He took several seconds to savor the moment, then he slid his hands around her waist, drew her to him, and kissed her back.
He wasn’t entirely sure when—or how—they reached his room, but then he was closing the door on the world, and his awareness shrank as he focused solely on her.
On the delights of her passion and the joy of her wordless declaration.
His heart swelled, and he seized her, lifted her, and swung her about, then backed her against the door.
And felt her lips twist beneath his and sensed her breath catch.
Alarmed, he drew back and searched her face. “What is it?”
She wrinkled her nose and raised one hand toward the back of her head. “I’m still a little sore.”
All desire effectively doused, he drew back, lowering her to her feet and holding her steady. “You need rest. Not”—he glanced at the bed—“what we were thinking.”
She frowned. “We’re supposed to be celebrating.”
He released her and stepped back. “Not tonight. At least, not like that.” Seeing the mulish protest forming in her face, he sternly stated, “Not while you’re in any sort of pain.”
She thought about forcing the issue; he could read that much in her eyes. But then she seemed to take stock of herself, of how she was truly feeling, and grimaced and frowned even more darkly. “All right,” she conceded. “You might be right. I’m too new to the activity to judge. But”—she fixed him with a near-pleading look—“can we still share a bed? It won’t feel like a celebration at all, otherwise.”
He felt himself nod. “Of course.” It might kill him to share a bed with her and not… But if that was what she wanted and needed, he would grit his teeth and bear it.
Her glorious smile dawned. “Good.” She stepped to him and draped her arms about his shoulders. “Kissing doesn’t hurt.”
So they indulged and drew out the minutes as they divested each other of their clothes. With lips and tongue, he paid homage to her curves, to her slender yet lush body, and hungered.
He had to draw back, pull back on their reins, or she would have stampeded him into the act. Discovering the bruises decorating the backs of her shoulders, along one arm, over one hip and down that thigh—in all the places on which she’d landed heavily—gave him the strength to insist that tonight, they would sleep in each other’s arms and no more.
Eventually, they settled in the big bed. In truth, tiredness was dragging on his limbs as well as on hers.
She snuggled against him, her head on his chest, her arm and one lithe leg draped across him.
He dipped his chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep,” he whispered. “We have a long ride south over the next two days.”
She replied with a sleepy groan. Within minutes, the tension drained from her limbs, and he heard her breathing slow as she slid into slumber.
He smiled into the darkness, savoring the warm weight of her, the soft promise of her body pressed to his.
This was what being in love was about—when the well-being of the one loved mattered more than anything else.
Experienced as he was, he knew of any number of ways they might have celebrated in the way she’d expected, but the truth was that, contrary to his long-held belief, he was, at heart, just the same as his father’s generation of Cynster males.
She had been hurt. She needed proper rest. She needed to recover.
She needed all those things far more than she needed another bout of lovemaking. He and she would have the rest of their lives to indulge in the latter.
His obsessive protectiveness—a force he was willing, now, to own to—was unwavering and immovable in its absolute insistence that ensuring her well-being was his first and principal duty.
His smile deepening, he closed his eyes.
In the moments while he waited for sleep to claim him, he dwelled on the rosy future unfurling before them.
He was a Cynster in love, and all that was essential to him and his future was, inexorably, falling into place.
* * *
Two afternoons later, still buoyed on a wave of triumph, their company clattered back into Sleaford.
