She shook her head but did not dislodge his finger. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I don’t have the words, not the right ones, but what you make me feel about myself, what you make me know, all of that is so much more than fine. You are good, Remington. Very good.” A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “You’re blushing.”
He did not attempt to deny it. There was no point when he could feel the warmth rising under his skin. “Those words you said you didn’t have? They were nice.”
She took his hand and raised it to her mouth. She kissed the fingertip that had been holding her chin hostage. “I need to excuse myself.” Her eyes darted in the direction of the bathing room. “I won’t be long.”
Remington nodded. He lifted the covers so she could slide out. Somehow she managed to find the towel he had been wearing and wrapped herself in it before she rolled out of bed. Watching her walk away, he said, “You can’t imagine how much I regret not tossing that one aside when I had the chance.”
“You never had the chance,” she reminded him, but then, just as she reached the doorway, she turned, gave him her sauciest smile, and while his eyes were riveted on her mouth, she dropped the towel.
Remington groaned and flopped onto his back when she disappeared from view. “You have no concept of fair play,” he called out. He heard her offer some kind of reply but could not make it out through the closed door. He stretched toward the bedside table and turned back the lamp, then rolled back to the middle of the bed and folded a pillowunder his head. He had managed to erase the odor of whiskey from this breath but not its effect on his brain. He was tired. It was not a decision to close his eyes; it was more that he had no choice.
When Phoebe returned to bed, she found Remington deeply asleep. She crawled naked into bed beside him and used his body like a bolster at her back. She arranged one of his arms so that it hugged her waist and pushed her bottom snug against his groin. She smiled to herself when his penis stirred and he did not. He would probably add it to his regrets when she told him about it later. It was her last thought before she fell asleep.
And it was gone from her mind when she woke. Remington was deep under the covers, his face buried between her parted thighs, his tongue darting in a way that brought a sharp rise of pleasure each time it flicked over her skin. She had a drowsy memory of desire unfulfilled when she had left his side earlier, and he was laying that to rest now. Her fingers curled in the covers; her heels dug into the mattress. She inhaled in jagged little gasps that marked the steep climb of pleasure.
Phoebe closed her eyes, finding that even the deep shadows of the room were distracting to what she was feeling. He was tugging on a single thread of pleasure and she was unraveling. It did not frighten her, this feeling of abandon; she welcomed it, welcomed the anticipation, and embraced every nuance of the sensations that followed.
When his head appeared from under the covers, he regarded her with what she deemed was indecent satisfaction. She forgave him because she, too, was indecently satisfied, and reproaching him required infinitely more energy than she had now or in the immediate future.
Her perfect exhaustion was the same reason she did not try to stop Remington when he rolled out of bed. She did not even turn her head to follow his shadowed movements as he padded to the bathing room, and she was barely recovered enough to hold up the covers for him when he returned to the bedside.
He got in, and with no word passing between them, they inched together until they found the sweet spot where two bodies could lie as easily as one.
“When are you going to marry me?” he asked, nudging the crown of her head with his chin.
“Soon, I think.”
“There’s a judge here right now who would do it.”
“How do you know that?”
“I asked him. He was one of the men playing cards with Mrs. Tyler this afternoon. I saw him again at another table when I was talking to Junior and his wife.”
“Oh, of course, you would know him.”
“He wasn’t particularly pleased to see me outside of his courtroom,” said Remington. “Mostly because he was losing badly.” He waited for Phoebe to respond to his overture. When she didn’t, he prompted her. “So?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. If we did, would you want to tell everyone when we get back?”
Treacherous waters, Remington thought, and stepped in them anyway. “Yes, wouldn’t you?” She didn’t answer, which was answer enough. “I see.”
Phoebe closed her eyes. His throat sounded tight.
“I think I need to ask you again, Phoebe. Are you going to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“But not tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” she repeated.
“And not the day after that,” he said.
“Probably not.”
“But soon, you said. You think.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
