She settled for draping her arms over his capable shoulders and raising her face toward his. Her fingers were in the silkiness of his hair, running through it, testing the texture. Although this man had been her lover many times before, she was still discovering facets of him. New details to worship and marvel over.
The way the ends of his hair curled when it was in need of a trim.
The slash of his collarbone.
The protrusion of his Adam’s apple, so masculine and intriguing.
The whorls of hair on his chest. Not too much, but just the proper amount, setting his strong chest to distinction. A slice of his flesh there, with the promise of so much more to be discovered. His chest was mostly hidden beneath his dressing gown just now. A travesty so soon to be remedied.
She found the knot in the belt securing his robe and made short work of undoing it. The twain ends of the dressing gown parted, revealing what lay beneath. He was naked. Deliciously, pleasingly naked. She could not quell the low sound of appreciation rumbling from her.
“You are purring like a cat,” he observed with a grin as he paused in his attack on her buttons to shrug the robe from his shoulders.
An apt description, that. She would not deny it.
“I am happy and content,” she said without shame. “And so very pleased.”
The garment fell to the floor in a whisper of sound. Her hands were greedy, traveling over his chest, his shoulders. Down his arms where the muscles flexed, reminders of his quiet strength. Over his back, traveling up and down his spine. The broad, strong planes of his shoulders. All the sinews of muscle there, so barely leashed.
He was a powerful man. And yet, he was hers.
Last night had been the prelude to this, a true homecoming. Every part of her hummed with awareness, with the recognition that what transpired between them this night would be the first as husband and wife, with love between them, the ghosts of the past at last forever cast away.
He opened the buttons on her dressing gown, casting it to the floor. Beneath it, she still wore a night rail, albeit one that was fine enough to almost be rendered transparent.
“My God, Tilly. You take my breath.” His low words fueled the fires of her desire.
Tilly rose on her toes, kissing his ear, his jaw, his wonderful lips. Their mouths blended, moving together in unison. This kiss was an awakening as much as it was a reunion. It was love and desire and longing mingled into one.
His walking stick fell to the floor with a thump, reminding her that it would likely be far more comfortable for him if they moved to the bed. She ended the kiss with reluctance, and then bent to retrieve it for him with haste, pressing the gilt-tipped hilt into his hand as she rose once more.
“Come to bed with me, my love.”
He nodded. His free hand sought hers, and they moved together to the bed they had once shared. Memories, made bittersweet for the time they had been torn apart, washed over her. She clung more tightly to his hand.
“I am not going anywhere,” he reassured her, as if he sensed the direction of her thoughts.
She raised his hand to her lips for a worshipful kiss. “Nor am I. You are stuck with me quite firmly, I fear.”
“You have always been in my heart, even when I was gone, and even when I allowed my hatred and anger to make me doubt you.” He set his walking stick aside as he slid into the bed, plucking at her nightgown. “Off with this, my love.”
She had to stop for a moment, to bask in the sight of him, gloriously naked in her bed. He looked at home, as if he belonged there, his big, lean body a marvel she could not wait to worship.
Catching her night rail in her fists, she hauled it over her head, then let it sail over her shoulder wherever it would fall. She joined him on the bed, determined to bring him pleasure, to show him with deeds how much he meant to her, how much she had longed for the day when he would come to her freely, with an open heart and mind and with love.
“How perfect you are,” she said, kissing everywhere she could. His shoulder, his chest, down the taut plane of his abdomen.
“I am not perfect everywhere, I fear. My ankle will never be what it once was. Nor will I ever again walk without the use of a cane.” Although his voice was rough with passion, there was also a hint of hesitation.
And there it was, a reference to the past neither of them had broached since their return to Haddon House. She moved closer to him, until her body was aligned with his, from shoulder to hip, as if she could somehow protect him from what had happened. If only she could. She would gladly take his pain.
Tilly kissed his shoulder, her hand caressing his chest. “I am so sorry for all the pain you suffered.”
Still, she did not prod or poke. He would tell her how he had arrived at the injury in his own time, and she was willing to be patient. To let him heal at his own pace.
“It happened when I was in prison,” he said, his fingers sifting through her hair, his baritone a beloved rumble beneath her ear as she lay her head on his chest. The steady, reassuring thump of his heart was both reminder and reward, proof he had survived the hell of the past and that he would never be made to suffer again.
“We need not speak of it if you are not ready,” she told him, kissing his chest, inhaling deeply the scent of him.
