Then his tongue stroked and swirled intimately. She released a sigh of pleasure as her back arched and her hips jerked. She felt as though her body was the world and he was traveling across it, sampling every aspect. She wanted to do the same to him. Would he think her bold or wanton?

Did it matter? Did anything matter when he was causing her body to sing? Oh, she felt as though she were an operatic song, rising in crescendo. Her breathing became harsh and rapid. Her breasts tightened, her stomach grew taut. His mouth and fingers were creating sensations more vivid than what she’d experienced on his sofa. Where was her selfish duke who cared only about his own pleasures? Was he enjoying this as much as she?

Then the questions dissipated as the pleasure spiraled…

“Oh, God, you should stop now,” she rasped, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

He laughed, his breath tickling her, before he returned to where he’d been. She wanted to weep, she wanted to laugh…the cataclysm slammed into her and she was screaming, screaming for him to stop, for him to go on, screaming his name as pleasure shot through her.

When she came back into herself, she was trembling and he was licking his way up her body until he reached her mouth and kissed her hungrily, so hungrily, as though he could taste what she’d just experienced.

He brushed his lips over her cheek, nibbled on her ear. “I love the sounds you make.”

He said it as though her screaming were a wonderful thing. He moved until he could look into her eyes, and she saw, in his, absolute joy, as though he were pleased with what he’d just given her. Dew glistened on his throat and shoulders. She skimmed her hands up his back and felt the tenseness in his muscles.

“This isn’t…all,” she panted.

“No, but it will be if that’s all you want.”

Studying him, she tried to make sense of his words. He would grant her pleasure and forego his own yet again? The words he’d spoken in the library so long ago took on new meaning. He’d asked to be her lover. To give with no expectation of ever receiving?

She shook her head. “I want everything. I want you.”

A slow, triumphant smile flashed across his face. “Then you shall have me.”

He shifted his weight, leaned toward the bedside table. She heard the scraping of a drawer being opened. He pulled something out—

A condom, she realized.

It was an odd moment to be disappointed, yet she understood the wisdom of it. She even appreciated his effort to protect her from scandal, but she couldn’t deny that she had a sudden desire to bring his child into the world.

She watched in fascination as he covered himself. Their eyes met as he rose above her and began to very slowly ease his body into hers. There was a tightness but no discomfort, a sensation of pleasure unfurling as he went deeper and deeper. This satisfaction, this possessiveness, was what it was to want to have a man share his body. He groaned low as he stilled. With heavy lidded eyes he grinned at her. “No pain?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good, because I want to hear you screaming my name again—but I want it to be from pleasure, not agony.”

“Again?”

His grin grew. “Again.”

She was replete, had thought she’d be able to do little more than run her hands over him as he rocked against her, but his movements awakened something deep within her. The surprise of it had her gasping. He increased his rhythm, the power of his thrusts, until the bed was banging against the wall and she was holding onto him, digging her fingers into his buttocks, feeling the strength, the power…

His movements contained a wildness. He was uncivilized as he carried her to new heights. She did scream his name again.

Then he was growling hers through clenched teeth, his head thrown back, his body arching and thrusting, trembling and jerking.

Collapsing, he buried his face into the curve of her shoulder. She heard his harsh breathing, felt the tremors cascading through him, was aware of her own body’s quivering. Each time was more than the last. She wondered if a person could expire from too much pleasure.

Relishing the weight of his body on hers, she lightly trailed her fingers up and down his back.

“Tickles,” he muttered.

Naughtily, she skimmed her fingers along his sides. He jerked upright.

“You are a witch. Wait here.”

As though she had a choice. She would have laughed, but she had no energy. He rolled off her and padded into what she assumed was the dressing room. He returned with a towel and gently wiped the dew from her body. Then he climbed into bed and brought the covers up over them.

Lying within the curve of his arm, she listened to the steady pounding of his heart. When his breathing evened out, she lifted her head slightly and gazed down on his face. His hair was disheveled. In sleep, he had fewer lines of worry. She felt the tears sting her eyes as she realized she’d made a dreadful mistake in coming here.

She feared she’d fallen in love with the Duke of Greystone.

Frannie didn’t know what time it was when she awoke, lying on her stomach, sprawled over his bed, barely opening her eyes. What she did know was that he was no longer in bed with her. She felt his absence without even looking. Was he finished with her then?

“Don’t move.”

She opened her eyes fully. He was sitting in a chair near the bed, one leg crossed over the other in such a way to provide support for his sketch pad.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Drawing you.”