He wanted to ruin more than the linen.

He brushed the night rail down her arms until it pooled at her knees, leaving her pale and naked in the candlelight. The too-dim candlelight. He wanted to see every inch of her . . . to watch the way her pulse raced at his touch, the way she quivered as he stroked the insides of her thighs, the way she clenched around him as he entered her.

As he claimed her.

He eased her back onto the fur, aching at the way she sighed as her back rubbed against the soft mink, as she learned the sheer decadence of skin against fur. He leaned over her, claiming her mouth until her hands were tangled in his hair, and she was pressing up against him. Only then did he lift his lips from hers and whisper, “I’m going to make love to you on this fur. You’re going to feel it against every inch of you. And the pleasure I give you will be more than you’ve ever imagined. You will cry my name as it comes.”

He left her then, removing his clothes, carefully arranging them in a neat pile on a chair nearby before returning to the bed to find that she had covered herself, one hand across her br**sts, the other pressed to the triangle of curls that hid her most private parts. He stretched out on his side next to her, one hand propping up his head, the other smoothing over the soft swell of her thigh, up over the curve of her hip, across her rounded stomach. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her breath coming in harsh little bursts, and Bourne could not help himself. He leaned down, licking the curve of one ear, nibbling at the lobe before asking, “Never hide from me.”

She shook her head then, blue eyes wide. “I can’t. I can’t just . . . lie here. Bare.”

He nipped her earlobe again. “I didn’t say anything about just lying there, darling.” He lifted the hand that was covering her br**sts and slipped one finger into his mouth, licking the pad delicately before scraping it gently between his teeth.

“Oh . . .” She sighed, her gaze rapt on his lips. “You’re very good at that.”

He slowly extracted the finger and leaned down to kiss her, long and lush. “It’s not the only thing I am good at.”

Her eyelids flickered at the erotic promise in the words, and she said, softly, “I imagine you have had much more practice than I have.”

It did not matter that he had been with other women in that moment. All he wanted was to learn Penelope. To be the one to show her pleasure. To be the one to teach her to take it for herself. “Show me where you want me,” he whispered.

She blushed, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “I couldn’t.”

He returned her finger to his mouth, sucking carefully until her blue eyes opened, finding him, ethereal in the candlelight. She watched the movement of his lips, and the moment was so intense, he thought he might spend there and then. “Show me. Say, ‘Please, Bourne,’ and show me.”

Courage flared in her eyes then, and he watched with keen pleasure as that finger, the one he’d made love to, trailed along her breast, circling the puckered, straining tip of it. He swiped the back of one hand across his lips as he watched the movement, as she tempted him beyond belief.

“Please . . .” She trailed off.

He lifted his head. “Please, who?”

“Please, Bourne.” And he wanted to reward her for saying his name—his and no one else’s. He leaned down, suckling her gently as her finger moved to her other breast and she exhaled on a long, shuddering, “Yes . . .”

His hand stroked over her stomach, lower, lower still before he removed it and nipped at the soft skin on the underside of her breast. “Don’t stop now, darling.”

She didn’t, her finger wandering over the soft skin of her rounded stomach, into the curls that hid that magnificent place between her thighs. He watched, encouraging her with whispered guidance as she explored for herself, as she tested her own knowledge, her own skill, until he thought he might die if he was not inside her.

He pressed a long, lingering kiss on the swell of her belly, then on her extended wrist, the hitch in her breath at the touch a reward in itself. He whispered his question to her skin. “What do you feel here?” One finger slid over the back of her hand, lingered at her knuckles. When she did not reply, he looked up to meet her gaze, reading the embarrassment there.

She shook her head, her words barely audible. “I can’t.”

He met her fingers in silken heat, and said, “I can.” He pressed one finger into her, curling deep, and she gasped at the sensation. “You’re wet, darling . . . wet and ready for me. For me. No one else.”

“Michael,” she whispered his given name, and the pleasure of the simple moment was nearly unbearable. With a shy, uncertain smile, she spread her thighs and welcomed him with such trust that he could hardly bear it. He moved against her, the smooth head of him cradled against the velvet opening of her body and hovering there, resting his weight on his arms, looking down at her face, a mix of relaxation and pleasure and bewilderment, and he could not stop himself from kissing her, his tongue stroking slickly against hers, before pulling back. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, pausing there on the precipice of what he knew would be a remarkable moment . . . easing against her gently, just barely pushing inside before pulling out.

He thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

Her eyes eased shut, and he whispered, “Open your eyes. Watch me. I want you to see me.” When she did as she was told, he rocked into her smoothly, as gently as possible. She sucked in a short breath, pain flooding her gaze. He stopped, not wanting to hurt her. He leaned down, kissed her once—deeply—to regain her attention. “Are you all right?”

She smiled, and he recognized the strain there. “I am fine!”

He shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his voice. “Liar.” He reached down to where she was so small and tight—marvelously tight—around the thickness of him. He found the hard, straining nub at the core of her and rubbed a slow circle there, watching as her eyes narrowed with pleasure. He continued the movement as he slid into her, slow and deep until she held all of him.

He stilled, aching to move against her. “Now?” She took a deep breath, and he sank deeper, surprising them both. He put his forehead to hers. “Tell me it’s all right. Tell me I can move.”

His innocent little wife slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and whispered, “Please, Michael.”

And he could not resist the little plea. He took her lips with a wicked kiss, a growl rolling deep as he moved carefully, slowly pulling out until he was nearly gone from her, then rocking back into her gently, over and over, his thumb working against her, ensuring her pleasure even as he wondered if he would be able to hold his at bay.

“Michael,” she whispered, and he met her gaze, worried that he might be hurting her. He stilled.

She arched her back. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop moving. You were right . . .” Her eyes drifted closed, and she gave a moan of pleasure as he sank into her with one long stroke. He thought he might lose control at the sound of that moan, low and beautiful, at the back of her throat, but he did not stop.

She shook her head, her hands running over his shoulders and down his back, finally coming to rest on his bu**ocks, clasping in time to his movements, to the stroke of his thumb. “Michael!”