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with his. And she discovered rapidly that she liked it. A great deal, in fact. She moaned again.
    Suddenly, he returned her moan with one of his own, its low-pitched sounds resonating through her body, causing her breasts to tighten, tingle. A sudden ache to be touched, slowly, thoroughly, by him and his hot, capable hands assailed her.
    As if he heard her inner thoughts, he curled his hands around her shoulders, caressed her collarbones . . . then cupped her breasts.
    She gasped at the heat of his touch as his mouth captured hers again. Through the rose silk of her gown, his thumbs swept across the aching nipples, molding her flesh within his grasp.
    He lifted his mouth a fraction, panting. “Another kiss?”
    Without thought or hesitation, she gasped, “Yes.”
    Serena met him as their lips collided again. As she had hoped, his tongue scorched back into her mouth. Lucien gripped her sides, his hands sliding down her waist. A moment later, after hearing the rustle of silk, she felt a draft of cool summer air under her skirt—and his hand on her thigh.
    She halted, frozen, awash in emotion and uncertainty, even as she realized this was the very thing Cyrus wanted her to do—allow a stranger to seduce her. Yet such an act countered all her beliefs.
    But God help her, she wanted this man.
    The rough pads of his fingers skimmed deliciously across her knee. His palm drifted up beneath her chemise to cradle her hip. He held her closely, his fingers caressing from her waist, down to her female mound. He caught her response, something between a whimper and a moan, with his mouth.
    He worked magic with his touch. Any thoughts she might have had, he burned away with the heat of his onslaught. She clung tighter, her fingers beginning a tentative journey up the surprisingly hard ridges of his chest, to the top of his shoulders, finally to sink into the luxurious thickness of his inky hair.
    “That’s the way, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck, leaving a hot path of tingles where his warm breath caressed her skin.
    His voice, foreign and suggestive, dashed her back to reality. Mercy, she was allowing a stranger to touch her in the most familiar ways. His kisses, his touch, were a dark temptation that would lead her down her mother’s path to pure sin.
    She pushed at his chest. “I hardly think—”
    “Do not think, love. Feel,” he encouraged, his lips looming closer.
    “You said just one kiss,” she reminded him.
    “Why stop now?”
    “I should not be here, not like this.”
    He clutched her arms. His green eyes, powerful when filled with desire, were doubly potent when filled with desperation. “I need you. You help me to forget. Please,” his ragged whisper entreated. “Do not push me away.”
    His jagged plea stilled her tongue. How many times had she needed a human touch during her times of grief? Too many to count.
    On the wings of her silence, his lips blanketed hers again, his tongue penetrating. In seconds, he caught her up in the cyclone of returning desire, whirling her up in its vortex.
    His hand returned to her thigh. This time he did not linger to caress the flesh, but parted her legs with a gentle nudge, then sought the core of her femininity.
    Cyrus had touched her there once or twice and had roused only embarrassment. Lucien’s touch awakened an entirely different emotion. His hands were skilled and determined. Her insides melted.
    His fingers whispered across her innermost thighs, his palm cradling her mound, rubbing the sensitive center of her desire. She writhed with an instant, blinding burst of heat.
    Slowly, torturously, he pressed his fingers inside her. Without thought of restraint, she gasped, tilting her pelvis up to his hand.
    “Oh, yes, you are so sweetly wet,” he whispered, his lips an inch from hers, his breath coming hard and fast. “God, I want you.”
    His mouth covered hers again. His thumb massaged the very bud of her need, his fingers still withdrawing and