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She reached for his lapels, touched his shirtfront instead. It was his coat that he’d shed. A promising start. She wanted to strip him to the skin. She wanted to lick down to his bones. She scrabbled at buttons. He caught her wrists in his hand and lifted them over her head. With his other hand, he jerked down on her gown. Her breasts popped free. With a hiss, he pulled away by inches to stare. The raw need in his eyes shook something inside her.

“I’ve been fighting the urge to do that all night.” He ran his hand down from her clavicles, over the swell of her breasts. Her nipple peaked against his palm.

“I feared they’d spring free of their own accord.” She confessed it with a laughing moan, her spine lengthening as he raised her wrists higher. “The neckline goes to my navel.”

“Not yet.” His smile was wicked. He tugged the gown harder.

“Don’t tear!” She narrowed her eyes into a glare. “This gown is a work of art.”

“Quite right.” He didn’t sound chastened. But he sighed, dropped her wrists, and set himself to disassembly, unlacing, unhooking, uncasing her. Voluminous layers of silk piled higher and higher. Padding, wires. Springs.

“A work of art, and a feat of engineering,” he murmured, toeing aside her bustle. “Dressmakers should build our bridges.”

She giggled until he knelt to untie her garters, fingertips flicking her thighs. The giggle died in her throat. Her mind slowed, moved at the pace of his fingers as he rolled down her stocking. The world was simpler. It was simply sensation.

He slipped off her stocking and boot, stroked his thumb along the arch of her bare foot before he set it down on a cool gush of ribbons. When he did the same to the other foot, she wobbled and gripped his head to steady herself. His soft, thick hair tickled between her fingers. Tentatively, she shaped his skull, his temples, his jaw, then buried her hands in the cloth at his neck. With a thrill of triumph, she found the loose end of his cravat and laid his throat bare. She retreated a step with her prize, ruffles lapping her ankles.

Her retreat. It gave him a better view. She realized as the corner of his mouth tipped up. She was naked but for her drawers, and he was looking his fill.

“This artful gown,” he murmured, slithering its train in a lazy arc over the carpet, a silk rose in his fist. “It was a distraction.” He dropped the rose and reached out. He skimmed the backs of both hands down the curve of her belly.

“A disguise.” His knuckle dipped into her navel. “Your body.” His voice caught. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

“Your body is the marvel,” he said. He moved one knee forward, then the other, and his breath blew hot on her sternum. He put his lips to her breast. He sucked, hard, her nipple swelling against his tongue. The cravat slipped from her fingers. She moaned. The pressure of his mouth made her thighs tighten around the sweet ache at their apex. His hands closed on her hips, and he lifted her smoothly, lifted her up and back. She emitted a cry of wonderment, feet treading empty space. First her toes, then her heels came to rest on a pliant surface. She looked down at the small, round platform. A tufted leather ottoman.

Alan was smiling up at her.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was shaky. The ottoman was shaky. His face was shockingly close to the slit in her drawers.

“Nothing, unless you want it.” He seemed to be waiting for a sign, waiting for her assent to begin. But begin what? He remained on his knees. Weren’t their relevant bits a little too dispersed? Confusion bloomed.

“I’ve spent time in a village.” Her face prickled as she spoke. “Among cows. And sheep. Do you know rams are called tups? That’s how we get the verb.” She gulped air. “I’ve seen things in the farmyard. And in stereographs, the ones from France. People tup in all sorts of positions.”

He made an amused noise in his throat, too husky for a laugh. He didn’t look mocking but intrigued.

“They do indeed.” His drawl was ragged at the edges. “Human creativity is a wondrous thing.”

She adjusted her stance, inner thighs sliding together. “This position is more creative than I can fathom.”

“I’d say I invented it.” He grinned, skating his hand up the back of her leg. “But there’s nothing original about any aspect of the act of love. It’s all been done. For millennia. Every iteration. Every variation. And yet.” He palmed her buttocks. “Lovers continue to make it their own. I stood you on the ottoman because I want your quim here.” He leaned forward, hovered his mouth where her drawers split. She shivered at the puff of air. It seeped through the curls that hid her inner flesh.

He drew back, the focus in his eyes disconcerting. “If it pleases you.” Now his knuckles brushed those curls. At her gasp, he flattened his hand, pressed with his palm. The beating she felt there—it competed with her heart.

“Does it?” he asked.

“It pleases me.” The words emerged, nearly soundless. She heard his swift intake of breath, and he nodded, mouth compressing. He moved his palm in a slow circle. Her vision blurred. His face was a ferocious smear. Black slashes of brows, quicksilver gleam of predatory eyes. Sharp glitter of teeth.

“And this?” The question rasped. She heard a noise she didn’t recognize. She had made it. His arm braced her, pinned her in place. She bore down, felt herself slicken, swell. His fingers slid over that tensely budded part of her, a rhythmic motion, maddening. When she touched it, she sighed, throbbed, a tension building, then releasing, a mild wave. The feeling didn’t frenzy. Now she feared she’d burst. The sound gathering inside her was no gentle sigh. If he didn’t stop, she’d scream. If he did stop, she’d die.

“This?” he asked. He opened her, thumb rubbing. The pleasure pulsed. Her nod was a kind of collapse. Thank God her quivering legs had been absolved of responsibility, that she could trust him to hold her fast. His finger pushed inside, and another. He began to churn her. She shuddered, moaning. She was beyond herself, pressing back against the heat of his palm, rocking forward. He slid his hand free, and his hot mouth locked on what had become her center. Her whole being concentrated between her legs. She wanted more. She needed more. His fingers dug into her hips, his grip ruthless. She felt the bite of his nails. The pain—it snapped her. She cried aloud as the pleasure spilled over, whipped into peak after peak. Her body was falling or floating. And then he had her in his arms. The next thing she knew she was on her back in his bed, and his mouth was sipping hers, slow, delirious kisses. His hand was busy in her hair, loosening pins, disentangling the rosebud wreath, smoothing her snarled tresses over her shoulders. He was lulling her. He was signaling that they’d finished. It was over. He’d hold her now. She could drowse against him until morning.

Her body throbbed in protest. She was sated, God. But her nerves refused to sleep. Dawn would come, but it was night—their night. She moved to pull his shirt up from the waistband of his trousers. He came away from her mouth, rising onto an elbow, and stilled her hand.

“Better we stop here.”

“What about bliss?” She was still panting, and his eyes glinted.

“That wasn’t bliss?” he drawled. “Do let me try again.” His fingers caressed the skin between her breasts, trailed over her belly.