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he could overpower her, even without her restraints. His hips pushed his erection into the giving softness of her abdomen.
    This was new, all of it new, and he hated rushing them though he knew he must. The ominous ticking of an imaginary pocket watch echoed in his ears, counting down the moments that remained for them, together. A scowl she couldn’t see etched across his features, Gaspard bent to her ear. “Spread your legs.”
    She tensed before he felt her shifting, widening her stance. “Like this?”
    Yes, just like that, that’s what he wanted. His hands left the shelf to coast down the rounded curves of her body. He let his hips grind against her once more, an acute torment, before fisting the cool fabric of her skirts in both hands.
    Swiftly, he lifted her gown, pretending he hadn’t heard her nervous gasp as he exposed her legs to the closet air. A glance down revealed shapely stocking-clad limbs he wanted wrapped around his waist at the soonest opportunity—preferably while he drove his body into hers, repeatedly. But the soonest opportunity wouldn’t be tonight, or ever if he couldn’t make her come in the next minute or so.
    Because that was what Gaspard had to do—make her come, and make her want him more than she wanted Sabien. What other recourse was open to him? As soon as they left this closet, she would find out who he was. What he was. And then she’d never let him near her pretty person again.
    Adjusting his hold on her skirts to one hand, he used the other to slide between those silky thighs, up and up until his fingers cupped her mound. He couldn’t resist leaning back to catch a glimpse of the dark triangle of curls gently abrading his palm.
    “ Regarde-toi, chaton, ” he muttered, slipping into intimate, familiar French before he could stop himself.
    “I c-can’t look.” Her thighs attempted to close around his hand, self-consciously—and belatedly—trying to keep him from seeing her most private area. She squirmed against the shelf. “What are you—?”
    She cut off with a choked wheeze as his middle finger parted the lips of her cunt. “Submission,” he reminded her. He needed her to melt for him.
    “I d-don’t know what that m-means,” she snapped back, “b-but I’m fairly cer-certain what you’re d-d-doing right now is what m-most women would c-c-consider an invasion of p-p-privacy.”
    He smiled at the bite in her proper English voice, at all those syllables that just spilled out of her and onto him. It made him want to bite her in return, though not with words. Giving in to the urge, he nipped at her chin. “You do not like what I do to you?”
    “I don’t know what you’re doing to m-me!” She heaved out a trembling breath wreathed with frustration. “What are you doing, m-my lord?”
    He removed the hand between her legs, bringing the tips of his fingers to his mouth and licking before sliding them back home again. This time when he caressed her parted flesh, he got the reaction he’d been waiting for.
    She shuddered. “That…that is…” Her thighs relaxed, widening even more in welcome for his attentions.
    Attentions he had no trouble offering. He found the nub of her clitoris with two wet fingers, peeking through the shield of soft curls, and stroked it. “ Bonne? ” Good?
    Her “Yes” came to him on a sigh that raised the tiny hairs on the back of his neck.
    Another stroke, this time with his thumb as his fingers slid to circle the opening of her body, and a rush of wetness slicked over the digits. “Do you touch yourself here?” He breathed in her scent, found in excess just beneath her ear.
    She shook her head vehemently.
    His teeth lightly scored the strained tendon along the side of her neck. “Answer me, kitten.”
    “N-no, I haven’t.” Her hips jerked, pushing her sex further onto his petting hand, making his fingertips wet with her cream.
    The pad of his thumb rubbed faster and faster over the sensitive top of her clit, something