He stared at her then, watching the tip pucker at the air or his gaze or both, and Penelope was suddenly horribly embarrassed, hating her imperfections, wishing she was anywhere but there, with him, this perfect specimen of man.

She moved to grasp the greatcoat, afraid that he would see her. That he would judge her. That he would change his mind.

He was faster, clasping her wrists in his hands, staying her movement. “Don’t,” he growled, force in the words. “Never hide yourself from me.”

“I cannot help it. I don’t want . . . you should not look.”

“If you think I’m going to avoid looking at you, you’re mad.” He shifted then, throwing the greatcoat back, out of her reach, making quick work of her destroyed dress, brushing the torn edges away.

He stared at her then, for long moments, until she couldn’t bear watching him anymore for the fear that he might reject her. For it was rejection that she was most used to when it came to his sex. Rejection and refusal and disinterest. And she didn’t think she could bear those things now. From him. Tonight.

She closed her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath, preparing for him to turn away at her plainness. Her imperfections. She was sure he would turn away.

When his lips settled on hers, she thought she might cry.

And then he was taking her mouth in one long kiss, stroking deep until all thought of embarrassment was chased away by desire. Only when she was clinging to the lapels of his coat did he release her from the devastating caress.

One wicked finger circled the tip of her breast lazily, as if they had all the time in the world, and she watched the movement, barely visible in the deep orange glow of the dying fire. Pleasure pooled there, at the tight, puckered tip . . . and in other scandalous places at the sensation.

“Do you like that?” he asked, low and dark. Penelope bit her lip and nodded. “Tell me.”

“Yes . . . yes it’s splendid.” She knew it made her sound simple and unsophisticated, but she could not keep the wonder from her voice.

His fingers did not stop. “It should all feel splendid. You tell me if it doesn’t, and I shall rectify the situation.”

He kissed her neck, running his teeth across the soft skin there. He looked up. “Does that feel splendid?”

“Yes.”

He rewarded her by pressing kisses down her neck, sucking at the delicate skin of her shoulder, licking down the slope of one breast before circling the hard, peaked tip, nipping and caressing—the whole time avoiding the place where she wanted him most. “I’m going to corrupt you,” he promised her skin, one hand sliding down the swell of her stomach, feeling the way the muscles there tensed and quivered at his touch. “I’m going to turn you from light to dark, from good to bad. I’m going to ruin you.” She didn’t care. She was his. He owned her in this moment, with this touch. “And do you know how it will feel?”

She sighed the word this time. “Splendid.”

More than that.

More than she’d ever imagined.

He met her eyes and, without breaking their gaze, he took the tip of one breast deep into his warm mouth, worrying the flesh with tongue and teeth before pulling in lush tugs that had her moaning his name and plunging her fingers into his hair.

“Michael . . .” she whispered, afraid that she might break the spell of pleasure. She closed her eyes.

He lifted his head, and she hated him for stopping. “Look at me.” The words were a demand. When she met his gaze once more, his hand slid beneath the pooled fabric of her dress, fingers brushing against curls, and she snapped her thighs shut with a little cry of dismay. He couldn’t possibly . . . not there . . .

But he returned his attention to her breast, kissing and sucking until her inhibitions were lost and her thighs parted, allowing him to slide his fingers between them, resting softly against her but not moving—a wicked, wonderful temptation. She stiffened again but did not refuse him access this time.

“I promise you shall like this. Trust me.”

She gave a shaky laugh as his fingers moved, widening her thighs, gaining access to her core. “Said the lion to the lamb.”

He tongued the soft skin at the underside of her breast before turning to the other, lavishing the same attention there as she writhed beneath him and sighed his name. His fingers were wicked, separating her secret folds with one finger and stroking gently, slowly, until he found the warm, wet entrance to her.

He lifted his head, finding her gaze as he slid one long finger slowly into the heart of her, sending a bolt of unexpected pleasure through her. He pressed a kiss to the skin between her br**sts, repeating the motion with his finger before whispering, “You’re already wet for me. Gloriously wet.”

It was impossible to stem her embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed her long and slow, sliding his tongue deep in her mouth as his finger mirrored the action below, before he pulled back, placed his forehead to hers, and said, “It means you want me. It means that, even after all these years, after everything I’ve done, after everything I am, I can make you want me.”

Later, she would reflect on the words, wish that she’d said something to him, but she couldn’t, not when he slid a second finger in with the first, his thumb circling as he whispered at her ear. “I am going to explore you . . . to discover your heat and softness, every bit of your decadence.” He stroked against her, feeling the way she pulsed around him, loving the way she rocked her hips against him as his thumb worked a tight circle at the straining nub of pleasure he had uncovered. “You make my mouth water.”