"Hmm." He shifted under her hands, and registered the warm weight of her across his thighs. She was straddling him, examining him — that last was enough to mentally jolt him to full awareness, to remind him who "she" was.
He just managed to quash the impulse to open his eyes; his mouth was already dry — he wasn't sure he could handle what he might see. He fought to keep his expression slack, even though he doubted she was looking at his face. Keeping his breathing even was harder, especially when she started to caress, to fondle, to explore.
Abruptly, her hands left him. A bereft heartbeat later, they returned, palms flat to his skin, sliding slowly upward from his waist, up over his chest to curl over his shoulders. Even better, her body followed, and she lay atop him.
He had to look then. Cracking his lids open the veriest fraction, he looked out from beneath his lashes. She was watching, waiting — blue eyes the color of summer skies, wide, warm, locked on his. And she smiled.
The quality of that smile very nearly did for him; he could feel his body hardening with self-imposed restraint. After the wildness, the unrestrained ardor of last night, a little gentleness might be wise. Flipping her over and sheathing himself inside her without further ado would be unlikely to gain him any points.
And would, if she'd already guessed the truth, be ridiculously revealing. He was supposed to be calmly in control.
There was an awareness in her eyes — one he was sure hadn't been there before. When her lids lowered, and her gaze fell to his lips, he had to wonder if she was about to tell him she'd seen through him completely and demand he now dance to her tune.
He braced himself, rapidly assembling arguments to back his denial — she made a soft purr in her throat and stretched up, set her lips to his.
In a soft, clinging, persuasive kiss — a subtle, gentle plea.
"More." She whispered the word against his lips, then took them again, brushed her tongue over them, gently entered when he parted them to tangle with his tongue — then gave her mouth readily when he returned the pleasure.
"There's more, much more — and you know it all." She angled her head and kissed him again. Her breasts, warm, firm feminine mounds, pressed to his upper chest; he felt her nipples hardening. His hands had risen instinctively to trace the long line of her spine, to curve about her bottom.
"I want you to teach me." She drew back with a last, loving kiss, giving a gentle tug to his lower lip.
His head was reeling; that other part of him she'd already tempted, now cradled between her thighs, was throbbing unmercifully.
He blinked, dazedly, into wide sultry siren's eyes. "You want me to teach you more?"
His voice was not his, slightly hoarse, raspy with the passion she'd already, very effectively, stirred to life.
"I want you to teach me" — she met his gaze boldly—"all you know."
The next fifty years might just be long enough, given he discovered things he hadn't known every time he was with her. Her — a woman who kept proving to be so much more than he'd ever guessed.
She seemed to take his stunned silence as assent; her lashes lowered, veiling her eyes. A very feminine smile curved her lips. "You could teach me more now."
The invitation was so shockingly blatant it took his breath away. Locked his lungs, his whole body, with the urge to react.
She lifted her lids, met his gaze. Raised her brows. "If you feel up to it."
He couldn't help it — he laughed, relaxing on the pillows. She grinned, and went to slide off him.
His arms didn't move; he held her where she was. He caught the flash of awareness that showed briefly in her eyes. Realized why she'd made him laugh — to ease the tension that had hardened his body, and made his strength — the promise of it, the threat of it — so much more overt. He was a great deal stronger than she was.
He noted her reaction for future reference; noted the need to go carefully until he knew which side of the coin she preferred. He didn't, yet, know her well enough to guess, but after last night…
Her tongue passed over her lower lip; her eyes, bright, eager yet unsure, returned to his. "Can we do it like this?"
He smiled, slowly. "Oh, yes."
She raised her brows, her own lips curving. "How, then? Show me."
Locking his eyes on hers, he ran his hands down from her waist, over her hips, then down to close over the backs of her thighs. He tugged them up, drew her knees to his sides. Leaving them there, he clamped his hands on her hips, and eased her down his torso, fraction by fraction, until he — and she — felt the marrying touch of their bodies.
He'd assumed she'd already be aroused; she didn't disappoint him. The entrance to her body was already slick, swollen soft; he guided her a fraction lower, until he could nudge into the wet heat, then he stopped.
"Put your hands on my chest and gradually sit up."
She obeyed. The look on her face as she realized what would happen — what naturally did happen — was priceless. Halfway up, astride, half-impaled, she looked down at him, eyes widening as she realized she could control the speed at which she took him in. That she would be in control.