He wanted Grace Denton to love him.
Bloody hell!
He flew out of the chair, tried to shake away the last thought. As her hand gripped the handle, he rushed over to her, trapped her against the door with his body. Determined to convince himself his lustful loins had concocted the last thought, he focused on persuading her to stay.
"Forgive me," he whispered against her hair.
In her rush to leave, it had only just occurred to him that she had left her pelisse and bonnet on the table.
She would have had to come back for them. If only he had waited. It would have saved him the humiliation of sounding so desperate.
"Why?" she muttered.
"I spoke out of turn. I did not mean it in the way you think." He inhaled the sweet smell of orange blossom; he let the heat from her body warm him. If he had his way, he'd bunch her dress up to her waist and take her there and then. Hard and quick against the door — to prove it would be the same as it had always been. To prove he would feel nothing.
But as she turned to face him, the pain in her eyes tore at his soul.
Her gaze drifted over his face and dropped to the opening of his shirt. "Why do I feel like hitting you and kissing you both at the same time?"
Relief flashed through him.
"You may hit me if you wish. As long as you kiss me with the same fiery passion."
What happened next would remain with him until the moment he took his last breath. As they stared into each other's eyes, he felt her hands move up under his shirt, felt tentative fingers brush over the muscles in his abdomen. When they moved up to his chest, he could hear the hitch in his breath, could feel desire burn through his body until he was ready to combust.
Take it slow, be gentle.
The words echoed through the chambers of his mind in a bid to calm the ravaging fire tearing through his veins.
Damn it. At this rate, he'd struggle to last more than a minute.
He had always felt an urgent need to rush, to race towards the only moment when he felt completely free, to experience the intense euphoria that accompanied his release.
For the first time in his life, he would need to relinquish control, and he stepped back from her, felt the loss of her warm hands instantly.
"Grace … I want you more than I have ever wanted anything." He sounded nothing like himself. He was panting, struggling with his words, could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears. "But I do not want to rush you."
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. "I've decided to do things differently. I've decided to kiss you first and hit you later."
Her blue eyes were softer, revealing the depth of her desire.
"I need you to set the pace," he said. "Do what you will with me, without fear."
Panic flashed in her eyes. "I'm not good at this." She waved her hand back and forth between them. "I won't know how to please you."
They stood there like virgins on their wedding night: fully clothed, shaking, neither one knowing what the hell to do next. As the gentleman, he would have to do something.
"Trust me," he said pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it to the floor. "Anything you do to me will be more than pleasing."
His words seemed to give her confidence, but her gaze drifted down his chest, past the faint red marks that were still healing, to the branding mark of the Devil.
"What's that?" she said reaching out to run her fingers around the circle of barbed twine. "Is it a holy symbol?"
He almost laughed out loud. She was referring to the cross in the centre, of course. "It is a branding mark. I shall tell you more about it later, but for now, can we focus on the removal of your garments."
His distraction technique worked, and her eyes widened in response. "What? All of them?"
"Of course. Grace, I want to bathe in the splendour of your naked body. I want to feel the warmth of your skin pressed against mine."