For a moment neither spoke.
He closed the door softly and remained where he was, as though approaching her too quickly might startle her into retreat.
“If you are frightened—” he said gently.
“I am not frightened,” she answered, though her voice betrayed her.
He crossed the room then, slowly, giving her time to step away if she wished. She did not.
“I would never hurt you,” he said.
“I know.”
“And we have all the time in the world.”
The tension in her chest eased at that. “We have wasted too much of that already. I’m… apprehensive, I suppose, because I do not truly know what to expect. But I am not reluctant. Not in the least.”
He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly along her cheek, a touch so tender it sent a shiver down her spine. She leaned into it without thinking, the gesture instinctive, inevitable.
“Eleanor,” he murmured, as though the sound of her name alone was something he savored.
Her hands came to rest against his chest. Beneath the fine fabric of his coat she felt the steady strength of his heartbeat, and the familiarity of him — so known, so trusted — steadied the nervous flutter within her.
“This feels different,” she confessed.
“It is different,” he said softly. “But nothing about the two of us has ever been uncertain. Only delayed.”
He bent and kissed her.
It began gently, a question rather than a claim. His mouth moved against hers with deliberate care, as though he meant to give her time to retreat. She did not. Instead she leaned closer, her fingers curling into the fabric at his lapels, drawing him nearer.
The kiss deepened.
Warmth spread through her in slow, intoxicating waves. She felt the answering tension in him, the restraint he struggled to maintain, the careful control that made her feel treasured rather than overwhelmed. When his arm came around her waist and drew her fully against him, a soft sound escaped her before she could stop it.
He stilled at once.
“Too much?”
“No,” she whispered. “Not enough.”
Something in his expression changed then — wonder, hunger, relief all at once. He kissed her again, no longer tentative but still reverent, as though the very fate of the world rested upon that touch, that moment.
Years of quiet longing unfolded between them in the quiet stillness of their chamber: the glances they had not understood, the conversations that had lingered too long, the near losses that had forced truth into the open. There was tenderness in every movement, but beneath it ran a current of desire neither of them could pretend not to feel.
He rested his forehead against hers, breath unsteady.
“I have imagined this,” he admitted softly. “More times than I care to confess. And yet it is more magical than I could have dreamed.”
Her lips curved faintly. “That seems a bit of a stretch. Magical? Really?”
“Infinitely.”
He drew her closer once more, and this time when he kissed her, there was no mistaking it for anything but carnal. It was heat and longing. It was years of desperate yearning all poured into that one display. And she matched him. In every way, Eleanor with her limited knowledge, met that kiss with equal ardor.
When his fingertips drifted over her shoulder, down her arm, across her rib cage… then he tugged gently at the delicate ties of her wrapper. The garment, scant shield that it was, parted instantly, revealing the sheer silk beneath. It didn’t hide her form so much as veil it. Still visible, still tantalizing, still shocking and slightly wicked, but not bared entirely. It felt wicked and decadent. And when his gaze roamed over her with such obvious appreciation, it gave her a feeling of power she had never known.
His mouth moved from hers, skating along the column of her neck, pressing delicate kisses along the arc of her collar bone. Then lower. His lips burned a path until they reached the upper swells of her breasts. And with only a slight tug, the silk shifted over her skin, and she felt the cool air of the bedchamber whispering over the taut peaks of her breasts. But that cool air was quickly replaced with the scorching heat of his mouth.
