Confused at first, Reeve’s mouth was frozen, but then, as Kit continued to probe with her tongue, he submitted, melting into her, and Kit was relieved to know he wanted her, too.
Never had Kit felt this way before, almost like an animal, needing, wanting, unthinking. She clawed at his clothing, not willing to wait for the propriety of unhooking or unfastening. Rather, she tugged and tore, and Reeve did the same, getting out of his jerkin and boots while she wrestled with his belt. His tunic never stood a chance; she tugged it over his head and threw it in a heap across the room.
Once she had him naked before her, Kit realized she still wore her dressing gown. She discarded it just as quickly as she had his clothes, practically tripping over her own feet as she stepped out of her slippers. “My Lady,” Reeve gasped, taking a step back to breathe her in. “You’re so beautif—”
