The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

Relief washed over him with such force it was a wonder he remained able to stand. But then he looked into her eyes, her pale lashes still wet with tears, and he was gone. He took her face in his hands and brought her to him, kissing her with all the urgency of a man who has faced the precipice and survived.

“I love you,” he said roughly, his words kisses in themselves. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

“I never thought I would hear you say that.”

“I love you.”

“Again,” he ordered.

“I love you.”

He brought her hands to his mouth. “I worship you.”

“Is this a contest?”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m going to worship you right now.”

“Right . . . now?” She glanced at the window. The afternoon sun was streaming in, relentlessly bright and cheerful.

“I’ve waited far too long,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms. “And so have you.”

Iris let out a little squeal of surprise as he dropped her onto the bed. It was only a few inches to the mattress, but it was enough to give her a little bounce, and enough for him to take the moment to cover her body with his, reveling in the primitive sensation of having her pinned beneath him.

She was at his mercy.

She was his to love.

“I adore you,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. He kissed the delicate hollow over her collarbone, reveling in her soft mewl of pleasure. His fingers found the lacy edge of her bodice. “I have dreamed of this.”

“So have I,” she said tremulously, gasping when she heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing cursorily at the small tear at the bodice of her frock.

“No you’re not.”

“I’m not,” he agreed cheerfully, taking the edge of the fabric between his teeth.

“Richard!” she nearly shrieked.

He looked up. God, he was like a dog with a bone, and he didn’t care one bit.

Her lips quivered with unspent laughter. “Don’t make it worse.”

He grinned wolfishly, tugging gently with his teeth. “Like this?”

“Stop!”

He released the fabric and used his hands to push her dress down, revealing one perfect breast. “Like this?”

Her only answer was the quickening of her breath.

“Or like this?” he asked huskily, taking her into his mouth.

Iris let out a keening cry, and her hands sank into his hair.

“Definitely like this,” he murmured, teasing her with his tongue.

“Why do I feel that . . . ?” she whispered helplessly.

He looked up in bemusement and echoed, “Why do you feel it?”

Her flush spread from her cheeks to her neck and down. “Why do I feel it . . . down . . . there?”

Maybe he was a rogue. Maybe he was just very very wicked, but he could only lick his lips and whisper, “Where?”

She shuddered with desire, but did not speak.

He slid her slipper from her foot. “Here?”

She shook her head.

His hand slid up her slender calf to the inside of her knee. “Here?”

“No.”

He smiled to himself. She was enjoying their game, too. “What about”—he brought his fingers higher, resting them at the soft crease between her hip and her thigh—“here?”

She swallowed, and her voice was barely audible when she whispered, “Almost.”

He moved closer to his goal, trailing the tips of his fingers through the soft thatch covering her womanhood. He wanted to look at her again, see the impossibly blond curls in light of day, but that would have to wait. He was too busy watching her face as he slid his finger inside her.

“Richard,” she gasped.

He groaned. She was so wet and ready for him. But she was tiny, and as they both well knew, still a virgin. He would have to make love to her with great care, moving slowly and with a gentleness at complete odds with the raging fire burning within.

“What you do to me,” he whispered, taking a moment to regain at least a portion of his composure.

She smiled up at him, and there was something so sunny and open in her expression . . . He felt it echo across his own face until he was grinning like a loon, almost laughing with the sheer joy of her company.

“Richard?” she said, her grin right there in her voice.

“I’m just so happy.” He sat up to yank his shirt over his head. “I can’t help it.”

She touched his face, her small hand light and delicate along the line of his jaw.

“Stand up,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Stand up.” He eased himself off the bed, then tugged at her hand until she followed suit.

“What are you doing?”

“I believe,” he said, sliding her dress down over her hips, “I’m disrobing you.”

Her eyes fell to the front of his breeches.

“Oh, I’ll get to that,” he promised. “But first . . .” He found the delicate ties to her chemise and pulled, catching his breath when it fell to the floor in a cloud of white silk. She was still wearing her stockings, but he wasn’t sure he could wait long enough to divest her of those, and at any rate, her hands were at his waist, urgently slipping the buttons undone.

“You’re too slow,” she muttered, practically yanking his breeches down.

The threads of his desire stretched impossibly taut.

“I’m trying to be gentle.”

“I don’t want you to be gentle.”