His head fell back, his dark hair drifting across his shoulders, and then he shuddered with a low, pained moan. Isabel moaned with him, sweat misting her skin, and then she turned away before he saw her. Before she saw him, in all his glory.

What the devil was she to do now?

Yes, she was a sensual woman, and the sight of a man pleasuring himself would titillate her, regardless. But never to this extent. She could barely breathe, and the need to climax was near maddening. It would be foolish to tell herself otherwise.

She recognized the tendrils of heat that curled low in her belly. Some called it desire. She called it destruction.

“Lady Grayson?” he called, in that deep raspy voice.

She placed that tone now that she had heard it enough. It was a bedroom voice, the sound of a man who had just cried out his pleasure. Why he should have that voice all the time, to torment women with the desire to give him reason to sound that way, was simply wrong.

“Y-yes?” She took a deep breath, and entered.

Gray faced her wearing the new smalls. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes knowing. She had not gone undetected.

“I hope one day you do more than watch,” he said softly.

She covered the lower half of her face with a gloved hand, mortified and anguished. Yet he was unashamed. He stared at her intensely, his gaze taking in the outline of her hardened nipples.

“Damn you,” she whispered, hating him for coming home and turning her life upside-down. She ached all over, her skin too hot and too tight, and she detested the feeling and the memories it brought with it.

“I am damned, Pel, if I must live with you and not have you.”

“We had a bargain.”

“This,” he gestured between them, “was not there then. What do you propose we do about it? Ignore it?”

“Spend it elsewhere. You are young and randy-”

“And married.”