And yet he didn’t think he hadeverdone this. A woman and a bed equaled mutual ravishment, in his experience. An efficient satisfaction of appetites. No cozy preparations. No homely getting into night clothes.
Behind him, a beautiful woman was unpinning her hair. He glanced over his shoulder in time to watch it spill in a dark wavy tumble down past her shoulder blades. His heart stopped.
He heard her unlaced walking boots land lightly on the floor—tap! tap!
It was a ridiculously erotic sound.
He, however, struggled a little to get his boots off. Perhaps in part because his hands were not so steady.
She noticed.
“I will help,” she said reasonably. “Do not bend.”
He was amused at how little he minded taking orders from her.
The sight of her kneeling before him slipped beneath his control and his animal instincts reared up and he slapped them back with some effort.
She staggered backward with a boot in her arms and they both laughed.
The two of them in stocking feet. Ridiculous, and moving.
He felt somewhat abashed. And strangely new.
He ought not feel so absurdly, simply happy, and awkward, and new given the current circumstances of their lives.
It just seemed the moment contained so many unexpected gifts: Her trust. Her presence. The solitude. Something beautiful glimmering on the far horizon, increasing in brilliance, that they were moving toward together.
He lay back first.
She stood at the foot of the bed and watched him.
“Here is where I thought your head should go,” he said gruffly. He tapped his shoulder with his hand.
Something fierce and tender surged in her expression, suppressed quickly. “It will be a fine pillow,” she said gravely.
She moved, unhesitatingly, to her side of the bed. Then stretched out, and scooted until her body was up against his, and her head found his shoulder.
The sweet, soft shape of her body alongside his was the kind of hybrid bliss/torture he could never have possibly imagined.
He layered the two of them with the quilt, and the coverlet, and his greatcoat, and her pelisse.
And then once they were submerged in this nest, he gingerly, slowly, looped his arms around her.
He realized his breath was held.
She rested her hands on top of his. Her hands were icy, and he folded his hands over hers.
Her slim wrists that Brundage had held in one fist.
His teeth ground together at the choking wave of fury and pain. If he tensed, she would notice.
He wanted to lay his lips against the pulse beating there.
He frankly, of course, wanted to lay his lips on every part of her.
And he knew how to seduce artfully. He loved women’s bodies, their curves and hollows and the soft swells of their hips and breasts. He loved discovering their secrets—the places that made them moan with helpless pleasure when he visited them with his lips or fingers.
And dear God, he was merely made of flesh and blood. It had been three years—three years—since he’d made love to a woman. It remained an inalienable fact that he wanted to ravish her, and he was certain she knew it, and in knowing this she was a lamb lying down with a lion. He’d never dreamed that he could burn so intensely for her and yet find an almost equivalent richness in just being with her, in this moment.