He laughed harshly at the words. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“You’re so smooth,” she said, stroking his length, marveling at the feel of him. “So hard.” He closed his eyes as she touched him, and she watched his face, enjoying the play of pleasure across it.

She rubbed one thumb firmly across the tip, and he gasped, his eyes opening to slits. “Do that again.”

She did, and he pulled her to him to kiss her long and deep as she continued her exploration, his hands on hers, showing her how to move, where to linger, how much pressure to exert. His head tilted back, and his breath came in short, pained spurts. “Is this all right?”

He groaned at the question. “It’s perfect. I never want you to stop.” She was not interested in stopping. She loved watching him take pleasure. Finally, he pulled her away from him, the movement rough. “No more. Not before I’m inside you again.” The words sent a blush across her cheeks, and he laughed, low and lovely. “Does the fact that I want to be inside you embarrass you, beautiful?”

She shook her head. “The fact that I want you to be inside of me embarrasses me. Ladies don’t think such things.”

He kissed her roughly. “I never want you to silence your salacious thoughts. In fact, I want to hear every single one of them. I want to make them all come true.”

His fingers were moving firmly, doing wonderful things between her thighs, and she was gasping. “Michael. More.”

“More what, beautiful?” The tips of his fingers slid against the place she wanted him, a tease more than a touch. “More here?”

She gasped at the sensation and he moved away before she repeated his name, hearing the pleading in her tone. “Or perhaps more here?” One long finger slid deep, and she moaned at the sensation.

“Everywhere.”

“What a greedy, greedy woman I’ve married.” He teased, kissing her, licking deep, holding her still as he explored her mouth, all the time, his fingers moving in wicked little circles, just barely touching her. He raised a brow, and a second finger joined the first on a slow, long slide of pleasure. “Here?”

“Yes,” she gasped; he was close.

“Here?” He moved.

Closer. She bit her lip. Closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“Here?”

So. Close.

She held perfectly still. Not wanting him to stop.

“I love touching you here, Penelope,” he whispered, as his wicked hand explored. “I love discovering your shape, the feel of you, how wet you are for me.” Those fingers stroked once more, his whispers continuing. He twisted his hand, circled just so, threatening that marvelous place. “I love searching you.”

“Find it . . .” she whispered, unable to keep quiet.

“Find what, love?” He was all innocence. A wicked liar.

She met his gaze, feeling powerful. “You know what.”

“Let’s find it together.”

It was too much. She reached between them, grasping his hand and finally, finally, pushing him against her. She leaned over him, meeting his eyes, seeing the dark pleasure in him, the tightly leashed need. His fingers slid through her soft curls, parting her secret folds, twisting, circling, guided by her hand at his wrist. His thumb stroked long and slow in a wicked loop that made her question her own sanity.

He watched her as she struggled under the weight of the pleasure, teasing her with his words as much as his fingers. “There, love? Is that where it feels good?”

She was lost to his wicked, encouraging words and his wicked, encouraging fingers, and she whispered her response, moving against him. And then he was touching her just as she wanted, circling her perfectly, stroking with exactly the right amount of pressure. It was as though he knew her body better than she did. It was as though her body belonged to him.

And perhaps it did.

One of his beautiful long fingers slid deep inside of her, the heel of his palm rocking against a point of acute, almost unbearable pleasure, and she called out his name, rocking against his touch, knowing that something incredible was about to happen.

“Michael,” she whispered his name, wanting more. Wanting everything.

She was filled with desire and greed and she wanted him to never ever stop touching that most secret part of her. The part that now belonged to him.

“Wait for me,” he whispered, and he was widening her legs. He pressed closer to her, his fingers leaving her, replaced with the soft, broad tip of him, and as he rubbed against her, he gave a long sigh at her ear, before whispering, “God, Penelope . . . You’re like fire. Like the sun. And I can’t help but want you. I want to be inside you and never to leave. You’re my new vice, love . . . more dangerous than any I’ve ever had.”

He slid deeper, gritting his teeth as the tip of him settled against the entrance to her, where she felt so empty . . . where she needed him. She edged closer to him, loving the feel of him against her. Wanting him deeper.

He stilled. “Penelope.” She opened her eyes, meeting his serious black gaze. He leaned down and took her lips in a long, slow, promise-filled kiss. “I’m so sorry you ever felt dishonored, love . . . in this moment, there is nothing about you that I do not find utterly precious. Know that.”

Tears came to her eyes at the words, stunning and filled with truth.

She nodded. “I do.”

He would not release her gaze. “Do you? Do you see how much I value you? Do you feel it?” She nodded again, one tear spilling over, rolling down her cheek and dropping to the smooth skin of his shoulder. One of his hands slid to her cheek, thumb brushing away the salted track. “I adore you,” he whispered. “I wish I could be the man you deserve.”

She lifted her own hand to capture his at her cheek. “Michael . . . you can be that man.”

He closed his eyes at the words, pulling her to him for a deep, soul-shattering kiss before he reached between them to seek and find that wonderful place where pleasure seemed to pool deep within her. He stroked and circled for long minutes, over and over in perfect, nearly unbearable rhythm until she was pushing against him, and she could feel her pleasure cresting. He stilled before she could reach the edge, letting her come back to earth before pushing her once more and hesitating again. She cried out her frustration. “Michael . . .”

He kissed the side of her neck, whispered in her ear. “Once more. Once more, and I’ll let you take it. I’ll let you take me.”

This time, when she reached the edge, just as she was about to tip over, he slid deep into her in one long, smooth stroke, stretching her. Filling her. Gloriously. And she was lost, over the precipice, safe in his arms as they rocked together and she cried his name and she begged for more, and he gave it to her over and over until she could not breathe and could not speak and could do nothing but collapse in his arms.

He held her for an age, his hands stroking along her back, the movement soft and generous and patient.

She would never stop loving him.

Not for the immense pleasure he’d given her but for the almost unbearable softness he offered her now. For the way he stroked her gently and whispered her name as though he had all the time in the world, while he remained seated to the hilt in her, hard and unsatisfied. He had waited to take his own pleasure, wanting to be certain that she’d had hers first.