She must come to him. He peeled the wet coat from his body, stripped off his cravat, and forced off the linen cloth of his shirt from where it stuck to his back. The fire warmed his face and chest, yet he barely felt the contrast of the coldness of the room behind him because of her gaze. She watched his every move, and he could feel the heat of her stare behind him. He unbuttoned his trousers and rolled the wet cloth off his hips, bending over when it reached his knees, grinning when she gasped at the sight of his bare bottom. He stepped out of the wet puddle of cloth and clenched his fists, physically fighting the need to turn around, to hold out his arms to her in invitation. Instead he stepped onto the softness of the bearskin rug and lay down on his side, his bottom leg straight, the other bent upward, letting his shaft rest against his inner thigh, the hard weight of it throbbing against that sensitive skin. He held his head up with one hand and let the fingers of his other stroke the fur while he stared into the fire, and waited.
