“This is all secondhand, as I’ve never shaved my face before, but I believe you spread on the shaving cream, then slide the edge of the razor over your beard.”
“Shaving cream.” He squirted some into his hand, then ran his tongue over his teeth. “Not toothpaste.”
“No, I...” It didn’t take her long to get the picture. Leaning back against the sink, she covered her mouth with her hand and tried, unsuccessfully, not to giggle. “Oh, Hornblower, you poor thing.”
Cal studied the can in his hand. As he saw it, he really had no choice. While Libby was bent nearly double, he turned, aimed and fired.
Chapter 8
She awakened slowly, muttering a bit when the sunlight intruded on her dreams. She shifted, or tried to, but she was weighed down by an arm around her waist and a leg hooked possessively over hers. Content with that, she snuggled closer and had the pleasure of feeling her sleep-warmed skin rub against Cal’s.
She didn’t know what time it was, and for perhaps the first time in her life it didn’t matter. Morning or afternoon, she was happy to lie curled in bed, dozing the day away, as long as he was with her.
Drifting, nearly dreaming again, she stroked a hand over him. Solid, she thought. He was solid and real and, for the moment, hers. Even with her eyes closed she could see him, every feature of his face, every line of his body. There had never been anyone she had felt belonged so completely to her before. Even her parents, for all their love, all their understanding, had belonged to each other initially. She would always think of them as a unit, first and last. And Sunny... Libby smiled a little as she thought of her sister. Even though she was younger by nearly two years, Sunny had always been independent and her own person—argumentative and daring in ways Libby could never try to emulate.
But Cal... It was true that he had only just appeared in her life, would disappear again all too quickly, but he was hers. His laughter, his temper, his passion... they all belonged to her now. She would keep them, treasure them, long after he was gone.
To love as she did, Libby mused, when every emotion, every word, every look, had to be squeezed into a matter of hours, was both precious and heartbreaking.
He thought he’d been dreaming, but the shape, the texture, the scent of a woman’s body were very, very real. Libby’s body. Her name was there, his first waking thought. She was pressed against him, a perfect fit even in sleep. The slow, gentle stroke of her hand aroused him in the most exquisite way.
He’d lost count of the times they had moved together during the night, but he knew dawn had been breaking the last time she’d cried out his name. The light had been dim and pearly. He would never forget it. She was like a fantasy, all soft curves, agile limbs and tireless passions. Somewhere along the line he had stopped being the teacher and had been taught.
There was more to loving than the uncountable physical pleasures a man and a woman could offer each other. There was trust and patience, generosity and joy. There was the drugging contentment of falling asleep knowing your partner would be there when you awoke.
Partner. The word floated through his mind. His match. Was it fate or fancy that he had had to travel through time to meet his match?
He didn’t want to think of it. Refused to. All he wanted now was to make love with Libby in the sunlight.
He shifted, and before either of them was fully awake, slipped into her. Her soft moan mingled with his own as their lips met. Acceptance. Affection. Arousal. Slowly, drawing out the lazy delight, they moved together, their hands beginning a quiet exploration, the kiss deepening.
“I love you.”
He heard her words, a caressing whisper in his mind, and answered them like an echo as his lips began to trace her face.
The admissions shocked neither of them, as they were too dazed by the tumultuous sensations and emotions running through them. She had never spoken those words to another man, nor he to another woman. Before the impact hit home, need had them clinging closer.
Gracefully, gloriously, they took each other to the pinnacle.
Later, he nuzzled down between her breasts, but he was no longer sleeping. Had she said she loved him? And had he told her he loved her? What disturbed him most was that he couldn’t be sure if it had happened, or if it had been his imagination, something wished for while his mind was vulnerable with sleep and pleasure.
And he couldn’t ask her. Didn’t dare. Any answer she would give would hurt. If she didn’t love him, it would be like losing part of his heart, of his soul. If she did, it would make leaving her something akin to dying.
It was best, for both of them, to take what they had. He wanted to make her laugh, to see both passion and humor in her eyes, to hear them in her voice. And he would remember. Cal closed his eyes tight. Whatever happened to him, he would always remember.
So would she. He needed to be certain of his place in her memories.
“Come with me.” Sliding off the bed, he dragged her with him.
“Where?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Again?” Laughing, she tried to snag her robe, but he pulled her into the hall without it. “You don’t need another shave.”
“Good thing.”
“You only cut yourself three or four times. And it’s your own fault you used up most of the shaving cream beforehand.”