both until she moved to seek his touch. He couldn’t stop the wicked grin that spread across his face at the proof that she wanted him. “Easy.”

“No.” The word came out on a near desperate whine. “Now, Cross.”

“So demanding,” he teased, his blood running hot at her insistence. “Now, it is.” And he spread her gently, revealing the core of her, willing and wet and perfect.