She was rolling her head back and forth. He was pulling her nipple into his mouth, driving her crazy, delirious. But along the sweeping waves of hot delirium came a swell of resentment. Draven and she had made love in the dark. Draven was the love of her life, the sweetheart of her youth, and she had longed more than anything else to make him happy. When he didn't seem to want her to move, she stayed as quiet as she could, making her body into a cradle for his, trying in every way possible to show him how much she loved and appreciated him. It was in the dark, under the covers, and she learned quickly that Draven didn't like it if she pushed against him. Once she had done it instinctively— her hips arched—and he said, "For God's sake, Imogen, let me do a man's business for once in my life, will you?"

But now she was in a hired room, and her companion was not her husband. She'd—she'd be damned if she was going to lie there like a compliant wife while he feasted on her body and she kept her eyes closed and her body still.

The moment that thought crystallized, Imogen was off the bed so quickly that she almost caught her companion in the crotch.

"What!" he said, coming to his knees.

For a moment she just looked at his body in the dim light. The bed was a large, old four-poster, made to survive the bouncing bouts of farmers and their wives on a holiday in town, as well as (most likely) loose women and their demon lovers. He was on his knees: one lean line of muscle from his chiseled shoulders through his chest, furred with slight hair that arrowed down… she took her time looking, and could feel her smile as if she were watching herself.

She hadn't been wrong, that time she glimpsed

Rafe's equipment. Apparently men came in all sizes, and these brothers must have been on the lucky side of the draw.

She couldn't stop thinking of Rafe's comment that he bet Draven made love under the covers and didn't show his equipment to a wife, only to loose women. Well, by God, she was a loose woman, and she wasn't going to cover her eyes for the pure shock of seeing it.

He was smiling. His face was in shadow, but she saw the gleam of white teeth, and then the lazy pleasure in his voice as he stretched, full of animal grace.

Imogen heard a little pant coming from her mouth. She snapped her mouth shut. She was standing naked in the center of a room, with a naked man before her. She pushed out one hip and put a hand on it.

"I don't wish to keep my eyes shut," she said, her tone accepting no question.

He nodded.

"We are not a married couple who has to hide under the sheets."

"May I beg you to return to bed, oh woman who is not my wife?"

She walked forward one step and stopped. "I have a few questions first." He laughed at that, a husky, full-of-enjoyment laugh that made her feel even more confident.

"What am I supposed to do when you're on top of me?"

"Whatever you like." He said it promptly enough, but it wasn't the answer Imogen wanted.

"How would a bird of paradise behave?"

"An old-fashioned term for one as sophisticated as you," he said, sounding amused. "A bird of paradise would do precisely what would make her partner the happiest: and that would likely include a lively show of enthusiasm."

"Oh." It wasn't very specific.

"But perhaps you're more interested in a baggage than a bawd? Because a bold girl, a naughty girl, a woman who was in this bed for the pleasure not the profit, would make absolutely certain that she did precisely what she wanted to in order to increase her own pleasure."

"Oh…"

"She wouldn't give a damn about her partner. Let the man take care of himself."

Imogen smiled a little. Didn't she say that she wanted to have an affair in order to learn more about men? And yet it seemed that perhaps what she really meant was that she wanted to learn about herself.

"Well, you baggage," came his voice, slow syrup deep and sweet. "I'm thinking that Lady Maitland has just decided to turn herself from a lady to something quite different."

She could barely see him, just a gleam of all that rumpled brown hair. She climbed back onto the bed with a little swagger about her. In one swift movement, he pulled her against his body.

"I'm not a lady," she gasped.

It was like throwing a piece of paper into a fire, how quickly her body flamed at the sense of him, tight against her back, her bottom round against him. And his hands were on her breasts…

She let her head fall back against his shoulder, and he bent to her mouth, tasting the bad girl, baggage taste of her, Lady Maitland dancing into wildness.

"Do you like that?" he said, low and demanding, his hands on her breasts, doing things, touching her hard and then soothing, one then the other until her body was shaking.

"Yes," she said, and her voice didn't come out with bad girl sauce, but all slumberous and sleepy.

And then one hand started to slide its way down her stomach, and Imogen didn't even try to stop her body from moving. She was moving to a ballet that only she could hear, a seductive little twist that was saying touch me, touch me.

But he didn't seem to hear her because one hand kept tormenting her breast, and the other was kneading her stomach and then creeping to the soft skin of her thighs, and rubbing little teasing circles but not—

She arched her hips.

"Please!" It came out a growl.

"Imogen…" It came out like a sigh, a man sigh, the kind a man makes when he has his hands full of exactly what he likes best and is taking his time with it.

But Imogen sounded as if she were growing crotchety, so Rafe let his fingers walk over her skin, as soft as satin, and he couldn't wait to taste it there, and then into a tangle of the sweetest hair he'd ever had under his fingertips. She was whimpering now, and it sounded good. Better than the sound of whiskey pouring into a glass. Better than anything he'd ever heard in his life. So he gave it to her.

Because he was always going to give her exactly what she wanted, even if she didn't know that yet.

He took her mouth at the same moment that his fingers dipped deep, caught her cry in his mouth and he didn't let her down easy either. He kept her there, pulled back against his body so that he was tucked right into the soft curve of her ass, working magic with his hands, taking her mouth in the same wet, hot flurry that was driving her higher, and higher—

She was twisting against his hands now, and he turned her closer to him, tucked her face against his chest and set out to remind the world before he started drinking, Rafe Jourdain was a man who never let a woman go unpleasured.

To be frank, Imogen wasn't presenting a challenge.

It wasn't more than a moment before she cried out so loudly that he was pretty sure they heard her down in the sitting room. He'd have to take her out the back door because there wasn't a bit of face paint on her and anyone who saw a woman with a face this beautiful would never forget her.

She cried out against his chest, and a surge of pride took his mind off his own problems. To wit, was he going to sleep with Imogen before wedlock?

He eased her down, and didn't have to worry about whether she'd take a good look at his face because those eyes were closed now, and she looked as if she were just trying to get a good breath.

"First time?" he asked, kissing her shoulder. This was fun, but he was feeling like a man who hadn't been inside a woman in years. Not that it would have made any difference, because he wasn't stupid enough to think that there was any other woman in the world for him.