No, she told herself, she had come to his room because she needed to know where he’d gone, why he’d left her at Wintour House. And she was worried. She knew she would not sleep until he was home.

But she’d known this might happen.

And now that it was happening…

She could finally admit that she’d wanted it all along.

He pulled her against him, and she made no show of surprise, no feigned outrage. They were too honest with each other; they always had been, and she threw her arms around him, kissing him back with every fevered breath.

It was like the first time he’d kissed her, but it was so much more. His hands were everywhere, and her dressing gown was thin, the material far more silky and fine than her day dress. When he cupped her bottom, she felt every finger, squeezing her with a desperation that made her heart sing.

He wasn’t treating her like a china doll. He was treating her like a woman, and she loved it.

His body pressed against hers, length to length, she felt his arousal, hard and insistent. She had done this to him. Her. Billie Bridgerton. She was driving George Rokesby wild with desire, and it was thrilling. And it made her bold.

She wanted to nibble at his ear, lick the salt from his skin. She wanted to listen to the way his breath quickened when she arched her body against his, and wanted to know the exact shape of his mouth, not by sight but by feel.

She wanted all of him, and she wanted him in every possible way.

“George,” she moaned, loving the sound of his name on her lips. She said it again, and then again, using it to punctuate every kiss. How had she ever thought that this man was stiff and unyielding? The way he was kissing her was heat personified. It was as if he wanted to devour her, consume her.

Possess her.

And Billie, who had never much liked letting anyone take charge, found she rather wanted him to succeed.

“You are so. Unbelievably. Beautiful,” he said, not quite managing to say it like a proper sentence. His mouth was far too busy with other pursuits to string the words together smoothly. “Your dress tonight… I can’t believe you wore red.”

She looked up at him, unable to halt the playful smile that spread across her lips. “I don’t think white suits me.” And after tonight, she thought naughtily, it never would.

“You looked like a goddess,” he rasped. And then he stilled, just a little, and pulled back. “But do you know,” he said, his eyes burning with wicked intent. “I think I still like you best in breeches.”

“George!” She couldn’t help but laugh.

“Shhhh…” he warned, nipping at her earlobe.

“It’s hard to be quiet.”

He gazed down at her like a pirate. “I know how to silence you.”

“Oh, yes, pl—” But she couldn’t finish the sentence, not when he was kissing her again, even more fiercely than before. She felt his fingers at her waist, sliding under the silky sash that held her dressing gown against her body. It came undone and then slipped entirely to the floor, the silky material shivering across her skin as it fell.

Goosebumps rose on her arms as they were bared to the night air, but she felt no chill, only awareness as he reached out reverently to stroke her, slowly, from shoulder to wrist.

“You have a freckle,” he murmured. “Right” – he leaned down and dropped a light kiss near the inside of her elbow – “here.”

“You’ve seen it before,” she said softly. It wasn’t in an immodest spot; she had plenty of frocks with short sleeves.

He chuckled. “But I’ve never given it it’s proper due.”

“Really.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He lifted her arm, twisting it just a bit so that he could pretend to be studying her freckle. “It is clearly the most delightful beauty mark in all of England.”

A marvelous sense of warmth and contentment melted through her. Even as her body burned for his, she could not stop herself from encouraging his teasing conversation. “Only England?”

“Well, I haven’t traveled very extensively abroad…”

“Oh, really?”

“And you know…” His voice dropped to a husky growl. “There may be other freckles right here in this room. You could have one here.” He dipped a finger under the bodice of her nightgown, then moved his other hand to her hip. “Or here.”

“I might,” she agreed.

“The back of your knee,” he said, the words hot against her ear. “You could have one there.”

She nodded. She wasn’t sure she was still capable of speech.

“One of your toes,” he suggested. “Or your back.”

“You should probably check,” she managed to get out.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and she suddenly realized just how much he was holding his passion in check. Where she was joyously setting herself free, he was waging a fierce battle against his own desire. And she knew – somehow she knew – that a lesser man would not have had the strength to treat her with such tenderness.

“Make me yours,” she said. She had already given herself permission to let go. Now she was giving it to him, too.

She felt his muscles contract, and for a moment he looked as if he were in pain. “I shouldn’t…”