But then he slid his touch to the other side, and the sweet torture began all over again. She was afraid her knees would buckle with it, so she clung tight to his neck, weaving her fingers into his hair.
He was driving all thoughts from her head, leaving her with the intellect of a pudding. She was just a quivering mound of sensation, capped by that red, ripe berry of a nipple that he rolled beneath his thumb. Again and again and again.
Yes.
Just when she thought she’d dissolve into a puddle at his boots, his hands slid to her waist. With a low, thrilling growl, he pressed her against the stone wall, pinning her there with his body.
Izzy was breathless. Trapped. This should have made her wild to get free. But she loved the feeling, bracketed by such intoxicating strength. The stones at her back had stood in place for centuries, and the man before her had survived unknown trials. She could melt with fear or bliss, and they would hold her together—this wall, this man.
He groaned, clutching her hips. A hard, heated something pressed against her middle.
Her eyes flew open. Her knowledge of lovemaking was rather like a sieve. She caught the general idea, even if detail and nuance slipped through. Still, she understood this much. That a man’s organ grew . . . emboldened . . . when he wished to make love.
This firm, long ridge of heat against her belly . . .
It meant he wanted her. Magnificently.
He pushed her shawl from her shoulders. It fell to the ground. He slid his fingers along her collarbone, dipping under the edge of her sleeve and slipping it down her bare shoulder.
“You stopped counting,” he whispered.
“How can I count when you’re—” She gasped as he scooped her breast straight out of her stays. Cool air rushed over her exposed nipple. “How can I count when you’re doing that?”
“It’s easy. I’ll help.” He bent his head, trailing kisses down her chest until he reached her bared breast. His tongue flickered over her nipple. “Thirty-one.” Another lick. “Thirty-two.” Lick. “Thirty-three.”
The alternating heat of his mouth and the coolness of the air . . . She must have gooseflesh everywhere, including the soles of her feet. If he’d continued on in such a manner, Izzy might have incinerated before she reached the count of forty-five.
But he didn’t continue. Instead, he drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled hard.
After that, numbers had no meaning.
How many counts were in forever? That’s how long she wanted this to last. His tongue made lazy, delicious circles around her nipple, driving her mindless with pleasure. Oh, he was good at this. Very good indeed.
Then he sank to his knees, sending one hand to delve under her skirts.
When he grasped her leg, Izzy panicked.
She clutched at his shoulders, holding him off. “Ninety-nine, one hundred.”
He paused, one hand frozen in the act of rucking up her petticoats and the other encircling her ankle.
“You said everywhere,” he reminded her, in a low, wicked voice.
“I did say everywhere.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. He was giving her the chance to refuse, and everything in her upbringing screamed at her to take it.
But she only had this one life. And so far, in this one life, she had only had this one man show the least bit of interest in tossing her petticoats to her waist.
This could be her one and only chance.
It was just a bit of touching, she told herself. Harmless. It wasn’t as though he could deflower her here, with a dozen handmaidens hiding nearby.
“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.
Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord. “No.”
He muttered something that sounded like, “Thank God.” He gathered her skirts in one hand and hiked them to her waist with a single, expert motion.
Izzy reclined against the wall and stretched her arms overhead, feeling wanton and daring. As he ran his hands over her stockinged calf and up her thigh, she let her legs fall just slightly apart.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Open for me. Just like that. Lovely, lovely.”