He gave her a cheeky grin. “I am extremely good at most things. Are you alright?”
“I am—” She considered. “I am substantially better than alright.” She paused. “Though I may need a moment before I can confirm my own name or do basic arithmetic.”
His smile grew. “Take the moment,” he said. “I intend to take mine.”
She watched him remove the remainder of his clothing with the same unhurried efficiency he’d thus far applied to all things. She had known, in the same vague abstract way she had known everything else about tonight, that there would be—more of him. That he was a large man and therefore the logistics would be—proportionate.
His thighs were sculpted perfection. Which she supposed matched the muscular physique of his torso. And then there was the rest of him. The abstract, she was learning, was a very inadequate preparation for the particular.
“You are staring,” he said.
“I am,” she agreed, without any intention of stopping. “You are like a statue come to life. Though statues aren’t normally so…” She waved her hand in the general area of his groin.
That made him laugh. “I suspect if sculptors gave statues erections, people would make a game of breaking them off. Much like the great Sphinx and his missing nose.”
She laughed with him and found she could not stop smiling.
“I find I quite enjoy sharing humor in the bedroom,” he said. “It is a first for me.”
“You are getting all of my firsts so I am grateful to have one of yours.”
He came back to her and she felt the weight of him settle beside her, against her, and then he was looking at her again with that expression she had no name for, and his hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face.
“You are so beautiful,” he said.
She swallowed hard. “I am glad you think so.”
He leaned forward and kissed her.
Then he moved his body atop hers, and she spread her legs to accommodate his size.
“This part,” he said quietly, “will be uncomfortable. I’ll go slowly. Tell me if you need me to stop.”
“I won’t need you to stop,” she said.
“Imogen.”
“I won’t,” she said firmly. “I am not fragile, Tristan. Remember, sixth of eight daughters, seventh of all nine of us. I can survive this.”
Something moved through his expression. “Yes,” he said. “I rather think you can survive most things.”
She rather loved the feel of his weight on her, all the hardness of his frame poised above.
He was as good as his word—slow, and careful, and he watched her face throughout with absolute attention. She winced when he seated himself fully inside her, and then he stilled.
It was—strange, having him inside her body. Fuller than she had imagined, and more present, and devastatingly intimate. In that moment, she realized how thoroughly she had committed herself to this man today. Then he moved.
And the sensations were spectacular. She raised her legs, wrapping them around his waist and he groaned his approval.
“Please tell me you’re alright because you feel unbelievable and I want to move more.”
“Don’t hold back, Tristan. I am yours.”
She had thought, given everything that had preceded it, that she would be spent. That the well would have been thoroughly emptied and there would be nothing left to surprise her. She was incorrect about this.
It turned out there were, as he had implied at the dressing table, several more steps to the process. She found herself gripping his back with an urgency she suspected was leaving marks.
“Imogen.” Her name in his voice, lower than she had ever heard it. He sounded completely undone, and in that moment, she knew she would love him. As readily as she had given him her body, she would give him her heart.