He surprised her by combing his fingers through her hair. “I like how it looks when it’s loose this way.”

He took a handful and let it sift down against her neck, the brush of it tickling her so she shuddered in his grip. His fingers went to where the chain of her necklace lay against the side of her neck, and he traced it around to the front, stroking down along the chunks of quartz where they nestled in her cleavage.

“I want to be this necklace, lying against your skin,” he said, his fingertips leaving the stones to drift over the upward swell of her breast. She held her breath as his callused fingertips grazed the skin bared by her neckline.

She knew he could see how hard her nipples were through the thin fabric of her dress. She yearned for him to touch them, but she understood the pleasure of waiting, so she let him hold her in place.

He continued his leisurely exploration, his fingers just under the edge of her dress as he dragged them over her skin. Every stroke seemed to move a little closer to the longing at the center of her breasts, and she willed him to thrust his hand all the way under the fabric and relieve the ache.

Did he realize his slow, sensual exploration was winding her arousal tight to the point of exquisite agony?

His breath whistled past her ear, its rhythm becoming more ragged. Suddenly, he reached down and separated her hands, moving them to the bases of the wooden posts that supported the back of the chair. “Wrap your hands around these and keep them there.”

She clenched her fingers around the smooth wood, slightly uncomfortable at how the position thrust her chest forward. The awkwardness evaporated as he slid his hands down from her shoulders to cup and knead exactly where she wanted him to, circling his thumbs over her nipples so she surged into his palms and moaned his name. Every circle spiraled in and downward, and she rocked her hips forward to ease the tension there. But she kept her hands locked on the wood.

“That’s good, sugar. You hold on tight and let me take you where you want to go.”

She felt a tug at her waist as he untied the bow, and her dress fell partway open. For a few moments, her insecurities resurfaced. He was used to the bodies of supermodels.

“It’s like unwrapping the world’s best Christmas present,” he said, pulling on the inner tie to release the last fastening. He drew the fabric of her dress aside, folding it back so the black lace of her bra and panties was exposed. She’d worn her most expensive lingerie.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Her grip on the chair became convulsive as heat coursed through her at the knowledge that he wanted to do nothing more than look at her. She stopped worrying about his previous lovers.

“There’s something about black lace that never gets old,” he said, his drawl taking on a rasp.

She tilted her head to look up. He bent over her, his hands braced on the arms of the chair, his eyes scalding as they moved over her body. His blond hair framed the planes of his face, and she wanted to pull his head down to feel those perfectly male lips against hers.

He seemed to read her intention, because he shifted to wrap his fingers around hers, the strength of his grip melding her fingers to the posts. “Don’t let go, baby.”

He slid his fingers under the lace of her bra, and she cried out when his skin touched hers. Sheer need sizzled through her, and she could feel her own moisture soaking the flimsy fabric of her panties. Now he pulled at her nipples, brushing them against the lace she had once thought was silky but that now felt exquisitely rough against her sensitized skin. The near pain gave her pleasure an edge that sharpened the experience of every new sensation. “Oh, God, Luke,” she moaned as a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Lean forward,” he said, thrusting his hands between her and the chair to unhook her bra. “Now let go for just a second.” He had her dress and her bra straps off her shoulders and down her arms in one deft motion. Then he returned her hands to their position on the posts.

“I’m going to move your chair,” he said, scooting it away from the table as easily as though it were empty.

She felt more vulnerable now that the tablecloth wasn’t covering her bare thighs.

But he remained behind her. He took handfuls of her hair and brought it over her breasts, brushing the ends against her like a paintbrush. Instead of edgy arousal, a gentle, tingling pleasure danced over the surface of her skin. It wasn’t enough, though.

“Please,” she begged. She wanted his hand between her legs. “Please,” she repeated, opening her thighs in invitation.

“I never say no to a lady,” he said, his drawl thick as molasses. He dropped her hair and reached down to push against the damp lace.

“Yes, there.” She pulsed against him. The sleeve of his shirt brushed against her bare nipple and made her hiss as it sent another streak of electricity downward.

He found the edge of her panties and stroked under the lace. “Sugar, you feel like wet satin.”

When his fingertip touched the focus of her arousal, she arched up with a strangled scream. The tension in her belly ratcheted a notch tighter. “Inside me. Please. Inside me.”

He obliged her, thrusting one finger deep into her as he rubbed his thumb against her clitoris. With his other hand, he massaged her breast, rotating his palm over the center of it to drive her closer and closer to orgasm. He found a rhythm that had her hovering on the verge of finishing as he sent waves of pleasure washing through her, making her writhe in the chair. She didn’t have to remember to keep her hands on the wooden supports; she was holding on for dear life.