“It was surprisingly easy.” It was, too. A shockingly simple matter to defend Kate—even against my mother. It was unbearably easy to set down the woman who raised me.
“Hugh?”
“Yes?”
“That wasn’t what I meant to say.”
“What did you mean to say?” She swallowed hard, tongue darting between her lips, drawing my gaze.Please…
“Kiss me?”Yes.
My heart skipped before resuming its beating at a more rapid tempo. I disentangled our fingers with some regret. But I was able to use my, now free, hand to tip her chin back. Just the edge of my index finger was all that I needed to direct her where I wanted her. I could not resist the urge to brush my thumb across her full, perfect, lower lip, seeking welcome. Her eyes fluttered closed and dark lashes settled on her flushed cheeks. It was my turn to swallow heavily, against nerves.
Slowly, resisting the desperate pull of desire, I leaned in. Her lips slanted against my own. Home. The lock to my key, or maybe the other way around, it was no matter. The kiss was soft, sweet, a pressing of lips and nothing more. In another life, I might have given her something similar after a period of courtship, when she accepted my proposal. Instead, it came nearly a year into my marriage. It was all the more perfect for the longing.
Reluctantly, unenthusiastically, I pulled away. I had been granted a kiss and no more. I would not press my advantage, no matter how tempting. Her lashes danced open, eyes wide and hopeful.
Her hand found its way to my chest, seemingly of its own volition. Her gaze had not left mine. Eager fingers lit a flaming path up my chest before curling around my neck. It was with both astonishment and delight that I let her tug my mouth back down to hers.
This kiss was anything but sweet, she caught my lower lip between her own, laving it with her tongue. Where did she learn that? She had no qualms about pressing her own advantage, using her grip on my neck to pull herself higher, matching her chest to mine. Curves to planes. Pounding heartbeat to pounding heartbeat.
Permission seemingly granted, I slid my hand to the divot where the back of her head met her neck. It was sized perfectly for my hand, it belonged there, now, always. The quiet moan that escaped when I tilted her where I wanted her shot straight to my groin. Her free hand fisted in my shirt, seemingly in response to my answering groan. My tongue met hers and she tasted of sherry and Kate and perfection.
This. This was what I had been missing. This singular kiss was more erotic than any single moment in our marriage bed. I was a fool. I was a prat. I had no idea I was missing out onthis. This was what the fuss was about. This is what it was supposed to be between husband and wife.
Even more reluctantly than before, I pulled away. I needed air, I needed to clear my head before this went further than either of us intended. Beyond here lay a conversation, and perhaps less drink. This was the line I needed to draw. Her forgiveness was too precious to push further. The forgiveness that was, if I was unbearably lucky, not as far away as I had once feared.
Her breath came in soft pants against my lips, and I could not bring myself to pull farther away than to rest my forehead against her own. Any more was too far.
“Kate… We shouldn’t.” Her answering whine did more for my pride than I rightfully deserved and made a far greater impact in my trousers than it ought. “I do not have your trust yet. Nor your forgiveness.”
“You do not want—?”
“Oh, I want. Very much. But not yet. Not until you feel for me the way I feel for you.”
“I do not understand?”
“You are not ready to hear it. Not yet. But you know, Kate. You must know.” She blinked slowly, the fog of drink and what I was fairly certain was lust clears slightly.
“You?” Her lips curl into a perfect pout, frozen on the last letter. I kissed it away, quickly, freely. A man could only be expected to withstand so much.
“So you do know. That is good. The words are waiting for you when you are ready for them.” There was trepidation, unease, and perhaps, just the slightest bit of hopefulness in her wide, hazy eyes. Her hand loosened its grip on my shirt and the other carded through the hair at the base of my neck, resulting in an answering shiver.
“I like your hair like this, long.”
“And the beard?”
“I like that too, you already know that.” Her hand cupped my cheek, running a thumb across the stubbly growth. “I like it when you are dressed like this too.”
“Unkempt?”
“Less put together. This is the version of you only I get to see,” she explained.
“I like that as well.”
“I also prefer when you do not wear the fencing costume.”
“Fencing costume? You mean the ame? What has that to do with anything?”
