“I’m aware.”
“Hmm.”
With gentle hands, he gathered her hair over her shoulder. Then he opened the first of her four buttons.
“One,” he said.
His hair tickled her neck, his breath burned her spine, his lips caressed her skin. Everything, she reminded herself. She must remember everything. The way he touched her, his heat and his scent, the way her body clamored for more.
Another button popped open. “Two.”
As his lips slid down her spine, his hands glided up her sides. He cupped her breasts again, teased her nipples. She gasped and arched, then his hands were gone.
Another button. “Three.”
Her breasts wanted his touch again. Her skin wanted his kisses.
“Four.”
Another breath, another kiss. Then his heat was gone, and she had only the tree under her hands and her gown gaping open and every inch of her body pulsing, burning, yearning for his touch. He surrounded her again, his hands pleasuring her breasts. Every touch sent thrilling messages express to her quim.
“Do you like that?” he murmured from behind her.
“Yes,” she managed.
“Better than syllabub?”
“Um. I don’t know.”
With a rough laugh, he released her and she spun to face him. He looked hungry and fierce, and fully intent on her. He was smiling, a promising, mischievous smile, for her, for their game, for their secret, wicked chase, just the two of them, alone in this enchanted wood.
Laughing, she turned again to run toward the lake, but lust had weakened her limbs and she stumbled. She feared she might fall, but no— He was there. Easily, he lifted her. She released a cry of exhilaration, for she was soaring through the air, flying free yet anchored in his arms, as he carried her to the grass by the water’s edge. Around them, the weeping willows tumbled in a curtain, letting in dapples of sunlight and the sound of lapping waves, keeping out the world.
Her feet were clumsy, but his hands were nimble: They skimmed over her shoulders, sliding her gown over her body until the fabric pooled at her feet. He lifted her again and then somehow, she was kneeling on the welcoming grass, her hips bracketed by his knees, like she was a queen and he was her throne, a queen wearing nothing but her shift, queen of a million unruly sensations.
His arms encircled her, as he pressed his palms onto her thighs, searing her through the thin cotton of her shift. She leaned back into him, her hands finding his powerful thighs, by her side. Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back against his shoulder.
“Oh my,” she breathed.
His mouth was at her ear. “Everywhere.”
The throbbing in her quim must be like a call, calling to his hands, for he slid them relentlessly up her thighs, pushing her chemise before him. He did not pause, and she lifted her hips so that he could slide the fabric up her body, and when he murmured, “Raise your arms,” she complied.
Thea opened her eyes to see her chemise land on the grass in front of them, followed by his shirt. His bare arms circled her again, and she pressed her naked back to his naked chest, his heat melding with hers. She looked down at her body, exposed for the first time to a man, to the air. Rafe’s weathered hands were stark against the creaminess of her skin, one hand on her thigh, the other on her belly, and both sliding upward, to where all their kisses pooled and bounced impatiently beneath her skin.
Once more, she let her eyes close, dropped her head against his shoulder, entrusted herself to him. He cupped one breast, assured and demanding and delicious, and then pressed his fingers firmly between her legs.
Pleasure spiraled through her. A high startled cry flew from her mouth. She dug her fingers into his thighs and drew ragged breaths. Not for a heartbeat did those fingers pause in their magic, as they coaxed sweet, hot sensations into wild cartwheels under her skin.
When he spoke, his breath was hot and his voice was rough.
“There is only one person in my world right now, and that is you. And only one thing, and that one thing is bringing you such pleasure, through your body and all the way to your soul, that you will never forget my touch.”
“Never,” she whispered in agreement.
She would remember every detail, remember how she much she craved him, his heat, his voice, his fingers doing whatever they were doing. How pleasure pooled and swelled in this relentless, transcendent torment. She felt her own wetness, caught her own scent, breathed him in, and let out the breath on a moan.
“Well?” His voice vibrated through her, and she tried to focus on what he was doing but her mind could hold onto nothing but the sensations shimmering through her like sunlight on the waves. “Better than syllabub?”
“Um.” She fought for breath, caught a straggling wit. “I don’t know.”