But she could not help herself.
This was her moment. Her one moment to hold bliss in her hands. And it would have to last a lifetime.
Emboldened by the fire within her, she pressed her hands roughly to his cheeks, pulling his mouth against hers for a torrid kiss. She had no idea what she was doing—she was sure there must be rules to all this, but she did not care. She just wanted to kiss him. She couldn’t stop herself.
One of his hands moved to her hips, burning through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Then it stole around to her bottom, squeezing and cupping, and there was no more space between them. She felt herself sliding down, and then they were on the bed, and she was on her back, his body pressed agai
nst hers, the heat and the weight of it exquisitely male.
She felt like a woman.
She felt like a goddess.
She felt like she could wrap herself around him and never let go.
“Gregory,” she whispered, finding her voice as she twined her fingers in his hair.
He stilled, and she knew he was waiting for her to say more.
“I love you,” she said, because it was true, and because she needed something to be true. Tomorrow he would hate her. Tomorrow she would betray him, but in this, at least, she would not lie.
“I want you,” she said, when he lifted his head to gaze into her eyes. He stared at her long and hard, and she knew that he was giving her one last chance to back out.
“I want you,” she said again, because she wanted him beyond words. She wanted him to kiss her, to take her, and to forget that she was not whispering words of love.
“Lu—”
She placed a finger to his mouth. And she whispered, “I want to be yours.” And then she added, “Tonight.”
His body shuddered, his breath moving audibly over his lips. He groaned something, maybe her name, and then his mouth met hers in a kiss that gave and took and burned and consumed until Lucy could not help but move underneath him. Her hands slid to his neck, then inside his coat, her fingers desperately seeking heat and skin. With a roughly mumbled curse, he rose up, still straddling her, and yanked off the coat and cravat.
She stared at him with wide eyes. He was removing his shirt, not slowly or with finesse, but with a frantic speed that underscored his desire.
He was not in control. She might not be in control, but neither was he. He was as much a slave to this fire as she was.
He tossed his shirt aside, and she gasped at the sight of him, the light sprinkling of hair across his chest, the muscles that sculpted and stretched under his skin.
He was beautiful. She hadn’t realized a man could be beautiful, but it was the only word that could possibly describe him. She lifted one hand and gingerly placed it against his skin. His blood leaped and pulsed beneath, and she nearly pulled away.
“No,” he said, covering her hand with his own. He wrapped his fingers around hers and then took her to his heart.
He looked into her eyes.
She could not look away.
And then he was back, his body hard and hot against hers, his hands everywhere and his lips everywhere else. And her nightgown— It no longer seemed to be covering quite so much of her. It was up against her thighs, then pooled around her waist. He was touching her—not there, but close. Skimming along her belly, scorching her skin.
“Gregory,” she gasped, because somehow his fingers had found her breast.
“Oh, Lucy,” he groaned, cupping her, squeezing, tickling the tip, and—
Oh, dear God. How was it possible that she felt it there?
Her hips arched and bucked, and she needed to be closer. She needed something she couldn’t quite identify, something that would fill her, complete her.
He was tugging at her nightgown now, and it slipped over her head, leaving her scandalously bare. One of her hands instinctively rose to cover her, but he grabbed her wrist and held it against his own chest. He was straddling her, sitting upright, staring down at her as if . . . as if . . .
As if she were beautiful.