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“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.
Megs’s eyes widened.
He tilted his head down, looking her in the eye. “Now.”
Her lips parted, swollen and oversensitive, and she touched them gently with her tongue, exploring. “Will you help me?”
“I’ll undo any hooks or laces you can’t reach.”
She bowed her head then, fumbling with her bodice. It was no small thing for a lady to undress. Usually she had the help of Daniels and two maids. It would take time. It would not be graceful.
And in the end she would be exposed.
But he stood before her, only inches away, and demanded it, so she complied.
First came the bodice, unhooked and pulled apart. When she’d gotten it off, she moved to put it on a chair or table, but he took it from her before she could and tossed it on the floor nearby.
She bit her lip and didn’t say anything, merely working on the ties at her waist. Her skirts fell in a pool at her feet and she stepped from them, kicking them gently aside. She toed off her slippers and then bent to lift her chemise and roll down her stockings. He didn’t move and her head was nearly touching his thigh. The position made her gasp.
At least she thought it was the position.
She straightened, barefoot, and began on the horrible laces to her stays. They always tangled when she tried to undo them herself. Her fingers shook and she made a frustrated sound as the knot tightened. Godric seemed uninterested, breathing slow and deep in front of her. But then her eyes glanced down and she saw—
Well. He wasn’t entirely uninterested.
The laces finally loosened and she began to draw them through the eyelets, her chest expanding, her breasts falling free. She glanced up at him and held those crystalline eyes as she drew the stays over her head.
He didn’t react other than to glance down her body. She still wore the chemise.
His gaze rose to meet hers again. “Everything.”
She knew it would come down to this, knew he was determined to impress upon her that tonight was different from their previous nights. She would do it, no matter that her neck and face felt aflame, except the reason why she was doing it had become confused in all the heat and emotions. Because while she still wanted a baby—very, very much—there might be a more immediate want.
And he was standing right in front of her, waiting for her to finish stripping for him.
She reached for the hem of her chemise and threw it off before she could think, and then she just froze, standing there naked before him.
He took the final step that made their bodies meet—her nude nipples against the fine wool of his coat, for he was still entirely dressed. He flattened his palms over her shoulders before delicately running his fingers down to her breasts. He circled her fullness, trailing his fingers up to her nipples and running his blunt fingernails around the very edge where rose skin met pale.
She gasped, but before she could say anything, he bent in one swift move and picked her up as if she were as light as a feather, which she most definitely was not.
He placed her on the bed before she could fully understand the fact that he was carrying her. She lay there watching as he toed off his shoes and removed his coat and waistcoat. He doffed his wig and laid it on his dressing table, and then turned back to her. She expected him to continue disrobing, but instead he knelt on the bed, crawling until he was braced over her supine form, close but not actually touching her. He stared at her with severe gray eyes until she lifted a hand and touched the side of his face.
He closed his eyes, almost as if she’d pained him with her touch. “Say my name.”
She swallowed before she could make her tongue work. “Godric.”
His eyes opened and they no longer seemed quite as cold. “Megs.”
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers, brushing, once, twice, until his mouth settled on hers, demanding entrance. She let him in, teasing his tongue with hers, learning the taste of his mouth, the feel of his lips. He broke their kiss and stared at her once more, his eyes demanding something of her.
“Godric,” she said obediently.
And it seemed to appease him. He tongued his way down her throat, making her arch, making her wonder how very different he was from Roger. They’d met in trysts, Roger and she, and thus, perhaps by the very nature of their meetings, their joinings had been hurried—the flare of passion fast, nearly out of control, and over again much too quickly.
Godric, in contrast, seemed to enjoy simply exploring her. Taking his time as if he wanted to wring something from her. Something more than mere passion.
The thought made her uneasy.
