He exhaled on a laugh, “I wish you would.”

And she did, unbuttoning his trousers as quickly as she could—ever too slowly—revealing him, hard and long and— “Oh, my,” she whispered, unable to stop herself from spreading the fabric and reaching for him, stroking the long, firm length of him until he groaned softly and she paused, uncertain, looking up at him. “Is it . . .”

“It’s incredible,” he whispered, his hands joining hers, showing her how to touch him. She watched the play of fingers on flesh, loving the soft steel of him. “The first time I met you . . . in my office . . .” he panted the words as she fisted the length of him. “I wanted your fingers on me. I couldn’t stop looking at them. I was obsessed with them.”

She met his gaze, reading the desire in his eyes. “They’re crooked.”

He kissed her, wild and wicked. “They’re perfect. I’ve never felt anything so close to heaven.” One of his hands moved, settling at the core of her, fingers sliding deep with shocking ease. “Except this.” His thumb moved, finding that wonderful spot. “This is closer to Heaven.” Circling over and over, again and again. “This might be Heaven.”

She lifted to afford him greater access, to allow his fingers to stroke deep, and she agreed, her breath coming faster, pleasure rocketing through her on wave after wave of sensation until she lost her strength, and her hands fell away from him, bracing against his chest as she gave herself up to it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, “so soft and slick and utterly perfect.”

She couldn’t stop the cries he pulled from her, the movements of her hips, the way she pressed against him, begging him for the pleasure he’d shown her before . . . the pleasure he’d taught her to find and claim. He slid a second finger into the core of her, and she arched back, adoring the sensation.

“So tight. So wet,” he said, the wicked words making her more wanton, more desperate. “I want to be inside you when you come.”

And when she heard the words, the wicked, strange vocabulary she’d never before heard, she realized she wanted it, too. Looking down at him, she said, “Please . . .”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Please, what, love?”

She should have been embarrassed, but she wanted him too much. “Please . . . take me.”

He swore, harsh and soft. “I cannot wait another moment.”

She thought he would roll her beneath him and made to move off him, to accommodate the change in position, but he stayed the movement, lifting her above him. Confused, she met his eyes. “Shouldn’t we be—”

“No.”

She might be inexperienced, but she knew the mechanics of the act. She placed her hands flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat rioting beneath the touch. “Are you sure? I’ve never read anything about—that is, as I understand it, I should be beneath—”

“Which one of us has done this before?” Fingers stroked deep, underscoring his skill, and she sighed, bones turning to jelly at the long, lush movement.

When it ceased, leaving her empty and wanting, logic returned. “Well, it’s been a bit of time for you,” she pointed out.

He huffed a little laugh, the sound soft and strained and wonderful. “Trust me, my brilliant lady.” He rocked his hips—the tip of him easing into her, sending a thread of nearly unbearable pleasure through her. “I recall the basics.”

And then he slid into her with slow, thorough control, and she thought she might die from the hard heat of him, from the feel of him stretching and filling her, the sensation part pain, part strangeness, and, somehow, all pleasure. Her eyes went wide as he allowed her to sink to the hilt of him, and he froze, staring up at her, worry in his gaze. His hands flew to her hips. “Pippa? Does it hurt, love? Shall we stop?”

She would kill him if he stopped. This was the most astounding thing she’d ever experienced. All the fear and questions and concerns she’d had about this act, this moment . . . they were unfounded. She understood it now, the sighs and blushes and knowing smiles she’d seen in her sisters, in women across London. And she wanted it all . . . every bit of it. “Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered. “It is remarkable.”

She lifted, testing the feel of him inside her, and he let out a harsh, broken curse. “It is, isn’t it?” he agreed, adding, “You’re remarkable.” His hands guided her, lifting her, letting her slide up and back along his hard, hot length. “God, Pippa . . . it feels . . . you feel . . .” He lifted her again, and they both groaned as she slid back to the hilt, the pain gone now, chased away by untenable pleasure. “Is this all right, love?”

She loved him all over again for checking on her comfort, on her pleasure. She lifted herself, experimenting, repeating the movement on her own, her hands settling to his chest as she rode him. “Yes . . . it’s perfect,” she said with reverence. “It’s glorious.” She rocked against him, meeting his eyes before his attention slid down her body, his hands and eyes following the movements she couldn’t help but make.

He guided her, whispering as she found her stride, “That’s it, love . . . do nothing that doesn’t feel right. That doesn’t make you ache and want and need. Take your pleasure, gorgeous girl . . .” The whispered encouragement was punctuated by the hot stroke of his hands over her body—exploring the curves of her br**sts and belly, the soft secrets of her thighs and that place between them where he was changing everything. Where she was changing everything. Where he had relinquished power and control and given her the chance to find her own pleasure.