Widow - Anne Stuart [70]
Sometime in the night she’d turned in his arms, facing him. Her hands were under his T-shirt, pressed against the hot skin of his chest, her legs were entwined with his, and when she opened her eyes his face, his mouth, were just inches away, and he was watching her out of steady, calm eyes.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her body was frozen, her hands trapped beneath his shirt, and yet she wasn’t cold. She was hot, burning, a glowing fire radiating outward.
She didn’t say a word. They were sharing the same pillow, and her hair lay tangled around them both. His mouth was so close.
And she knew he wasn’t going to bring it any closer. He was going to lie there, watching her, waiting for her to move. Waiting for her to put her mouth against his. Knowing that she would.
It was astonishingly easy and yet the hardest thing in the world. She wanted to kiss him, to feel his mouth. It was that complicated and that simple. And she did what she had to do, moving her head just enough so that her lips brushed against his.
The world didn’t end. Her body didn’t freeze, her stomach didn’t revolt. His lips felt firm, warm beneath hers, and she drew back a bit, to look at him.
He didn’t say a word, ever watchful, ever patient. So she kissed him again, a little longer this time, pressing her mouth against his, and her hands clutched at his chest beneath the loose T-shirt, and she could feel the beating of his heart against hers, faster.
She looked at him in the murky shadows, wanting some sort of sign. But none was forthcoming. He was just there, waiting for her, letting her do exactly what she wanted.
And she closed her eyes and kissed him, and he opened his mouth for her, and this time it wasn’t firm and dry, it was hot and wet, and she felt a jolt all the way down her body. For half a moment she tried to pull away, and then simply sank against him, pulling her hands from beneath his T-shirt and sliding them around his neck, pulling him closer. She felt his hands skim her face, as if he was afraid to touch her, and then he did, cupping her face lightly, as he met her unpracticed kiss with such profound gentleness that she wanted to weep with longing.
She slid down on the bed, pulling him over her so that he shut out the light, shut out reality. She took his hands from her face and slid them down her body, pressing them against her breasts, and she could feel her nipples harden beneath his fingers, through the layers of cloth, and she could feel that empty yearning in her belly, between her legs, and she was so delirious that she actually wanted someone that she almost laughed out loud.
He rose up on his elbows, looking down at her, and then without a word he pulled off his T-shirt and threw it across the room. Then he reached for hers.
She let him. She even helped him as he skimmed the shirt over her head, then reached for the wispy scrap of bra. He unhooked it with the ease of long practice, and it followed his T-shirt onto the floor, leaving her half naked beneath him, waiting for panic and finding nothing but need.
This time he was the one who kissed her. He pulled her beneath him, and the thin scraps of cotton were the only barrier between them, and she could feel his erection sliding against her. Without thinking she moved, making a cradle for him with her hips, and when she felt his tongue in her mouth her body convulsed with a tiny shiver of shocked pleasure.
She felt his hand move down her body, his long fingers slide between her legs, touching her beneath the damp cotton, and the soft sound she made was half protest, half entreaty. She wanted his flesh against hers, she wanted to feel him, she wanted everything, and when his fingers slid beneath the elastic waistband she almost cried out in relief and anticipation, knowing he’d touch her, knowing she could go someplace in the darkness and shadows that she’d never gone before, and she opened her mouth to tell him yes,