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A man in this sort of extremity can usually think of something. He shaped the round fullness of her lovely bottom in his hands and lifted her slightly, pulled her toward the end of his bed, and then returned to her side. He wasn’t ready to bypass the feast and go for dessert. His hand trailed up her legs, slipped between, and now he wasn’t so sure that he could stand up anyway. His blood was pounding through his veins. Telling him to stand up and bury himself between those gorgeous legs, over and over until they both cried for mercy.

He had a mouth on her breast, and a hand between her legs, his breath was like fire in his chest, and his loins were clamoring for attention, and yet . . . and yet. A niggling worry had entered his mind. She wasn’t herself, not his imperious, lusty Esme, the Esme who walked over to a sofa wearing only a French corset and then gave him a look that brought him to his knees.

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She wasn’t the same Esme who told him where to place his hands, and taught him how to move and how to touch, and then, by touching him, taught him how to beg. She wasn’t watching their bodies together with that frank enjoyment she showed last time. She had her eyes closed, and even though her breath was catching in her throat, and her body moved urgently under his touch, as if it longed for him, she wasn’t doing much more than trailing her hands over his chest.

He hovered over her, uncertain for a moment what to do. Then he rolled to his side, propped his head on his elbow, and waited for her to open her eyes. After a startled moment, she did. She looked up blindly at the ceiling, and then over to the side where he lay. He smiled, the lazy smile of a hunting animal.

“Sebastian?” He was enormously pleased to hear a rasp in her voice.

“I need to know your pleasure, O Nymph,” he said gravely. She blinked in a puzzled sort of way.

“I live for your pleasure.” His voice was dark with suggestion, his eyes heavy-lidded and just a glimmer of a smile around his lips. “To hear is to obey.”

Esme smiled and rose up on her elbow, but as she did so she felt the heavy weight of her breast shift and felt another flash of embarrassment.

And yet he obviously wasn’t undesirous. The sweep of his great male body lay like a tiger’s next to her. Her eyes roamed along those strong legs, caught at his thighs. God almighty, she’d forgotten that about Sebastian.

“You may touch, Nymph,” he said, and there was something more urgent about his voice this time. “I am your slave. My body is yours.” The words hung on the night air. She reached out. It seemed almost sacrilege, to pair a body as beautiful as his with hers.

But she reached out anyway, and he jumped when she 244 Eloisa

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touched him. She ran her fingers over his nipples, and he made a low growling noise in his throat. Ran her hand down his flat stomach, and she heard the breath catch in his chest. Curled her hand around him . . . hot and smooth and male. He was watching her, looking at her body, and she tried not to let it bother her.

“You are more beautiful than you were last summer.” His hand delicately ran up her leg. His fingers played between her legs, teasingly danced in her curves. Slowly she moved her hand, an unspoken thank-you. His eyes closed in torment, lashes black against his cheek.

“Tell me more,” she commanded.

His eyes opened. “You must have seen the changes in your breasts, Esme.” In his eyes she saw the truth of it. To a man, the generosity of her chest didn’t raise a query about flimsy bodices. It was cause for celebration. His eyes turned dusky blue as he watched creamy flesh swell around his fingers.

She arched her back, and a hoarse noise came from his throat. His fingers closed around the deep crimson of her nipples, and she moaned.

“More,” she demanded.

“I need a better perspective,” he said, rolling swiftly off the bed and standing at the end.

Looking at him, she felt a surge of her old siren power. Lazily she drew up one leg, and trailed her fingers down her thigh. Her skin felt satiny smooth . . . perfection. His eyes were black with hunger now.

“Well?” she prompted, letting her leg fall open just slightly.

“May I touch you, O Nymph?” His voice was thick.

“I think not.” She trailed her fingers closer to the curls at the juncture of her legs, to the place that ached for him. He disobeyed her, reached out and curved his hands Fool for Love

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around her plump, firm bottom, pulled her a little closer to the end of the bed. “Don’t tell me you’ll lose these curves, Esme,” he said hoarsely, his fingers burning into her flesh. She filed away the fact that men didn’t think a plump round bottom was a bad thing. Even though it would look awful in a high-waisted gown. He didn’t seem to care. She let her leg slip a little further to the side as a present. He seemed to be shaking.

Her fingers touched herself. “Some curves never change—”

she whispered.

But strong hands pushed her legs apart, and a golden head of curls replaced her hand. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe, she was only a body in flames.