Slowly, he bunched her skirts up. Even in the hot weather, she wore several layers of petticoats, but he pushed them aside to find her bloomers.

More shoving and tugging got his hand between her thighs and over the opening of her drawers. They both stilled when his fingers were a mere inch from her heat.

At his first stroke, she drew in a sharp breath that ripped him apart, so intense it was. He demanded nothing but to make her feel beautiful, safe, and happy. He gritted his teeth when he touched her softness. Wetness soaked his fingers as he stroked her as gently as his desire allowed him.

Tension coiled in his body, and he suppressed the urge to go faster, deeper. He watched her face; she breathed with her lips parted and her eyes half closed. She gripped his waistcoat as he drew circles with his thumb. A quiver went through her, and she muffled her scream in his chest. Little pulses hit his fingers.

He let her enjoy the moment fully and rest against his body. When her breathing returned to normal, he reluctantly withdrew his hand. He made a mess of covering her again, wrinkling her skirt and fastening the wrong hooks on her corset.

When he finished, she looked like someone who had dressed in the dark while drunk.

“You’ll have to take care of your clothes,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.

She laughed against his chest. “Gladly.”

If she let him, he would do everything to make her happy again.