His gaze flared, recognizing her bravado. Yet he shook his head. “Your pleasure first.” He walked them back to the bed, and guided her to drape beside him. As she lay on her back, he propped himself up on his side. He cupped the back of her head with one hand, and with the other, he dipped between her legs.
She arced as he caressed her, her legs flung wide, her hands buried in his hair. If she did not hold tight, she was certain she would float up and never stop. His touch was relentless, tender. He circled and rubbed at her pearl. Two of his fingers stroked her cleft, lightly sinking inside, testing only the opening. Everything inside her tightened in preparation.
“Leo, I—”
“Yes.”
It grew within her, a rising sensation that originated between her legs yet permeated every part of her. She craved it; she feared it.
“Give me your trust.” He continued to stroke her, drawing her forth. “As I give you mine.”
She saw the truth of this in his face, tight with need, yet open and unafraid. Him, only him.
The climax demolished her. And built her stronger. It filled her body with a pleasure that seemed too much to bear, yet she took it, took what it gave her, what Leo drew from her body. She could not even scream. Her mouth opened. No noise came out. Only a silent cry of release that was too intense for sound.
“Never,” she murmured when she could speak. “Never like that.”
A look of harsh triumph crossed his face. “Mine to give you. Everything else—gowns, money—those are only things. Anyone can have things. But this. This is more. This is ours.” He slowly sank a finger deep into her tight passage, and she gasped at the new sensation. It took her several breaths before her body eased, permitting him access.
When he added a second finger, stretching her, she winced and sucked in a breath.
He stopped immediately, his fingers still within her, but motionless.
She wanted to retreat, but would not permit herself to hide. “Keep going.” She lifted her hips. “I want everything.”
For a moment, he remained immobile. And then he grew sharper, darker as his gaze burned. His fingers left her, and he rose up to stand beside the bed, tearing at his garments as if they were on fire.
He stared at her as, layer by layer, he undressed. All his exquisite tailoring meant nothing, just an impediment. His coat, his waistcoat. He peeled off his stockings, revealing thickly muscled calves. It took him two attempts to undo the buttons fastening his breeches. When, at last, the buttons slipped free, he shoved his breeches down along with his smallclothes.
Anne could not look away from his erect penis. She had never before seen an aroused man, and the sight was far more compelling than any statue or painting. He was thick and slightly curved, with a gleaming, broad head.
His low chuckle brought her attention back up to his face. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You were a zephyr waiting to become a tempest.”
She was wry. “Another investment pays off.”
Yet he shook his head. “This isn’t business. We waited for a reason. So it could be more than cold commerce.”
“I am assuredly not cold.”
Leo grasped the hem of his shirt, the only article of clothing he still wore. Then hesitated, frowning.
Desire made her audacious. She knew what his body felt like beneath his clothing, and understood that it would rival even the sunrise for beauty. “Don’t be shy. Let me see you, too.”
“I have ... marks.”
“It does not matter.”
To her disappointment, he lowered his hands. “Not yet.” Then he knelt on the bed and lowered himself beside her. She would have voiced her complaint—that it did not matter to her if he had scars or any disfigurement, because to her, he would never be anything other than magnificent—but his kiss stole her words.
They wrapped around each other, and she discovered she loved the contrast of his muscular, hairy legs with her soft, smooth limbs. The burning heat of his body soaked into hers, even with his shirt between them, and as their mouths met and devoured, his erection pushed insistently toward her. He left slick trails on her belly. Leo rolled them over, positioning himself above her, then slid his penis between her folds, teasing without entering her.
It felt so strange, to have someone other than herself give her pleasure, conferring such personal demands to another. Yet it made sense, for if anyone could touch her so intimately, it must be Leo.
He touched her like this; pleasure built again, pushing away lingering traces of apprehension.
“Kiss me,” he said, a hoarse demand.
She arched up, her open mouth to his. At the same time, he thrust into her.
Pain and pleasure collided. She had no sense of which was which. They were the same. And, oh, he was thick within her, filling her. He was everywhere inside her. A moment’s panic. It was too much. She would be lost. He was too hard, too male, too everything.
Yet after that initial thrust, he was still, and Anne willed her eyes open to see him above her. His face contorted, torn between pleasure and anguish. He held himself back savagely as her body learned the feel of his. The only sounds in the chamber were the muted pops of the fire, and his harsh breathing.
She relaxed into the sensation, allowing herself to experience this newness, for it was exotic, his body within hers. Yet true and right. Fear ebbed. Pleasure took its place.
Tentative, Anne brought her legs up, and wrapped them around his. His eyes flew open, silver and bright. He groaned her name. In response, she curled her fingers into his shoulders, feeling the bunch and strain of muscle beneath the cambric.
“I want ...”
“Tell me,” he urged gravelly.
An experiment: She tilted her hips. He moved within her. Pleasure followed, streaking through her hotly. “More.”
“You can bear it.”
“Anything.”
He took her mouth, kissing her deeply. And his body began to move. Sliding forward, gliding back. She had imagined this moment many times—what it would be like to have a man inside her—and the truth far outpaced what she had envisioned. For the shadowy man of her imagination had no true will of his own, no real need. But Leo did. He had strength and hunger, entirely his own, and these she felt with every movement of his narrow hips.
She was not still, could not be passive. Her body had its own will. She met his thrusts, and pulled him tighter. Pain limned the edges of sensation; it swirled through her in a spiral of dark and light.
The world spun further, and she realized that Leo had actually turned over onto his back with her clasped against him, his body still deep inside hers. He sat up and edged backward, until he leaned against the carved headboard and Anne straddled him. The posture was altogether wicked, for it allowed her to see everything—him, his face harsh with need, the shirt clinging to his slick torso and arms. She saw herself, too, nude save for her garters and stockings.
He gripped her hips. “Look down.”
She did. What she saw made her gasp.
“That’s my cock.” His voice was no more than a snarl. “Mine. Inside you. Can you see that?”
“I ... can.”
“Watch.” He pulled back a little, and she saw inches of his ... cock ... sliding out of her. Then he surged forward, and she moaned to see him sink into her, disappearing all the way to the root. Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, she would never have believed she could contain his length, yet she saw and felt and knew.