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It had never been like this with a woman. Tender and slow, and yet also burning and frantic. Sex had been nothing more than a physical act, a satiation of his lust that brought an all-too-brief, mindless release from the hell that was life.

With Verity, it was ... more.

Because she was more than he’d ever dared believe himself worthy of.

She drifted her trail of kisses lower, grazing the top of the waistline of his trousers, where a scar started.

It was too much.

He groaned, low, deep, and guttural, the sound lodging in his throat.

Drawing her up, Malcom took her mouth under his once more, and set to work on the tiny buttons down the length of her dress. In between each frantic meeting of their lips, he spoke. “Why are there so many damned buttons?”

“I like them,” she said breathlessly, her voice ragged like the night of their first meeting, when she’d run, frantic, through London at his side. “Th-they’re v-very delicate.”

He wrenched at the buttons down the front of her dress, and the fastenings gave with a pop. And then pinged and hopped along the floor, bouncing on the table, all around them. The gaping fabric revealed her chemise underneath. Malcom and Verity ceased moving; their chests rose and fell hard and fast in a matched rhythm. “I’ll buy you more.”

“You needn’t—”

He swallowed those protestations with another kiss and then guided her back down.

Verity stretched her arms up, reaching for him, and lowering himself, he braced his weight on his elbows.

Then, bending his head, he drew the tip of her right breast into his mouth, and suckled that pebbled, pale-brown nipple.

Verity groaned, long and low, and let her legs splay wide.

His shaft jumped, all the blood rushing to that throbbing flesh.

Malcom pulled back once more, and Verity cried out, scrabbling for him.

But he was merely shucking off his boots, and then his trousers. And as he bared himself before her in all his scarred imperfection, Verity reclined on her elbows and simply watched him.

In her eyes, there was no pity or revulsion. Or even the sick fascination he’d encountered in the past liaisons he’d had in his life.

“So beautiful,” she said, her breath coming in rapid little bursts.

Malcom resumed his previous ministrations. Worshipping the previously neglected breast, he palmed the bounteous mounds that were overflowing in his callused palms. Her skin was like pure silk upon his flawed flesh, and he laved and teased the engorged peak until Verity was crying out. Keening his name. Lifting her hips in a frantic up-and-down, primitive thrusting.

Unable to look away from her tightly clenched eyes and the contortions of her face as she surrendered to the magic of their embrace, Malcom cupped the thatch of dark curls shielding her womanhood.

Verity went motionless, her eyes flying open, sharp surprise emanating from them, matched by the little circle of shock her lips formed.

And then Malcom slid a finger inside the tight, sodden sheath.

Verity cried out as he stroked her slowly at first, and then at a quickened pace. He slipped another finger inside, and Verity bucked her hips wildly. Thrust and retreat. Over and over. They set up a perfect rhythm, moving conjointly.

Her movements grew more frantic, her breath hissing.

Or was that his own?

The blood rushing in his ears made it near impossible to make any sense of any sound through the pulsing of his own heartbeat.

“Malcom.” She moaned his name, an entreaty that sent another wave of lust pumping through him.

Her movements grew more frenetic.

She was so close, the scent of her impending climax hanging in the air, an aphrodisiac that pushed him near the edge of madness.