Poppy had been dubious, but now it almost made sense. She felt so different on the inside that it was impossible to believe she might be physically unchanged. Her breasts felt heavy, and yes, bigger. Her nipples had ruched into tight peaks, much like when the temperature dropped, and when his hand had skimmed across the material of her bodice, not even touching her skin, it had sent jolts of electricity to her very core.

That had not happened the last time she’d been cold.

She felt hungry . . . hungry at her core. She wanted to wrap her legs around him and pull him close. She wanted to feel that hardness pressed against her. She needed contact. She needed pressure.

She needed him.

As if he’d read her mind, his hands dipped past her bottom to the tops of her thighs, and he hoisted her up, only to then tumble her down upon the bed. He was above her in under a second, moving like a cat, predatory and sleek.

His eyes devoured her.

“Poppy,” he groaned, and her heart soared at the sound of her name on his lips. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d said it before; it felt different now, as if the two simple syllables had become part of the very structure of his kisses.

The weight of him pressed her into the mattress, and even though he was the one who had her pinned, she felt powerful. It was thrilling to think that she had brought him to this point. That she was the reason this unflappable man was nearly out of control.

And that power . . . it did something to her. It made her bold. It made her hungry.

It made her crave his touch, his strength.

She wanted to be as audacious as he was, to reach out and take what she wanted. But she didn’t know—couldn’t have known—where to start.

She wanted to learn.

She brought her eyes to his. “I want to touch you.”

“Do it,” he commanded.

He’d long since disposed of his cravat, and so she reached out and touched the warm skin of his neck, trailing her fingers along the tightly corded muscles that ran down to his shoulder.

He shuddered.

“Do you like that?” she whispered.

He moaned. “So much.”

She caught her lip between her teeth, fascinated by his reaction. When her fingers dipped under the edge of his shirt, his body jerked. She started to pull away, but his hand immediately came to cover hers.

Their eyes met. Don’t go , his seemed say.

Slowly, he lifted his hand, and she resumed her lazy exploration, drawing circles and scribbles on his skin. She could have done this all night, might even have tried to, but he let out a hoarse groan and pulled himself back.

He sat upright, straddling her as he yanked his shirt up and over his head.

Poppy stopped breathing.

He was beautiful.

He had the body of a man who used it, a man who worked, and worked hard. His muscles were exquisitely sculpted under his skin, and she could not help but wonder what movement had built each one.

“What are you thinking?” he whispered.

She looked up, only then realizing that she’d been staring at him.

“I was wondering how you got this .” She laid her hand over his breast, marveling over the way the hard curve of his muscle filled her palm.

He sucked in his breath. “Jesus, Poppy.”

“What sort of movement builds each muscle?” She moved her hand to his upper arm. It flexed beneath her fingers, the bulge of it sliding and changing shape under his skin.

Their eyes met again. Keep going , his seemed to say.

She drew lightly downward, over his elbow to the softer skin of his inner arm. “How does one get this sort of muscle?” she wondered, sliding around to the muscle just below his elbow. “Lifting a crate?”

“Gripping the wheel.”

She looked up. He’d sounded breathless.

She’d made him sound that way. Again, she felt power.

She was power.

“Which do you use when lifting a crate?”

“My back,” he murmured. “And my legs.” He brought his hand to her upper arm, his long fingers nearly encircling it. “And this.”

She looked down, mesmerized by the contrast between his skin and hers. He’d spent hours in the sun, and his skin had been burnished to a golden tan. The texture too told of time spent out of doors—in the wind, in the water. It was rough, and calloused. And beautiful.

“I like your hands,” she said abruptly, taking one between both of hers.

“My hands?” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“They’re perfect,” she said. “Large and square.”

“Square?” He sounded amused, but in the best possible way.

“And capable .” She brought his hand to her chest, placed it over her heart. “They make me feel safe.”

He drew a shaky breath, and his touch seemed to grow heavier on her skin. His palm rotated, inching down her torso until his hand lay over her breast. He squeezed gently, and she moaned with surprised pleasure.

His eyes caught hers. “Are you asking me to stop?”

No .

“Not yet,” she whispered.

She’d loosened her dress earlier, trying to make herself more comfortable, and now, when he curled his finger under the edge of the bodice, the fabric slid easily over her shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are—”

“Shhhh.” He put a finger to her lips. “Do not contradict me. If I want to call you beautiful, I will do so without interruption.”

“But—”

“Shush.”

“I—”

His mouth found hers again, hungry and mischievous, nibbling at the edge of her lips as he murmured, “There are many ways to silence you, but none so pleasant as this.”

Poppy had only wanted to say that he was beautiful too, but as he kissed his way down to the edge of her gown, it no longer seemed so imperative. And when she felt the fabric slide ever further down her body, almost baring her breasts, she could do nothing but arch her back to ease the way.

He looked up, his eyes hot but clear. “Do you want me to stop?”

No.

“Not yet,” she whispered.

And then his lips found her, closing over the peak of her breast in a kiss more intimate than she could ever have dreamed. She gasped his name and arched off the bed, barely able to comprehend the electricity he seemed to spark within her.

He kissed and touched and stroked, and Poppy was helpless against his onslaught. He knew exactly where to kiss, exactly how to touch—firmly, gently, with his teeth. Everything he did brought pleasure—but it was an agonizing pleasure, because she needed more.

Something was building inside her.

“What are you doing to me?” she gasped.

He went still. Looked up. “Do you want me to stop?”

No .

“Not yet,” she whispered.

And then his hand moved between her legs, touching her more intimately than she had ever done so herself.

She was wet, unnaturally so—or so she thought. She nearly scooted out from under him, so embarrassed was she by the flood of moisture between her legs. But then he groaned and said, “You’re so wet for me. So ready.”

And she realized that maybe it wasn’t so unnatural. Maybe it was what her body was supposed to do.

His fingers slid inside, and she gasped again. She knew this was where he would eventually join with her, but still, it was a surprise. She felt stretched, and tickled, and it was downright bizarre that someone might be able to touch her from the inside. Bizarre, and yet still . . . right.

“Do you like that?” he whispered.

She nodded. “I think so.”

His fingers went still, but he did not pull them away. “You’re not sure?”

“It’s just very strange,” she admitted.

He rested his forehead against hers, and though she could not see his expression at such close distance, she felt him smile. “That could be interpreted in many ways,” he said.

“No, I . . . I like it. I just . . .” She could not remember the last time she’d been so inarticulate. But if she’d ever had cause, this was it. “It just feels like it is all moving forward and I don’t know where. Or how.”