“Good God,” he muttered. Keeping her nightgown raised with his other hand, he smoothed his hand up over one cheek of her bottom. “Well, well, what have we here? No drawers, Giselle? How wicked of you.”
“Maman always saiddrawersare wicked.” She caught his hand. “No touching until I get to see you bared, too.”
“Then stop taking so long undressing me.” Brushing her hands away from his buttons, he tore off his shirt, then unfastened the fall of his breeches before shoving them off, too.
He dragged her close to kiss her long and hard so he could fondle her breasts through the linen. When she made a little needy sound low in her throat, he began walking her backward to the bed. “I want to make love to you, my faux fiancée. But first I want to see if the unclad you matches mydreamsof the unclad you.”
“‘Unclad,’” she echoed as he halted just short of the bed. “What is that? I have never heard that word.”
“Without clothes. Naked.” His heart thundering, he dragged her gown slowly up over her head and off. “It means naked.”
He stood back to survey her. She was as perfect as he’d known she’d be, her skin golden, her breasts just large enough to fill a man’s hands comfortably, and her belly and mons … “What a wonderfulnaked it is, too,” he choked out, his cock feeling close to bursting out of his drawers.
She tipped up her chin. “A very lonely naked. Becauseyouare still not naked, sir.”
“I can easily remedy that.”
Then he slid off his drawers.
Chapter 17
Giselle had never seen a man without clothes. Even the jaunts she and her half sister had taken to the British Museum to look at sculptures had not prepared her for the sight of a real man “unclad.” For one thing, the sculptures had no hair. And hair made quite a difference in a man’s appearance.
Her mouth went dry at the sight of Heath’s hair-dusted upper body—his sculpted, muscular chest and his lean stomach with hair that led down to …
She jerked her gaze up hastily. She was not quite ready for that. “You are rather hirsute, sir,” she said, keeping her eyes above his waist.
His eyebrows quirked upward. “I come from a long line of hairy gentlemen, I’m afraid. Does it bother you?”
“Non. I like the hair myself.” She finally let her gaze go lower to where hisvergethrust itself boldly forward like a long, thick aubergine emerging from the vine. She swallowed hard. “You are also … er … large, are you not?”
He chuckled. “I don’t know. I don’t make a practice of comparing my penis to other men’s.”
“Oh! We have that word,pénis,in French, too!”
“We also sometimes call it a man’s member.”
“Membre.Yes, we use that one, too.” She frowned. “Although it is considered vulgar to say either word in polite company. Indeed, it is considered vulgar to speak of any of this.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not in polite company,” he said, and tugged her close enough so she could feel the thrust of hismembre. “I doubt they’d approve of what we’re doing with mypénisand yourmont de Vénus, anyway.”
“True,” she said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks again.
He hesitated. “You doknowwhat we’re doing, don’t you?”
“Yes. Maman told me.”
“Everything?”
How much was there to tell? The man put hisvergeinside the woman, and then it was done. “I think so.”
He cupped her cheek. “I merely don’t want you to have any surprises.”
“Then let me touch your … you know …”
“God help me,” he muttered, but released her to close her hand about hismembre.
She marveled at howaliveit seemed, the skin like velvet, but the meat of it quite firm beneath the skin. “It is stiff, no?” she said as she carefully stroked along it.