Grant flattened a palm on the back of one of her legs and wrapped the other around her hip. His large hands fit well there, and his thumb began a metronome movement across her flesh that stole her breath and her ability to stand. That thumb stroked so close to her center, brushing the curls there. So close. But not there. Not yet.
The hand he’d flattened on her calf roamed upward to explore her backside, remaining there and squeezing as he stood.
“Tonight,” he said, “you learn. But the next time, I want you to tell me what to do.”
“Yes.”
He wrapped both arms around her backside and lifted.
The world dropped out from under her, her perspective shifted, and everything shrank down to two bodies and, even smaller, to two hearts making pianofortes of their ribs. Instinct took her, and she wrapped her legs around his hips and wrapped her arms around his neck. Wrapped him up in herself.
He placed her on the bed gently, resting her head on the pillows his head laid on every night, stretching out her body along the length of the mattress that knew his body better than any other’s. He rummaged through a drawer in a nearby table for a moment then returned, something in hand, and climbed onto the bed beside her.
“What is that?” she asked, tapping on the knuckles of his closed hand.
“A French letter. I assume you do not wish to risk pregnancy.”
Shock shot through her. Why had she not considered the danger? She did not wish a permanent entanglement, but pregnancy would ensure it. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Can it really … prevent a child?”
He nodded. “It’s not entirely reliable, I’ve heard. But it is better than nothing, yes?”
Her turn to nod. She should not risk it at all. She should leave. But a wicked widow would not, and she did not want to leave him. Not now she’d ensnared him.
“Tell me how it works,” she prompted.
“It’s a sheath for my”—he chuckled, drew a line down the center of her body with his knuckles—“sword. And I put it on before I enter into you.”
“Ah.”
“Do you wish to make use of it?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
He took her chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet his gaze when it wanted to skitter, no focus at all, over the miracle view of his body.
“Now,” he said, holding her gaze, “shall I be gentle, as a woman like you rightly deserves? Or frantic, as my body is crying out for? Thoughts, Freddy darling?”
She shook her head. Both sounded perfect to her.
“Just touch me,” she said. She was no gentlewoman tonight, silent and solemn. She’d do as he’d said to do, let her hair down, strip herself of who she was, who she was expected to be, and find a new self, bone-deeper and truer than before.
Seven
Freddy always took time to make her decisions, but once she’d made them, she acted quickly. She’d asked him to touch her, but it would perhaps be best to touch him first.
She did so by reaching out—not that far because he lay so, so close already—and pressing fingertips, exploratory and calm despite how they tingled, to his chest.
He shut his eyes, his hair falling over the side of his face. “Curtains closed or open, Freddy darling?”
“Closed.” Said without hesitation. But as soon as she spoke it, she doubted her own decision. She should have pondered a breath more as she was wont to do, weighed the benefits of each.
He shifted away from her, an arm reaching above his head for the curtain and cord there.
“Wait,” she said, pressing fingertips wide and flattening her palm on his chest. It was so nice to look upon him. And though the deprivation of sight might possibly heighten other senses … “No. Leave them open.”
“If it pleases you, Freddy darling.” He settled back down beside her and dove into her, nestling his nose at the spot just behind her ear and inhaling deeply before dragging his inhale down the column of her throat. “You smell like sugar.”
“No surprise, I suppose. I do enjoy sweet things. And some days have more sugar in my tea than tea.”