Widow - Anne Stuart [87]
“Do you want a coat or something?” he asked her. “It’s still raining and the night air is cold.”
“No, thank you,” she said politely.
“You ready?”
“Yes,” she said.
He flicked off the switch, plunging them into darkness that the flickering firelight from the living room could barely penetrate. She could be out of here in a matter of moments, she told herself. She would be safe, free.
He hadn’t moved. Neither had she. She reached out and put her hand on the tarnished brass doorknob. He put his hand over hers.
She didn’t even know how it happened. She turned and leaned her back against the door, looking up at him through the thick shadows. And then the shadows were blotted out, as he placed his body up against hers, hip to hip, chest to breast, mouth to mouth.
She was hungry for it. Hungry for him, when she had thought it was something she’d never feel. He tasted like rain and repentance, of sweet sin and the night air, and she closed her eyes and kissed him back, shivering in response.
He didn’t ask, she didn’t answer. He pressed his hands on either side of her, holding her against the door, but she didn’t feel trapped. She felt entwined, invaded, threatened and yet oddly safe. He put one leg between hers, and she could feel his erection through his jeans, pressing against her belly. She put her arms around his waist, pulling him more tightly against her, and he was strong and solid and warm everywhere she touched him.
He didn’t say a word. He picked her up in his arms, and she realized again how very strong he was. And she wasn’t afraid.
He carried her through the dark, cluttered apartment, into the bedroom where it was as warm and dark as a cocoon. She liked the darkness, the quiet rustling of her clothing as he pulled the dress over her head, the touch of his hard, deft hands on her skin.
She was standing at the edge of the bed, wearing only her underwear. Her knees were trembling, her whole body was shaking, but she didn’t move as he pressed his mouth against the base of her throat, kissing her openmouthed, breathing in her flying pulses.
And then he spoke, breaking through her drugged senses. “Yes?” It was a question, not a demand, asked patiently.
She wanted to hide in the dark, in the silence, leaving it all up to him. She wanted to lie back and close her eyes and let the magic happen, something dreamy and disembodied. But he was standing there, asking her, and she knew she had to answer.
She knew what the answer had to be. A solid, resounding no. She was through with being self-destructive. Going to bed with a liar, a user like Maguire would be the ultimate mistake. There was only one thing she could say.
“Yes.”
The room was pitch-black, but he knew she liked it that way. Needed it. He’d gotten her to say yes, to admit she wanted this. But she was still frightened, he could feel it in the hammering heartbeat, the coolness of her skin, the thready pulse beneath.
So be it. He could deal with her fear, lure her beyond her panic into a world of flesh and blood and pleasure. He just needed her agreement.
He slid his hands over her shoulders, hooking his thumbs under her bra straps and pulling them down her arms. He heard her choked gasp, but she didn’t protest.
It was the same bra she’d worn this morning, sinfully easy to unfasten. He wanted to see her breasts as he drew the bra from her body, but it was too dark. He’d have to settle for touch.
He kissed the base of her throat again, letting his teeth just brush against her sensitive flesh. And then he kissed her between her breasts, letting his tongue dance over her heartbeat.
He kissed her stomach. It was flat, and he suddenly had the strange, erotic image of her stomach rounded, swollen with his child, and he almost backed away from her, shocked by the power of that unbidden image.
He had his own fears, too. But not enough to make him pull back from her in the rich, beckoning darkness.
He reached for her panties, ready to draw them down her hips, when his hands faltered. It took him