He waited to see what she would do.

What she would say.

Given her obsession with books, he’d known immediately what he wanted to get her as a wedding gift, but something of the devil had seized him in the choice of it.

The book had been published nearly three decades before, too salacious for the author to even affix a false name to it. West had only seen one other copy, a much-tattered and snickered-over version that was handed down through the hallways of Harrow like a rite of passage. The bookseller had extracted it from a secret shelf beneath a desk and then handed it over with the hushed authority of someone delivering an opium pipe.

Of course, it had been purchased before she’d so prudishly questioned him about his sexual exploits. Before he’d realized she might have qualms about their wedding night. Surely now was when she would burst into a spate of tears, to see the reading preferences of the degenerate she had married.

But once again, she surprised him.

“Should I read it . . . now?” she asked, brushing the remnants of tears from her eyes.

West felt a smile begin to spread across his face. He began to unbutton his waistcoat, anticipation making his fingers feel clumsy. “Out loud, I should think.”

As he shrugged out of his braces, she settled her shoulders against his pillow. “Scenes in the Harem of an Eastern Potentate,” she began, then hesitated, her eyes widening. “Faithfully and vividly depicting in a series of letters from a young and beautiful English lady to her friend in England the full particulars of her ravishment and of her complete abandonment to all the salacious tastes of the Turks.” A vivid flush stained her cheeks, spreading downward toward her décolletage. “This sounds . . . ah . . . interesting.”

“Quite,” he chuckled, pulling off his shoes and socks.

“Should I read on?”

“As you wish.”

She eyed his progress warily, but nodded. “Dearest Sylvia . . . We arrived here early this morning after a most melancholy journey. Time alone can remove the painful impressions which the appearance of poor Henry created as we parted.” The gaze she leveled at him then was nearly reproachful. “This doesn’t sound nearly as interesting as before.”

“Oh, poor Henry is not the hero of this tale.” West lowered himself onto the bed, leaving his shirt and trousers in place for the moment, then propped himself up on one elbow. “It starts slowly,” he admitted, lifting his hand to begin exploring the damnable mystery of the fastenings of her bodice, “but trust me, it gets much better.”

She turned her attention back to the pages and West took advantage of her distraction to begin to slide free the brass eyes hidden beneath the brown wool, each inch of progress an agonizing triumph. He had a set path in mind: get her undressed while she was distracted, and then kiss her until she forgot her fear.

But as her voice settled into the story, it became difficult to concentrate on her seduction.

Because he was the one being seduced.

God, but she had the loveliest voice. He could nearly imagine that she was the one captured by the fearsome Turk, the way her breathing hitched at key parts, the way her lip quivered in anticipation. The temptation to hurry made his hands curl to fists, but he forced himself to go slowly. He had but one chance to introduce Mary to the pleasures of a wedding bed. He was determined to get something right, for once in his life.

By the time the narrative began to shift into something more interesting, he had gotten her skirts off and unlaced her corset—which was every bit as plain and utilitarian as he had once feared. As he slid the last of the laces free, his hands hesitated over the dilemma of her chemise.

How to remove it without interrupting such a sweet, sinful oration?

“Nature,” she breathed, hardly noticing his snagged progress, so engrossed was she now in the unfolding tale, “had become aroused and assisted his lascivious proceedings, conveying his kisses, brutal as they were, to the inmost recesses of my heart.”

Abandoning the idea of removing it, West lowered his head, tracing his tongue across her chemise until the fabric grew damp and he could see the dark temptation of her nipple beneath. God, but she had perfect breasts, small and round and shaped for his tongue.

He blew across them, his thumb caressing the pert tip.

A small hitch of pleasured surprise escaped her lips—though whether from his touch or from the direction the story had suddenly gone, it was difficult to be sure. “I felt his hand rapidly divide my thighs,” she went on, her voice growing hoarse. “And quickly one of his fingers penetrated that place which, God knows, no male hand had ever before touched.” Her voice trailed away, and he knew she was remembering how he had touched her last night.

West reached out and lifted the book from her hands. “That’s enough for now, I think. Perhaps we might continue reading later.” Much later. There were parts of this book not for the faint of heart. In fact, later passages contained lots of plundering and tearing asunder of virgins, including one memorable bit with a specially designed couch that fastened a lover’s arms immobile and lifted her bum high in the air, readied to receive . . .

West drew a deep breath as he placed the book on the bedside table. He could not—would not—think of such things. At least . . . not yet. But who knew how adventurous his new wife might yet prove to be?

He turned back, his mouth going dry at the sight of her. She was close to naked and propped on his bed—the only woman to ever have graced his coverlet, dressed or otherwise. The small bit of text she’d read out loud had unmoored him. He wanted to hear her voice say his name in that same hoarse quiver, feel the heat of her body close against his cock.

It occurred to him that he probably ought to kiss her, now that she was no longer using those delectable lips for reading. He stretched out a hand toward her coiled hair and began to pull out pin after pin, until that thick, fragrant warmth spilled down into his hands and draped across her slim shoulders like a wave of temptation.

And then—then, she looked at him, almost shyly, and lifted her arms.

He growled his approval and skimmed the lingering bit of cotton over her head, then fell upon her bared breasts, pressing kisses across their rosy surface, drowning in the simple taste of her. He knew a surge of relief to hear the small sob of a sound she made as his mouth closed over her nipple, felt her hands flutter about his ears, not stopping him. In fact, urging him on.

Lust roared through him to realize she was every bit as aroused as he was.

Slowly, he cautioned himself.

But then she placed her hands against his face, and pulled him to her to press her lips against his, no longer waiting quietly. And just like that, his good intentions were ripped free of the promise of control he’d made to himself, and his senses spun in a new direction where slow, steady seductions had no place.

Mary gasped as his mouth finally met hers, her blood stirred to eager acceptance by the flavor of the erotic pages. A groan escaped him as her tongue tangled with his, and she felt a curl of possession to know that in spite of his very vast experience in the matter, she was the one he wanted in this moment. The contact of his body against her bare skin was searing, the gentle scrape of his clothing too much. Not enough.

Anything and everything in between.

She arched against him, wanting something she couldn’t even name, but she knew a moment’s confusion as he pulled away, panting.

Had he changed his mind?

But no . . . he was fumbling at his wrists. “Bloody . . . frigging . . . cufflinks . . .”

She stifled a giggle that her very experienced husband could be stymied by something so simple, then helped tug his shirttails free and up and over his head. Only then did she pause, lifting her hand to press it against the startling mat of blond hair scattered across this chest. She breathed in, a bit overwhelmed by it all, then lowered her hand, exploring.

It seemed the books she had read only skimmed the surface of it all. Not one of the books she had read had ever described the complex thrill of running one’s hand over a flat, ridged abdomen and feeling the muscles contract against her touch.

Or the way her own stomach would quiver in the exploration of another’s skin.

She aimed higher, tracing a faint circular scar she saw on his left shoulder. It was no bigger than a ha’penny, but the ruined surface hinted at some violence in his past. She felt a sudden chill to see it so close to his heart. She slid her palm against the healed whorl of skin. “You’ve been shot at some point. What happened?”

“A tale for another time.”

She opened her mouth, intending to ask more, but he pressed his palm against hers and then guided her palm lower, down past the waistband of his trousers. She sucked in a surprised breath as her fingers curved slowly around the wool-covered length of him.

Oh, good heavens. He’d teased her about the size of his body, and while she had no notion of comparison save a few drawings in an old anatomy text, he certainly felt impressive, swelling to attention beneath her palm. As she contemplated what lurked beneath, he pushed the wool down over his hips, kicking his trousers and small clothes free, and she gasped as he spilled into her hands. She swallowed to realize that this was what would bludgeon its way through her virginity. “I don’t think—” she began, only to be silenced by another searing kiss.

He loomed over her, pressing her down into the mattress, that concerning part of him pushing rudely against her hip. “Don’t think, Mary,” he murmured against her mouth. “Feel.”

“But logically—” she started, only to find her objection silenced in the depths of another scalding kiss. His hands swept down her arms, working some kind of sinful magic, making her forget to breathe, much less question how they would fit.

“Focus on the sensations, not the facts.” He licked his way up her neck, making her gasp and arch against the bedclothes. “It defies whatever bit of logic you want to throw at it.”

He moved further afield to blaze a trail down the length of her body, his tongue swirling a heady promise. She gasped as he rounded the curve of one hip, and felt the slide of his hands beneath her derriere. And then he was settling between her quivering thighs, his breath warm and dangerous. “West . . .” she gasped, suddenly anticipating what he was about.

The tenor of his kisses shifted to something unimaginable, and then he was well and truly proving himself a scoundrel, placing his mouth against the seam of her, his tongue swirling hot circles of need. Her hips arched upward from the mattress, aided by the press of his hands, and she could do nothing but turn herself over to the maelstrom he commanded.

Good heavens, how the man could kiss. And in unexpected places, but in wonderful ways. It wreaked havoc on her very sanity, the way he made her feel, the things he knew to do.

She’d never imagined lovemaking was so . . . feral.

There was no other word for it. The books she had read implied a refined exchange, elegant and polite, sometimes coercive. But this was raw and sweaty and altogether too much. The pleasure building in her—in her mind, in her limbs, in her womb—had nothing of a civilized nature to it. “West!” she cried again, sensing that moment of crisis bearing down on her, and not yet ready to give herself over to it, for then surely she would die too soon. But it seemed dying was her due, because she skidded into it, hung on the edge, and then plunged into sensation. She broke apart, ten thousand pieces, each of them gasping his name.

Still breathing hard, she slumped back against the bedclothes, stunned.

He had just done something unthinkable to her.

And yet . . . when her breathing quieted and coherent thought resumed, she had a notion she wasn’t going to be able to stop thinking about it.

With boneless fingers, she lifted him toward her. Brought him back to her lips for a more proper sort of kiss, not even caring that his mouth had just been on her in other more stunning places. “That was . . . that is . . .” She sighed against his mouth, abandoning the effort to articulate her thoughts, because she wasn’t even sure she understood them. “Inventive.”

He chuckled, shifting his lips to press a kiss to her temple. “Well, I’ve been called many things, wife, but that is a new one.”

She blushed. “I just never imagined . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized he was looming over her, holding his necktie in his hands. A shiver coursed through her. Did he mean to tie her up? Did she mean to want him to tie her up?

But no . . . he was handing the necktie to her.

“What are you doing?” she asked in confusion.

“Proving my inventiveness knows no bounds.” He flashed her a grin. “I would promise to behave without it, but we both know I’m not to be trusted.”

West settled down onto the mattress and held out his wrists.

It was the only thing he could think of that might prolong the moment, slow down the mad pace they were setting. The taste of her was still warm on his tongue, the sight of her, disheveled and shattered against his sheets, a beautiful memory he wanted to repeat.

He wanted to go further, faster with her. He very nearly frightened himself with how much he wanted her. She tested his restraint at every turn, and he was beginning to doubt his capacity to be as careful as she needed this first crucial time.

He halfway expected her to refuse. This was a woman who had once fainted on him, after all. But it was also a woman who had bravely borne a kiss from a brothel owner. A woman who had just read aloud from a salacious book, lingering over the filthy parts.

Who knew what she would decide to do in this moment?

She lifted the necktie. Pulled it through her fingers.

Looped the necktie loosely around his proffered wrists.

He thought she might leave it at that. Or, at best, give him a half-hearted sort of tie, something he would have to pretend held him fast. The necktie might prove nothing more than a symbolic restraint in the end, but it would remind him of the need to go slowly. But she surprised him by suddenly moving, twisting the ends with deft hands. Before he could blink, he found his wrists bound in a perfect, immovable Highwayman’s Hitch.

“Good Christ.” He stared at his hands. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“The Seaman’s Manual.” She tested the strength of the knot, then lifted his hands over his head to secure them to a bed-post.

“You mean . . . you read more than novels and newspaper accounts?” He stared at her bare, rounded breasts, which were currently hovering a tantalizing inch or so from his mouth, shifting as she worked. “I thought you favored gothic novels.”

“I’ve read every book in my brother’s library.” She leaned back, regarding him with what might be characterized as a smug smile. “The Seaman’s Manual had excellent illustrations.”

West tugged against his restraints. Realized he was well and truly tied. And that he, a former officer in the Royal British Navy who ought to know how to tie a knot with the best of them, had no idea how to undo the damage.

“Well then,” he said slowly, wondering just what sort of derangement he’d just invited upon himself. Clearly, one ought to not tease bookish women. “I . . . ah . . . hope you haven’t read anything about castration techniques.”

“Oh, English Agriculture, by Sir James Caird, also had a series of excellent illustrations.” She raised a dark brow. “I’ve read it twice, so you might want to behave.”

He nodded, praying she was teasing. “Yes, ma’am.”

For a moment, she stared down at him, her gaze roaming with a shy intensity. “So, this is my chance to . . . touch you?”

“Yes.” It scarcely sounded like his own voice uttering the hoarse word.

She ran the backs of her fingers along his ribcage, pulling a coarse, involuntary shiver from him. “However I want?”

“I haven’t a way to stop you,” he pointed out. And even if he had, even if she had tied him up with nothing more complicated than a half-loop, he wouldn’t have. Because she was rising up over him like a goddess, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, her breasts peeking out through the dark strands. She was glorious. Uncertain. Brave.

His.

He held his breath as her fingers moved lower, across the terrain of his lower abdomen. In spite of the faint edge of worry that he was incapable of escape, his cock was fully engaged in whatever game she was playing. It jerked, throbbing against his skin, wanting her touch. Her fingers curled over it, squeezing, testing, making him hiss out through his teeth. “Just have a care with how far you tease me, Mary,” he groaned hoarsely. “I’m apt to spill in your hands.”

She hesitated, her touch lightening against his skin to something akin to agony. “I hadn’t imagined I might . . . be in control of this.”

“No?” he asked, trying in vain to pull away from her endless, innocent touch, his cockstand so painful as to cause him to grit his teeth. “You can be in control whenever you want,” he panted. “Just promise to untie me when you are done.”

Her smile turned saucy. “You probably should have extracted that promise before you let me tie you up.” She leaned over to press a kiss against his upper thigh, too close to the sun for comfort. Her tongue, so small and perfect, reached out to lave him in small circles, but her nerve seemed to fail her at the thought of going higher.

No matter. They had a lifetime to discover such things.

She ran her questing hands down his limbs, each curious touch of her fingers making him want to leap off the sheets. He’d started this game, but it was clear now that she was the one playing it. Her mouth pressed here and there, her tongue swirling hot against his skin. She lingered in places he’d never imagined as all that interesting: the side of one knee, the lower curve of his calf muscle. She seemed to find each spot on him fascinating, a thing to unravel. He was panting beneath her ministrations, writhing against the restraints he’d so stupidly offered. But he’d committed to this course, and so he bore it: breathlessly, if not bravely.

Finally, she kissed her way back up to land on his mouth. He welcomed her there with an almost-anguished groan. “Have you seen enough yet?” he murmured against her lips, praying that now, perhaps, she might untie him.

She drew back, then reached over to fumble at the bedside table, returning with one of the French letters. “Can you guide me?”

He stilled. His body wanted to sink into her, skin against skin, no hint of ugly beneath. He’d meant what he had said: she, alone was his future, and in a perfect world, they would have no need to ever use the French letters again. But he’d made the promise she could use them as long as she wanted, and he was determined to be a man who kept his word.

“Not with my hands. Not unless you untie me.” His wrists were already straining against her very skilled knot. He exhaled, cursing his inventiveness. How could he help her enjoy this properly if he couldn’t use his hands?

“With your words, then,” she suggested, blushing deeply.

“Slide the open part over the tip,” he instructed, his voice a hoarse caricature of its usual confident self. She complied, and he arched in vain against the fumbling perfection of her inexperienced touch. “Now, slide it down and tie the ribbon near the base.” As she began to fix the ends, he added, “Not too tight.” He forced a laugh, though he was half-terrified of what sort of knot she might be capable of in this instant. “This isn’t ship’s rigging.”

“Like this?”

He nodded. As her nails scraped pleasurably against him, he shuddered, sure he was going to embarrass himself.

“What comes next?”

He unclenched his jaw, willing his body to stay the course until she’d done whatever it was she had in mind. “Whatever you wish, Mouse. Just promise you will be gentle with me.”

She had a notion of it all, the mechanics of what went where.

But Mary’s understanding of the act—framed by the hurried notations in the books she had read—was of a technical variety.

Now that she was here, on the cusp of discovery, with West tied up in the bed and clothing strewn here and about, she found herself uncertain of what to do next.

She raised herself up, positioning herself over the covered tip of him. Slowly, she joined their bodies together. Settled lower, letting her weight pull her down, then stopped as she felt a bit of pain. She tensed. Retreated. Tried once more, only to draw in a sharp breath as the pressure became too much. She’d imagined it might pinch the first time, of course, but this was something more. Though, surely they were done now.

No need to drag it on.

She climbed off and lay down beside him, resting her head upon his chest. She felt a dull ache in places that just minutes before had felt such an astonishing sort of pleasure. It was nearly disappointing to realize there hadn’t been more to it than that. “Well, I suppose that wasn’t so bad,” she breathed.

There was a moment of silence. She felt an odd, fluttering movement beneath her cheek, as if he was trying not to laugh. “Mary.” He pulled against the knot binding his hands. “If you are . . . er . . . finished, do you think you might untie me now?”

“Oh.” She blushed, pulling the ends of the hitch and releasing his hands. “I am sorry. I did not mean to leave it on so long.”

But the moment his hands were free, she found herself flipped onto her back, and he was looming over her, his handsome face lowering toward her. He kissed her, his hands framing her face, lifting her to meet the demands of his mouth.

“Now it’s my turn,” he told her, his lips moving against hers. “And I intend to banish the words ‘not so bad’ from your otherwise impressive vocabulary.” His hands swept down her body, as if they’d spent an eternity planning the course they would take when finally granted permission to roam. They lingered on her breasts, kneading them to heady awareness, then moved lower, two fingers slipping inside her. They moved gently, in and out, a building promise of something yet to come. And all the while he kissed her, his tongue sweeping inside her in nearly the same rhythm.

“God, Mary. You are so ready for me,” he murmured against her lips.

“We are going to do it again?” she asked, tensing in anticipation of the pain.

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “We’ve not even started.” He shifted. She felt him push against her, less pinch now, and more pleasure. A surprised squeak escaped her lips as he seated himself deeply inside her, far more deeply than her first fumbled attempt. She lay still, stunned by the completeness of their joining, her body adjusting to accommodate the invasion. All the while, his mouth still played against hers, a welcome distraction to whatever was happening down there.

Finally, he began to move, the slide of his body inside hers a strange, wonderful thing. Whatever discomfort there had been faded. Or rather, she soon forgot it existed. Every movement was an epiphany, every inch of her skin consumed by this fever. She felt that coiling inside her, a quickening in her abdomen that fanned outward like a flame. More intense than before, and more centered inside her. And all the while, with every thrust, every gasp, every murmured word of encouragement, his mouth wreaked tender havoc against her lips.

Oh, the stupid, stupid simplicity of books. She wanted to cry, she’d been so wrong about this. Last night, West had told her the right friction could create the most delicious kind of pleasure, but she’d thought his words hyperbole, the rhetoric of a practiced scoundrel to talk her into wanting more than she’d been willing to give.

But his explanation in the dark coach last night hadn’t even come close to what they were doing, what she was feeling now. The slide of his body over hers, the burning beneath her skin . . . she closed her eyes, lost in the cacophony of sensations. She’d never imagined the intensity of the emotion, how she’d feel connected to him, from the inside out. It was a joining of souls, and she was falling in a direction she’d never anticipated.

Too soon, she found herself tossed upward, once again, to that place he’d taken her before, where the world receded in one large rush and she was suspended in time, breaking apart, reformed as something beautiful. He thrust once again inside her, gasping his own release into her mouth, his big body going tense above her.

She realized, dimly, that he’d found his own crisis, as brilliant as her own.

And that contrary to her initial thoughts on the topic, the stick she’d been given with this man wasn’t short at all.