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relaxed at his sides.
    And the rest . . . the privy part . . . the part depicted in the naughty drawing . . .
    It was remarkable. It swayed as he walked, the firm head of it bobbing. Thick curls of dark brown hair surrounded it and almost obscured the sight of full, heavy ballocks dangling below. The rest of his body was so hard and firm, nothing jiggled. But his . . . his penis danced merrily as he came toward her.
    He drew down the sheets. Gently, he reached down and pushed her legs apart.
    It was truly going to happen. Her very first time. Sudden realization made her body tense and made her legs resist him.
    “Touch me,” he commanded softly. His eyes were hot with lust, but not overly confident. His word had been both a hungry, vulnerable request and the demand of a lusty man. “Please, sweet nymph, stroke my cock.”
    She hadn’t thought of touching that part of him. Shoulders, chest, back, even his buttocks—those places Octavia had imagined running her fingers over. But not down there.
    She lay on the bed, completely naked to him. Yet she was afraid to reach out and . . . Well, what did she do? Rub it? Grasp it? Pull it? What would he like?
    His lips curved, his white teeth flashed, but she was astonished to see his smile looked uncertain. “Touch me like this?” he asked.
    Before her stunned eyes, he wrapped his large hand around the shaft of his penis. What had terrified her, he did with ease. It was obvious he had touched himself before.
    He gave one long stroke of his hand along the shaft, groaning. When his palm reached the head, he squeezed. Clear fluid bubbled out.
    While she stared, amazed at the things the picture hadn’t depicted—the fluid, the agonized look in his face, the shiny tautness of the head—he clasped her hand and put her palm to the hot shaft.
    It pulsed gently against her skin. She tried to stroke as he had done. But her hand stuck to his skin and tugged hard. He grimaced, and she gave a stumbling apology.
    She loosened her grip and slipped her hand up to the head. She squeezed but with barely any pressure. He urged her to do it harder, and Octavia obeyed, then he gave a pained squeak.
    Instantly she released him. She had no idea how to deal with this appendage of his.
    He fondled his ballocks, letting them spill over his fingers. Octavia stared—it was one of the most erotic things she’d ever seen, watching the soft pouch, intriguingly wrinkly, fall over his fingers. She knew it was a sensitive place, yet he was surprisingly rough. No wonder he had nipped her nipple.
    She tried to fondle the soft sack and his firm testicles as he had, until he delicately moved her hand away, and she realized she’d hurt him. Wearing a wry look, he stroked her face. “You aren’t experienced, are you, love?”
    “I am.” But she knew she wasn’t convincing—she’d practically injured him while fondling his private parts.
    He frowned. Then he got off the bed and stood beside her.
    What had happened? She’d revealed that she had lied about her experience. But did that really mean he was going to stop?
    She hadn’t been any good, and obviously he didn’t want her
    To her horror, a sniffle broke the sudden, awful quiet. Sutcliffe jerked his head down—he’d been staring up at the bed canopy—and he looked at her.
    “You’re crying.”
    Even with her mask, he knew. She was embarrassed to show her emotions so blatantly. “I wanted . . . passion. And you gave me some when you—you kissed my breasts.” Octavia winced as her cheeks caught flame again.
    But this was her one night, and she wanted it to be as close to her dreams as possible. Sutcliffe was listening, so she had to explain. “You were passionate before; now you seem so cold. What have I done wrong?”

    Matthew couldn’t deny her accusation. The icy guilt he had been trying to fight had swamped him as soon as he’d realized she was definitely lying.
    His nameless lover might be innocent, but she was sharp and perceptive. For