Morgan barely heard her. He was staring at her mouth, the way her lips remained parted after she spoke. She had a lovely mouth, wide and sensual, plump and provocative. As he watched, Jane raised one hand. She did not try to cover her mouth. Instead, her fingers went to her throat, to the last place his mouth had been.
He saw the mark he had left on her pale skin. His brand. His mouth went dry; his eyelids drooped. Beneath his lashes, his eyes were darkening.
“Move over,” he said. There was a rasp in his throat that he did not try to clear. “You’re on my side.”
CHAPTER 9
Jane lifted the covers and inched sideways. The quilt around her shoulders bunched uncomfortably. Morgan was suddenly there to take it away. He tossed it toward the foot of the bed. Jane let him because she realized she was no longer cold. Every inch of her skin was flushed with that peculiar sort of heat that had its source inside her. Her toes curled. She slid down until she was lying on her back. She barely noticed that in this new spot the sheet under her was cool. She set her arms on either side of her but outside the blankets. She wriggled once to get comfortable and then she was still. Actually she was stiff.
She stared at the ceiling, waiting for Morgan to do something. When he didn’t, she looked at him askance. He was sitting hipshot on the edge of the bed, turned slightly in her direction. His fingers hovered over the fourth button on his shirt. The three above it were already unfastened. Watching her appeared to have arrested his movements. She had no idea why.
He said, “You have to breathe, Jane.”
Her chest fell as she released the one she had been holding. “I hadn’t realized,” she said. “I expect it won’t be the last time you will have to remind me.”
“You’re anxious.”
It wasn’t a question, but she confirmed it nonetheless. “Yes. I cannot precisely pretend I have experience when I so clearly do not. Quieting my nerves is out of the question.”
“Then stop trying. Your heart will not explode no matter that it feels as if it might. Breathe.”
She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, nodded. This time her nostrils pinched slightly as she took a deep breath through her nose.
One corner of Morgan’s mouth curled upward. “Perhaps a drink.” He started to rise, but Jane struck out with an arm and stopped him.
“No. It is always possible that I will regret it, but I prefer to be clearheaded.”
“Are you going to take notes?”
“You are not amusing.” But her primly set mouth and the fact that she was breathing easier hinted that she thought differently. Jane turned on her side and folded the pillow so her head was angled upward. She watched him finish unbuttoning his shirt. “When did you sit for the photograph you sent me?”
“About three months before my personal notice was published. Why? Do you think I’ve changed since then?”
“No. Your appearance is the same. Very fine, I would say.”
Morgan turned his head as he shrugged out of his shirt.
“Did I embarrass you? I did, didn’t I? It is no good denying it. Your coloring gives you away. Did you curse your red hair growing up? I’ll wager you did, but it’s quite beautiful, you know. It is?—”
Morgan tossed his shirt over Jane’s head and leaned forward to yank off his boots. Behind him, he heard her sputtering as if he had pitched a bucket of water at her. He also could hear her laughter bubbling under it. That decided him. He dropped his boots so they landed one at a time with a recognizable thud. All the sputtering and bubbling stopped. He stood, dropped his trousers, and slipped between the covers beside Jane before she was properly out from under his shirt. He lifted it away with a magician’s flourish, but he did not dwell on his accomplishment.
What he did was take advantage of her perfect astonishment and cover her open mouth with his own. And that was when he lost his mind. Gone was his intention to tease a response from her. He forgot about coaxing her lips to move under his and quieting her fears. He forgot his intention was to care for her anticipation, not crush it.
Instead, he went to a darker place. He had thoughts of devouring her, of not merely stealing her breath, but suffocating her, of making his claim so complete that her eyes would betray her desire every time she looked at him. And then, just when he thought he could not come back from that black hole, he remembered what it was like to be on the surrendering, helpless end of selfish passion, and he jerked his head away.
Jane whimpered. The sound lodged at the back of her throat. Her eyes were closed. She was senseless to everything but his mouth on hers. He held her head in his hands, held her still. His mouth plundered hers. Heat flared. At first she thought the damp edge of his tongue was meant to cool it, but he licked her lips with the ferocity of a flame. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth and bit down. She had sunk her teeth into her bottom lip earlier, but this was nothing like that. When he sawed and tugged, he set some thread of tension in motion that vibrated all the way to her womb. A ribbon of heat curled and twisted, rose and fell and crackled. He built a fire in the pit of her belly.
When he tore his mouth away, it was not lost that she felt, but a loss. She could have found her way back from one, but she grieved the other. Startled into awareness, her eyes opened, and she reached for him.
He had not gone away after all. He was there, looking down at her, searching her face in the lamplight, just as she was searching his in the shadow. Her hands rested on his shoulders; her fingers fluttered once and then were still.
“God.” She heard him say it softly, and even though he professed not to be a godly man, it seemed very much like the beginning of a prayer to her, perhaps thanks, perhaps relief.
Morgan bent his head again, this time with gentle intent. His mouth brushed hers. He nudged her lips carefully, laying down the kiss like a balm. He had inflicted a wound that needed tending.
Jane moved her hands from his shoulders to his elbows. She felt the strength in his arms, the cut and definition of muscles that bunched under her touch. He still held her head in his palms and there was still pressure in his fingertips. His kiss was soft; the way he cradled her head was not.
She wrapped her hands around his wrists and made a pass across the undersides with her thumbs. She stroked lightly. Once. Twice. She felt his fingers open, the pressure ease. It made her smile, and her smile changed the shape of her mouth and the tenor of their kiss.
