He showed her the joys of waking up together, of meeting the morning as one.
He showered her with sensations—sharp, sweet, and laden with pleasure.
His every touch struck her more acutely, her reactions stronger, more powerful, more intense. Her perceptions expanded, and she drank in every tactile joy he lavished upon her.
When he joined with her, spooning her and pressing deep, she lost her breath, smothered by glory. By the golden depths of what surged between them, so much more—soverymuch more—than before.
They rocked together, not so much driven as devoted. Assured of who and what they were and where they were going.
Committed, hand in hand, they trod the path to ecstasy. He worshipped her with his body; that was the only way she could think to describe the focus he brought to the act.
This was real—their new reality. With every touch, every surging, rolling thrust, he assured her of that.
In wordless reply, she tightened about him, holding him for a heartbeat before easing her muscles and letting him draw back.
They rode on, steadily, unhurriedly, with passion and desire and need and hunger riding beside them, yet for once, not overwhelming them.
When, finally, the compelling force rose to a level impossible to deny, they surrendered and let the wave of their own making sweep them up and away.
They shattered on the rocks of a glorious passion and lay wrecked and open as, bound up with ecstasy, joy, and delight, satiation and completion rolled into and over them.
As she sank beneath the wave, she knew she was smiling. Devotion, commitment, and worship—a practical definition of love made manifest.
Eventually, Devlin stirred. He drew back, then leaned over her to brush his lips to the corner of hers.
“I love you.” The whispered words fell by her ear.
Eyes still closed, her lids too weighted to lift, she smiled and murmured back, “And I love you.”
Even though she couldn’t see him, she sensed his pleasure, there in his touch as he brushed a last caress over her shoulder.
“I have to go. I’ll see you later.”
“Hmm.”
She felt him leave the bed, then move about the room. She stirred, then languidly stretched and looked, and saw him—gloriously naked—bending to pick up his coat and waistcoat. Appreciatively, she watched lean muscles shift beneath his skin as he collected his clothes, then walked to the door to his rooms.
In the doorway, he paused and directed a knowing glance her way.
She smiled delightedly.
Looking smug, he saluted her, and she waved him on his way.
He turned and left and closed the door behind him.
Therese sighed, then raising her arms over her head, stretched again, then relaxed. She stared up at the canopy as his “I love you” replayed in her brain.
She remembered the self-insight that had surfaced in the immediate aftermath of their nighttime engagement. She examined the thought, the conclusion, anew and couldn’t fault it.
In marrying Devlin, she’d resigned herself to never being loved in return, not in the same, all-consuming way that she loved him. She’d consigned her girlish hopes—or so she’d labeled them—to the unrealistic, never-to-be-realized pile of discarded dreams.
Last night, those girlish dreams had been resurrected and given back to her.
And their interaction that morning had confirmed that.
Her deepest, oldest, most personal dream—the one she hadn’t allowed herself to pursue—was no longer merely a possibility.
Devlin had made it a reality.
