Beats of pain drummed in Chev’s elbow. He didn’t mind the stabs. He was ashamed. He’d been rough. Which was wrong.
But what the devil was right?
“I don’t want to take you in anger.” He could barely speak. His words burned in his eyes, on his tongue, in his lips.
“You are not taking anything. I give what I give in love. I love you, Chev. I always have. I always will.”
Love.
A feeling like rain. Like a gentle breeze rising from dead calm. Like the soft relief of twilight. Like the circles she drew against his spine.
Penelope.
He listened for her breath.In. Out.The rioting anger quieted.
He opened his eyes and gazed down into her hers—half frightened, half longing, all trust. And luminous, even in the early afternoon light.
Sweet Pen.
Her gaze lulled him like a ship’s rocking.
“My body knew you at once”—she spoke mildly, tenderly, as if he had not twisted her wrists above her head—“though my mind refused to believe.”
He concentrated on her melodic tone. “You—you wanted me?”
“Did you not know?”
He’d known. Or, at least he had hoped...
“I blushed,” she said.
Blushed, yes. She had. And often.
Such were the signs of innocence. A language he could no longer speak.
But a language he could, perhaps, still understand.
“I love you, too.” He touched his forehead to hers.
He could lie with his wife. Hewouldlie with her.
He braced his knee, relieving her of some of his weight. Every muscle in his body screamed, tensed, repelled. She stilled. Frozen. Like a hunted rabbit in brush.
Or a woman seeped in pity.
Then, she circled her fingers down his spine.
He felt like an impostor.
“Cheverley,” she whispered, guiding him back.
Chev reached behind him and caught up her hand in his. Her fingers were so long, so thin, so delicate.Whydid he want to twist her fingers above her head? Pin them painfully while he rode her hard? He hated the very idea of her being helpless.
He lifted her fingers to his lips, greeting each one, learning their shape with his lips.
Gentle fingers. Penelope’s fingers.
She threaded her other hand through his hair, light and yet precise, as if she were weaving and then her fingers came to rest on the back of his neck.
