Michael stopped her by placing his hands over hers.

Libby looked up into storm-gray eyes that shone with the fire of pure male lust. But it was lust held in control by pure male determination. She clasped Michael’s face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth, then pulled back just enough for him to see her smile.

“Don’t you dare get noble on me, Michael. This is something we both want.”

He gathered her hands back and trapped them against his chest. “I was just wondering who’s supposed to be in charge,” he drawled, his eyes gleaming with humor.

Libby blinked. “We can work as a team.”

He lifted one brow in contradiction. “Really? I don’t feel like part of a team. In fact, I don

’t even feel like I need to participate, only just show up.”

Libby leaned back. “Are you one of those Neanderthal guys who’s got to be in charge in order to perform?”

Michael lifted his hips against her. “I don’t think performance is the problem, lass,” he said. “And I’m a bit more evolved than a caveman.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He cupped her face in his hands, his expression serious.

“I didn’t come here tonight to make love to you, Libby.”

Her cheeks burned, and she tried to climb off his lap.

Michael held her in place. “This is not a rejection, woman. It’s a call to our senses. It’s too soon for you. And for me.”

“Then why did you come here?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a self-abasing grin. “I intended only to make out with you a bit. To get myself hot and bothered and very frustrated.”

“But why?”

He cocked his head at her, his eyes lit with amusement.

“I believe it’s called foreplay.”

Libby smacked him on the shoulder, pulling free and climbing off him, not the least bit contrite when Michael grunted in surprise and had to protect himself from being unmanned by her knee.

She marched to the hearth, got down on her knees, and made herself busy putting logs on the fire while she fought to bring her temper under control.

No, not her temper—her raging hormones.

Damn him. The man was an idiot. She had all but offered herself up on a silver platter, and he had bluntly said no, although he had tried to soften his rejection by claiming it was for her own good.

Well, dammit, she was getting sorely tired of his nobility.

“You’re going to start a chimney fire if you put any more wood on,” he nobly informed her.

“It’s my body, isn’t it?” she accused, still poking at the logs, deciding it was the fire heating her face, not shame.

“Excuse me?”

“I look like a twelve-year-old boy.”

He said nothing to that. Libby poked the logs more violently. Since the age of seventeen, when she had finally realized she wasn’t going to grow another inch and would never have womanly curves, Libby had decided sex was probably overrated, anyway.

Yeah. Well. She wanted those curves now. And six inches added to her height while she was at it. Dammit, he had to stand her on the hearth just to see her face.

Libby jumped when Michael wrapped his arms around her, taking the poker away with one large hand and pulling her back against his chest with the other.

“You don’t feel like a twelve-year-old boy,” he whispered in her ear, sending prickles of awareness shooting through her. “Ya feel like fire in my hands, lass, when I touch you.”

And he did touch her then, lifting his hand to cover her breasts, pulling her more tightly against him, more intimately into the spread of his kneeling thighs. And the evidence of what he thought of her body scorched her back.

Libby took a shuddering breath, which firmed her breast into his palm when he squeezed her gently and brushed his thumb over her nipple. He splayed his other hand across her stomach, his fingers sliding lower to gently touch her woman’s place.

Libby’s response was immediate. Heat pulsed through her. Moisture gathered. And the nipple he was stroking poked through her bra and shirt, searching for more of his touch.

She tried to turn to face him, to wrap her arms around his neck and stifle her moan in his shoulder, but he held her still and continued to stroke her, sending her into a storm of raging desire.

His hand on her breast moved to the buttons on her shirt, and, with painstaking slowness, he worked them open one at a time. Libby gripped the edge of the hearth and closed her eyes as heat built inside her and moisture continued to gather against his hand between her thighs.

Her blouse finally unbuttoned, he slipped it down her arms, and his lips found the base of her throat.

Libby moaned, threw back her head, and whispered a curse.

Michael chuckled, the sound deep and warm, as he pulled down the straps of her bra and continued to make love to her neck with his mouth.

He brought both hands up to her now naked breasts, covering them, kneading them, completely inflaming her.

And then he moved to the snap of her pants.

It was all Libby could do to hold on to her sanity. His mouth was driving her into a frenzy, trailing over every inch of exposed skin. He opened her jeans and then slid his fingers inside her panties and caressed her intimately.

Libby cried out and twisted, trying to face him, but he still refused to let her move. He just kept working his magic with his hand, building her desire with his fingers, making her yearn for more.

“Let go, lass,” he whispered into her hair. “Burst into beautiful flame.”

She didn’t want to, didn’t know how.

She was scared. Confused. Unsure.

“I’m right here to catch you, Libby,” he thickly continued, his lips brushing her ear, his breath caressing her senses, his hands working their magic. “I won’t let you fly away, lass. Let go,” he tenderly urged, pushing one finger deeply inside her.

And Libby obeyed in a mindless storm that started deep inside her and spiraled outward and upward and escaped from her throat in a cry of pure pleasure. She convulsed around him, and Michael leaned over her, pulled her mouth to his, and captured her scream.

It lasted forever, this wondrous thing, and Libby clung desperately to his hand as pulse after sensuous pulse of pleasure ran through her trembling body.

“Sometimes a woman’s scream is like music,” he whispered, kissing her, gentling her with tender caresses, slowly bringing her back to reality.

Libby melted against him with a shuddering sigh, willing her pounding heart to slow down. She finally opened her eyes, blinked at the fire, and blushed all the way to her socks.

Michael laughed, lifting her with him as he stood. Before she could catch her breath, he swept her into his arms and set them down on the couch, cradling her on his lap in a tender cuddle. Libby attempted to pull her blouse closed, but he stilled her action, instead using his broad, warm palm and strong, masculine fingers to cover her breasts.

Libby’s blush intensified.

His smile turned smug. “That was your first time,” he said with undisguised male satisfaction.

Not quite sure how to respond to that statement and still trying to gather her wits back, Libby remained mute.

He absently caressed the side of her breast. “And that, lass, answers some of my questions but creates a few more.”

Libby still couldn’t find her voice. It might be because her heart was still racing a mile a minute or because she was sprawled across Michael like a shameless hussy. Or maybe she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she would scream again—and it wouldn’t sound like music this time.

“How is it that a woman your age hasn’t ever experienced an orgasm?”

Libby flinched at his blunt question and finally found her voice. “I guess the foreplay is over.”

He nodded. And smiled crookedly. “It is for now,” he drawled. “The moment I realized you were a virgin, I completely disgraced myself like a boy of ten.”