Page 46 of Winter's Waltz
His cockstand was instant.
Slowly, you dolt, he warned himself.
He nuzzled the hollow behind her ear. “I propose an even exchange, empress. For every garment you shed, I shall also remove one article of clothing.”
She shrugged her coat to the floor.
There was his lioness.
“Off,” she repeated, working on his own buttons.
“Impatient,” he said, smiling.
“Eager,” she corrected, refusing to allow him the last word, even in their lovemaking.
Had he imagined any different? Of course not. Gen Winter was a woman unlike any other, and that was what made her so bloody special.
Together, they removed his coat, and then it was time to work on cravats. Those knots proved more difficult to undo whilst kissing, resulting in some laughter, then more heated kisses when the knots were at last unraveled.
Her waistcoat was next. He could not resist taking her mouth again as his hands coasted over the swells of her breasts, barely kept confined by the garment. It was erotic as hell, her curves contained by masculine garb, and in a way he had never previously imagined or considered.
Soon, their waistcoats were both gone. She raked her nails over his chest, scoring his nipples, and he palmed her breasts through the cambric of her shirt. They were perfect weights in his hands. Soon, he would have them bare and the anticipation was stoking the fires of his desire into greater heights than before.
There were buttons at the neck, and he plucked them open with a haste that rendered his fingers clumsy. But he felt no embarrassment. Tonight, he was not the practiced seducer. He was merely a man making love to the most magnificent woman he had ever beheld.
Her fingers were similarly plagued as she worked on his shirt.
“You are trembling,” he noted against her mouth, reluctant to end their kiss. “Not with fear, I hope.”
“Never fear. Not with you.”
Had he thought he felt like the most powerful man in London before? Strike that. For now, it was the most powerful man in England. She made him feel like a king instead of a prodigal duke’s heir.
“Good.” He kissed the corner of her mouth.
The last of the three buttons on her shirt was undone. Reluctantly, he pried his mouth from hers, gazing down at her. Although her golden hair was still trapped in a chignon at her nape, the rest of her looked wild. Lips stained the same color as crushed cherries, full and swollen from his kisses. Eyes pools of blue fire, the obsidian discs of her pupils wide. Her pale throat was marked pink from where he had kissed, licked, and sucked.
Beautiful was not a word sufficient enough to describe her. Nor was breathtaking.
“You are staring,” she observed solemnly.
“I am savoring,” he countered.
“Savoring me?”
Did she not see herself? Did she not know how incredible she was?
He pressed his forehead to hers.
“You,” he affirmed.
“Charming rogue,” she said softly, without heat. “I like the way you make me feel.”
Her concession took him by surprise. This was yet another new side to her, one he had not imagined existed. He was heartened. And grateful. Humbled, too.
“Once more an even exchange, empress.” He rubbed his nose along hers. “I like the way you make me feel also.”
“You do?”
