Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [51]
He studied her for a moment and then leaned down to kiss her slowly—oh, gods, so slowly—so that she might pull away if she wanted to, drawing her close to him, one arm about her waist now and one hand entangled in her hair, his lips warm and so very sweet against her own. With a soft moan she shut her eyes, and her keys fell to the floor with a clatter as she clung to him, her heart pounding wildly against his chest. So close that she could feel the ridges of gold braid pressing against her breasts, the caress of fine silk against her cheek. She trembled as she held him, frightened by the hunger she sensed in him, even more frightened by that which she sensed in herself. Never in her life had she felt such an utter lack of control—
And then the moment was over. He drew back from her slightly but did not release her. Studying her, she thought. Assessing her response. And what if he decided to press on with this evening’s sport? She had no strength to resist this man, she realized that now. Even more: she had no desire to resist him.
But he stepped back, gently, his fingers releasing her hair with obvious reluctance, stroking her cheek as they withdrew. His fingertips left lines of fire on her skin, that spread heat throughout her body. It took everything she had not to move into his arms again, to invite a more lasting intimacy. Then, suddenly, his feet brushed the keys on the floor; the unexpected noise shattered the fragile moment like glass. With a smile he stooped down and scooped them up, then placed them in her hand. Gently he folded her fingers over them, each motion a tiny caress.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said quietly.
“I would like that,” she whispered. Somehow managing to get the words out.
She thought that he would kiss her again—it seemed that he almost did—but instead he drew back from her. He was going to leave, she realized. Now. Before ... Without ... She didn’t know if she was more relieved or disappointed.
“I’ll call on you,” he promised. And then he stepped away from her, and he bowed ever so slightly—an outdated gesture, so ridiculous for others, so graceful for him—and with a parting smile he strode casually down the stairs. Owning her soul, as perfectly as if he had stayed the night to claim it in passion.
Head pounding, knees weak, she leaned against the door to her apartment and tried to catch her breath.
Dear gods, she prayed. Even her inner voice was shaking. What have I gotten myself into?
He could have done it, he thought. Could have had her tonight. Could have lost himself in the heat of her body, drowned out his sorrow in a few desperate hours of pleasure.
But he hadn’t. And that wasn’t like him.
What had happened?
Walking down the night-shrouded streets, he struggled to comprehend his own feelings. What made this woman so unnerving? What made him so uncertain about how to handle her? Surely it wasn’t a fear of impotence this time; his body had signaled its willingness to cooperate hours ago. So what was the problem? Fate had provided him with a cool, clear night and a beautiful woman, and hours of leisure to have his way with both....
Only I don’t want to hurt her, he thought.
It was a strange sensation. Usually he didn’t care what happened to women once they left his arms; the stronger ones came back for more, the weaker ones would learn to be more careful in the future. But this girl ... she awakened wholly new feelings within him, emotions he didn’t even know how to name, much less respond to. The thought that he might cause her pain for an instant, even by so harmless a vehicle as seduction, was unbearable to him. And he had seen the fear in her eyes. Pleasure also, and a hunger to match his own, but the fear was there. And he couldn’t bear to make that worse. Not for any price.
He remembered her touch on his hand,