He stopped touching her just long enough to remove his tunic, but before he could pull it over his head, she covered his hand with hers.
“Let me,” she asked softly.
He released his hold on the garment, and allowed her slender fingers to do the work. She lifted it, sliding her palms up over his chest, his arms, as slowly as he had undressed her, her touch a glittering heat that warmed his skin more than the fire.
She dropped the garment to one side and reached for his leggings, pausing, her eyes meeting his, the color in her cheeks deepening. He swallowed hard, controlling himself ruthlessly, though the feel of her hand there, so close to that part of him that throbbed with awareness of her, was almost more than he could endure.
Keeping his gaze fastened on her face rather than her fingers, he braced his arms behind him to balance his weight, and allowed her to continue disrobing him. She gently peeled off the leggings, careful not to jar his bandaged thigh. He closed his eyes and groaned when she freed his arousal. He heard her quick intake of breath.
And her feminine murmur of appreciation.
It almost undid him.
But before he could sit up and reach for her, intending to turn her murmurs into sighs with his mouth and hands, she placed her palm firmly on his chest and gently pushed him down into the furs.
He stared up at her with a quirked brow and a growl of surprise; he was used to being in command of every encounter ... but the way she was smiling down at him, her hand stroking his chest while her gaze swept slowly, hungrily along his prone body, made him lie still, intrigued.
“My lion,” she whispered. “My Black Lion.”
He caught her hand and nibbled at her fingertips. “Beware, lion’s lady, for your predator is hungry tonight. He may not wait long before devouring you.”
“Devouring me?” she asked, challenge gleaming in her eyes. “What if I devour him first?”
Her husky tone made his blood run hot. And the suggestion she was making—if that was indeed what she meant—but nay, it could not be. The thought of his sweet Celine, her soft, full lips ... the shocking image burned him like a brand, seized him with violent desire.
She bent near, rubbing her cheek against the hair of his chest. “Please,” she whispered, kissing him, her silken red tresses cascading over his body.
Searing tendrils of pleasure whipped through him. The idea of relinquishing control over their lovemaking was new to him, but he began to find the thought as arousing as it was unfamiliar. Never had he lain passive beneath a woman’s hands, her mouth, allowing her hunger, her feminine demands, to determine what would happen and when.
Deciding to explore the possibilities, he lay back more fully in the furs, folding his hands behind his head, knowing that control could be his once more the second he wanted it. He returned her smile with a slow, lazy grin of his own. “Have your way with me, lioness.”
Her breath came out as a low sigh. Her tongue ran over her bottom lip.
He clenched his teeth to stop a groan, fighting all the instincts that urged him to take her in his arms and pin her beneath him; this new passiveness might prove more difficult than he had thought.
He managed to hold himself still for the moment, while she curled her fingers through the thatch of black hair covering the flat muscles of his chest, her eyes fascinated.
“My lion ... yet in some ways, you are a lamb.”
“Lamb?” He scowled with mock ire.
“Yes.” Her smile widened. “Would you like me to show you what I mean?”
Keeping a tight leash on his hunger, he granted her permission.
“Show me.”
Her fingers slid lightly over the bristly hair and muscles beneath her palm. “Here, you are most definitely lion. All strength and power.” She quieted when she came to his nipples, teased them with her fingertips.
Then she bent her head and flicked them with her tongue.
He sucked in a breath, speared by a hot blade of pleasure that went straight to his groin. She nibbled at him, suckled, and the heat of her mouth, the wet brush of her tongue, drew a ravenous sound from his throat. He kept his hands at his sides only with fierce effort.
“You even sound like a lion,” she murmured approvingly, her warm, moist breath impossibly arousing over his heated flesh.
She stretched out more comfortably at his side, snuggling up against him. Gaston thought he would go mad at the feel of her pearl-tipped breasts pressing into his ribs, the triangle of curls below rubbing against his hip.
“Celine ...” he warned with a low, rumbling sound, deep in his chest.
“Mmm, I like to hear you roar,” she breathed, running her hand up over his shoulders, to his neck. She paused to trace the muscles there, as if she took deep pleasure in every inch of him. “No lamb to be found here. Very much a lion.” She caressed his bearded cheeks. “And here ... I love your mane, Gaston. So thick and dark, and very rough. And very handsome.”