Someday, he would hurt her. He would follow the wrong impulse, say words he didn’t mean. He’d find a way to cock this up in some stupid, irretrievable manner. Rafe felt sickly certain of it.

All the more reason to treasure this closeness now.

He would let her hold him just as long and as tight as she dared.

Chapter Twenty-two

Morning brought an ironic realization. One Clio was oddly unprepared to face.

“You do realize what this means.” In the early light of dawn, Rafe pulled his shirt over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves. “Now we actually have to plan a wedding.”

“Oh.” She paused in buttoning her chemise. “Must we?”

“Unless I dreamed all that?” He shot a meaningful look at the bed. “I’m fairly certain we must.”

She gave him a reassuring kiss. “You didn’t dream one moment of that.”

And neither had she. Their night together had been wonderful, and wonderfully real.

After making love the first time, they’d risen to bathe and take some dinner. Then talked until they fell sleep in each other’s arms. But not for long. Twice more in the night, he’d woken her with kisses that quickly became something more. They repeated the cycle as long as the night lasted—making love, falling asleep, then waking to make love again. As though they could make the one night feel like several.

“It’s not the idea of marriage I’m balking at,” she said. “Just the wedding plans. You’ve already carried me up the grand staircase in a white lace gown. We’ve fed each other cake. We’ve spent our night in the honeymoon suite. Can’t we just dispense with all the ceremony? I would be happy to get married in the middle of a field, in a dress I’ve worn twenty times before, so long as I loved the man I was marrying.”

“Simple suits me. I am not going to complain about a lack of bunting.”

Smiling to herself, she reached for her stays. “Of course, I would like to have my sisters there. Frustrating as they can sometimes be, my wedding wouldn’t be the same without them.”

He busied himself with his trouser fastenings and didn’t reply.

She cringed, instantly regretting her thoughtless words. Yes, she could have her sisters. When they married, there was no chance Rafe would have his brother in attendance. Piers might never speak to either one of them again.

Rafe was giving up a great deal for her. She wasn’t in the habit of believing that she could be worth that, to anyone. He was worth everything to her, too. She vowed to love him so fiercely and so well, he would never feel the deprivation.

As she untangled the tapes of her corset, an idea formed in her mind.

She wet her lips and gathered her nerve. “Remember what you told me the other day? That when we were younger, you couldn’t bear to look at me sometimes because in your mind you’d been making me do such wicked things?”

One of his dark eyebrows rose. “I remember.”

She let the corset fall to the side, standing before him in her chemise and stockings. “Make me do wicked things.”

He regarded her for a moment, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. Or perhaps her courage.

Clio forced her spine straight and held her chin high. “Well . . . ?”

In calm strides, he walked to an armchair and sat down in it. When he spoke, his voice was dark as sin itself. “Take off the shift. Leave the stockings.”

Her arousal was instantaneous.

A hot blush pushed to her face as she loosed the same buttons she’d only just done up. He watched her as she disrobed, his bold gaze giving her nowhere to hide.

Even though this had been her idea, she felt strangely shy and exposed. But she suspected that her shyness was part of the fantasy for him, so she didn’t try to pretend otherwise.

“Good.” His gaze swept her bared body. “Now come undress me.”

She approached his chair in soft, catlike steps. With shaky fingers, she gathered the hem of his shirt and began to lift it high, exposing his sculpted masterpiece of a torso.

She was suddenly conscious that this would be different from any of the times they’d made love last night. Namely, there was sunlight now. They could see each other clearly. Rafe was so perfectly chiseled everywhere, it was difficult not to feel self-conscious.

But unless he was a very good actor, he seemed to be enjoying her body, too.

His eyes roamed her every curve. As she pulled the shirt over his head, she allowed her breasts to brush against his cheek. He sucked in his breath on a sharp hiss.

Then she dropped her gaze to the closures of his trousers. They would be difficult, if not impossible, to undo with him sitting in the chair.

“Did you mean to stand?” she asked.

“No.”

His meaning rocketed through her.

To remove them, she would have to go down on her knees.

The idea was shocking and wicked. She worked his trousers down, and he lifted his hips just an inch or two to help.

She eased the trousers lower, freeing the hard, eager length of his erection. Pure, unapologetic virility, staring her in straight the face.

Abashed, she dropped her gaze.

“Look,” he said. His brusque tone settled low in her belly. “Look what you did.”

Her cheeks burned. But Clio had proposed this game. She couldn’t disobey now. So she looked.

Had she done this, truly? All of it?

If so, she felt rather proud.

She put both hands on him, claiming as much of his thick, curved length as she could manage. Then she worked her hands up and down. “Am I doing it right?”