She gasped, feeling his hot skin as he stroked over her hardened nipple. He spread his hand, trapping the tip between his first and second fingers. When he squeezed, she felt the sudden jolt between her thighs.

“Shhh,” he murmured, quieting the moan she’d made. “Let me.”

She looked and saw that he’d pulled her bodice down, exposing one nipple above her stays. He muttered something, working at the laces of her bodice, and then both breasts were exposed.

For a moment he merely stared down at her, her soft skin framed by his big, tanned hands, his long fingers playing with her nipples possessively.

“Sweet, so sweet,” he murmured. “Let me taste them.”

He looked at her, and his gaze was feverish, his green eyes gleaming like a demon. That was why she agreed—it must be why—because she could only nod at him.

And then his mouth was where no man had ever touched her. His tongue stroked across one naked nipple, wet and faintly rough at the same time. She had no idea she was so sensitive there. He took her flesh into his mouth—tenderly, reverently—and she jumped. He pulled strongly, the sensation so exquisitely sweet it verged on painful.

She looked down dazedly, watching his white wig against her breast. This was too intimate an act to be done in a carriage fully clothed. She wanted a private part of him, too, if only a little bit. She pushed aside his wig, pulling it off his head and throwing it to the seat. He never stopped his ministrations, only moved to the other nipple.

Under the wig, his hair was dark and thick, shorn short, almost like fur. She ran her hands over his scalp, flexing her fingers, feeling his hair, warm and surprisingly soft. She closed her eyes in bliss. He was pinching her first nipple between his thumb and finger as he suckled on her other breast. A fire was building at her center, hot and uncontrollable.

“Touch me,” he whispered against her breast.

“I… I am,” she answered.

She opened her eyes and saw him rub his cheek against her cherry-red nipple. She swallowed at the erotic sight, at the sweetly rough sensation of his unshaven cheek on her sensitive flesh. His eyes were bright and green, watching her, demanding something.

“Not there,” he said, and caught her hand, drawing it down between them. Her skirts concealed his lap, and he pulled her fingers underneath, fumbling with his other hand, until suddenly—startlingly—she touched naked flesh.

Her gaze flew to his.

His smile was rueful, yet strained. He looked upon her bare breasts, but what she held, naked, in her hand was hundreds of times more intimate.

“Do you feel me?” he rasped.

She licked her lips, staring into his face. “Yes.”

“Stroke me.” His eyes half closed. “Please.”

She flexed her fingers, exploring this foreign, hot flesh. It was so hard it didn’t seem humanly possible. Yet the skin was tenderly soft. She wrapped her hand about him, and his palm closed over hers, strong and unbearably familiar. He showed her how to slowly stroke up until she touched the wide, slick head. She caressed it, feeling the spongy flesh, the tiny indent at the very tip. He made a sound, almost of pain, and then he seized her hand and brought it down the thick stalk again. It was so much longer—so much bigger—than she’d ever dreamed.

“Please,” he moaned. “Please.”

He turned his head and licked across her nipple before gently closing his teeth over the tip. She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. He worried her nipple, then let it go to kiss it softly.

“Stroke me,” he gasped, and let her hand go.

She did, pulling up over that hard flesh, hidden beneath her skirts. That part of him that made him a man.

“Like this?” she whispered, low and intimate in the rocking carriage. Outside, London passed by. Inside she held a man’s penis in her palm.

“Yesss,” he hissed before tonguing her other nipple. “Exactly like that.”

She looked down and saw herself, displayed before him, a wanton feast, her nipples red and swollen, so sensitive his every touch made her moan. Her hand moved beneath her skirts, and she wondered at her own daring. Perhaps this was a dream, a wicked fantasy come to life in the middle of the day in her own carriage. She stroked a man’s bare cock—Reading’s bare cock—to bring him carnal pleasure. She watched his face, shining with sweat, the intent look he bent upon her nipples, and the breaths that made his great chest expand and contract. It occurred to her that she might never share a moment as intimate as this again with another human being.

His big hands were on her breasts, and he pinched both her nipples at once. She bit her lip at the pleasure-pain, a tear slipping down one cheek. This was real. This was something outside of everyday bland interactions and rote conversation. His mouth was on hers, open and wild, and his hips were thrusting, moving his cock in her hand in an animal rhythm. He squeezed her poor engorged nipples again, pulling at them at the same time. And she felt.

She felt alive.

She arched, pushing her breasts into his hands, sucking on his tongue, and feeling an unstoppable rush of pure, white pleasure through her body. And at the same time, as if in sympathy, the male flesh in her palm jerked and gushed hot liquid between her fingers. She pulsed as he pulsed, shuddered as he shuddered, and she didn’t want it to end.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was appalled and amazed at the same time.

Green eyes watched her face, lazy and satisfied, and very, very male. For a moment all was peaceful with the world.

And then she remembered. “Dear God. Thomas is to meet me at my house for luncheon.”

*      *      *

GRIFFIN’S BODY WAS filled with a warm lethargy, but Lady Hero’s words were a douse of icy water. He straightened and glanced out the window. Her house was in sight. He turned to her and for a moment was stunned anew. She lay across his lap, her breasts bared just past the tips of her delicious nipples, her pale cheeks flushed, her diamond eyes dazed by what they had just shared.

Dear God, indeed.

Hastily, he searched his coat pockets and found a handkerchief. He took her hand from beneath her skirts and began wiping his spill off of her fingers.

She snatched her hand away. “I… I can do that.”

He raised his eyebrows but let her take the handkerchief. He put himself to rights and watched as she finished scrubbing her fingers and then wrinkled her nose at the handkerchief.

“I’ll take that,” he said.

She nodded and fumbled with her bodice. “Please turn away.”

A sardonic reply was on his lips, but he thought better of it. He turned to view the closed curtains over the window. She’d moved off his lap, but he felt the small movements beside him as she adjusted herself. She was ashamed, he could see that clearly, and for the life of him he didn’t know how to make this right.

He felt her rise and take her seat on the opposite side of the carriage. He looked up.

She was patting at her hair, refusing to meet his gaze. “I… I hope you will not speak of this to anyone?”

He cursed, low and foully.

Her head jerked up and she stared at him with eyes that made him want to weep and bellow at the same time.

Griffin passed a hand across his forehead. “Of course I’ll not talk.”

She bit her lip, then nodded jerkily. “You need to put on your wig.”

“Do I?” He looked about the carriage seat, finally finding it smashed into a corner. The carriage rolled to a stop as he tugged the wig on. “Better?”

“Yes.”

They sat there in silence as they waited for the footman to set the step and open the door. Griffin tried to think of something to say. He’d stolen her innocence—in intent if not in fact. There was no going back from that.

Finally, after eons of waiting, the door was opened and she stepped down, her face averted from his. No doubt she loathed the very sight of him now, he thought grimly as he followed her.

“Hero, darling, there you are!” Lady Phoebe called from the top of the town house steps. “Cousin Bathilda is pacing holes in the sitting room carpet, and Cook has burned the soup.” Her bright eyes swiveled to him, and she squinted a bit behind her glasses. “And you’ve brought Lord Griffin for luncheon as well. How clever of you.”

Griffin felt Lady Hero go stiff beside him. “I do not wish to intrude on your luncheon, Lady Phoebe. Your sister kindly offered me a ride in her carriage, no more.”

“Oh, no, you must stay,” Lady Phoebe protested. “Cook will fix the soup, she always does, and it’s so much nicer with two gentlemen instead of a lonely one, badgered by females all about. Hero, do make him stay.”

Lady Hero turned to him and smiled with trembling lips, her eyes tragic. “Please.”

He ought to go, he knew that. Knew, too, that she didn’t really want him here. But her very fragility at that moment made it impossible for him to turn away.

Griffin bowed and held out his arm for her. “As you wish, my lady.”

She laid her hand on his sleeve, and he remembered with something of a jolt that those same fingers had wrapped around his cock not five minutes ago. Dear God, his brother’s fiancée. What a mess he’d made.

They mounted the steps and went inside, her sister all the while chattering and thankfully oblivious to their silence. Lady Hero was so wooden beside him she might have been a walking statue. He had an urge to cover the fingers on his sleeve, to see if they were warm with life.

Did she hate him now? Wish that they’d never done what they’d done in the carriage? He knew he should be regretting those moments, but he simply couldn’t. Her delicate breasts had been too sweet, the sound she had made when he’d taken her ripe nipple between his lips too beautiful. Her gray eyes had narrowed in bliss as he’d made love to her. And by God, he’d take that memory to his grave and be thankful of it, no matter the cost.

A footman took her wrap, and Lady Hero glanced at Griffin, then away again swiftly. “I… I just need to freshen up. Phoebe will show you to the luncheon room.”

Griffin bowed, watching moodily as she retreated up the stairs.

He turned to Lady Phoebe, offering his elbow. “I’m at your mercy.”

She grinned, taking his arm. “It’s just us for luncheon—myself, Hero, your brother, and Cousin Bathilda. Have you met my cousin Bathilda yet?”

“I haven’t had the honor.”

She nodded. “Don’t let Mignon bother you. She growls at everyone.”

And with those cryptic words, she led him up the stairs and into a light, feminine room, all yellows and whites with dauntingly fragile furniture. Thomas was standing at the far end with a rather stout matron. He looked up at their entrance, seeming less than pleased to see his brother.

“Look who Hero brought home,” Lady Phoebe said as they neared.

“Griffin,” Thomas murmured in greeting.

“Thomas.” Griffin turned to the older lady and eyed the small black, white, and brown spaniel she held in her arms. It was growling at him, low and continually, rather like a bumblebee.

“This is Lord Griffin Reading, Cousin Bathilda,” Lady Phoebe murmured. “My lord, this is my cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood.”

Miss Picklewood dipped into a creaking curtsy as he bowed. “We shall have to tell Panders that there is one more for luncheon.”

“I’ll try not to eat too much,” Griffin said lightly. “What a pretty little spaniel.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Miss Picklewood had actually pinkened. She stroked the spaniel’s head, and it interrupted its rumbling to lick her fingers. “Would you like to pet her?”

“Ah.” Griffin examined the dog warily. It hadn’t started growling again, but then its protuberant brown eyes didn’t look particularly friendly either.