She closed her eyes as his hands moved in concert, one at her breast, toying, tempting, there and the other between her thighs, stroking masterfully. The caresses went on for several long moments before Penelope sighed, relishing the feel of him against her, pressing herself back to fit as perfectly as possible to him. He rocked into her movements, hissing at her ear. “If you keep up with that, darling, you shan’t be able to watch them much longer.”
“I don’t want to watch them, anymore, Michael.”
“No?” The question was curious at her shoulder, where his teeth were scraping across her skin.
She shook her head, tilting to afford him better access. “No,” she confessed. “I want to watch you.” His fingers did something wonderful between her thighs, and she sighed. “Please.”
“Well,” he said, and she heard the teasing smile in the words. “Since you asked so nicely . . .”
He turned her to face him, his eyes flickering over the place where she still held the fabric of her dress to her chest. “Let go of the dress, Penelope,” he ordered, the words liquid smoke, and her grip tightened.
“What if—”
“No one can see you.”
“But . . .”
He shook his head. “You cannot imagine I would let anyone see you, my glorious darling. You can’t imagine I’d allow that and not murder them.”
The words were so possessive, she could not help the pleasure that coursed through her at them. No one had ever called her glorious. No one had ever seemed the least bit interested in possessing her.
But in this moment, Michael wanted her.
She watched him carefully for a long moment, loving the way his eyes begged her to bare herself to him, before she released her grip on the fabric, letting it drop to the floor, leaving her bare, save for her stockings, to the dim light of the room . . . and to her husband.
He went still, his eyes roaming over her body, finally settling on her face before he said, reverently, “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
He was at her feet, removing her boots and pantalets, leaving her in nothing but her stockings. He stroked up her legs along her stockings, lingering at the place where silk met skin. When she gasped at the sensation, he licked at the skin there. “I have a weakness for stockings, love. Smooth and silk, like the softest part of you.”
She blushed, not wanting to admit that she loved the feel of them against her skin, not wanting to tell him that since their wedding night, she’d savored the stroke of the satin along her legs, pretending that it was his touch.
“You like them, too, I see,” he teased, and she felt the curve of his lips against her thigh.
“I like you,” she whispered, one of her hands settling on the back of his head, her fingers stroking through his soft curls.
He stood at that, leaving her stockings on, kissing her, rough and wonderful. “You’re all perfect curves and soft skin,” one hand stroked up, palmed the underside of her breast, “so lovely and full.”
His words were destroying her sanity. They were more damaging than even his touch. She arched toward him, into his kiss, and he stole her breath and words and thought, his lips and tongue stroking along hers, promising more pleasure than she could possibly imagine. When he stopped the kiss, she sighed, forgetting her protest and watching as he stepped back, removed his clothes in quick, economical movements, and stood to face her, the light from the casino beyond the window turning him into a mosaic of color and texture, all long legs and corded muscle, lean hips and broad shoulders and . . .
No. She should not be looking at that.
It did not matter that she wanted to. That she was unbelievably curious.
Just one, quick look.
Oh, my.
Penelope went instantly shy, her hands moving to cover her nudity. “We cannot . . . I was not . . . This isn’t what I expected.”
He smiled then, a rare wolfish smile. “Are you nervous?”
She knew she should pretend not to be—he’d likely done this with a dozen other women. But, she was nervous. “A little.”
He lifted her, carrying her to a low chaise on one side of the room and settling her onto his lap for a deep, searching kiss that stole her breath, and her inhibitions. She licked his lower lip, sucking it gently, and he pulled back with a harsh breath.
Her eyes went wide.
“I’m sorry . . . the lip. Temple’s jabs have a tendency to linger.”
She pulled back, lifting one hand to smooth back his hair and search his face for additional wounds. “You shouldn’t let him hit you,” she whispered, pressing one soft kiss next to the wound.
“It was the only way to take my mind off the fact that I could not go home and take you to bed.” He drew one hand down her arm in a long, lush stroke. “You terrify me.” His lips twisted into a wry smile as his fingers stroked and teased at the soft skin of her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder.
“How is that possible?”
“I can’t take small tastes of you, love. I can only gorge on you. You’re irresistible.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his tongue coming out to lave the skin there. “You’re like the rattle of dice. The shuffle of cards. You call to me until I ache with desire for you.” The words were a whisper of breath at the base of her neck. “I could easily become addicted to you.”