“Don’t,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful, Margaret. Every inch of you.”
“I’m not—I don’t know what I’m supposed to?—”
“You’re not supposed to do anything except feel.” He stepped closer, his hands sliding around her waist. “This isn’t a performance. It’s not something you have to get right. I just want you to be here. With me.”
The words broke something in her. Some last wall she’d been holding up. “I want that, too,” she whispered.
“Then lie down for me.”
She moved to the bed, aware of how exposed she was. How vulnerable. But when she looked at Henry—at the way he was removing his own clothing with steady, deliberate movements—she no longer felt vulnerable. She felt powerful. Desired. Chosen.
When he was finally naked, she couldn’t help but stare. His body was beautiful—all lean muscle and warm skin. And lower?—
Her eyes widened.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently. “We’ll go slowly. I promise.”
He joined her on the bed, settling beside her rather than over her. His hand traced lazy patterns on her stomach, her ribs, the curve of her waist.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m nervous.”
“We can stop?—”
“No.” She caught his hand, pressed it to her breast. “I’m nervous, but I want this. I want to know what it feels like.”
“What what feels like?”
“To be wanted.” Her voice broke. “To be more than a widow. More than a burden. I want to feel like a woman, Henry. Your woman.”
His breath left him in a rush. “Margaret?—”
“Make me forget,” she whispered. “Make me forget the lies and the performance and everything I was supposed to be. Make me feel real.”
He groaned and kissed her—deep and claiming and full of promise. “I’ll make you feel everything,” he said against her mouth. “Every single thing you’ve been missing.”
His hand slid lower, over her belly, down between her thighs. When his fingers touched her, she gasped.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Let me learn you.”
He explored slowly, carefully, paying attention to every sound she made, every way her body responded. When he found the place that made her cry out, he circled it gently.
“There?” he asked.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
He kept touching her, building the pleasure slowly, steadily. She felt herself climbing toward something, some peak she didn’t understand but desperately needed to reach.
“That’s it,” he said. “Don’t fight it. Just feel.”
When her pleasure finally crested, she shattered. Her body arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders as wave after wave swept through her.
She came back to herself slowly, found him watching her with such tenderness it made her chest ache.
“That was—” She couldn’t find words.
“That was you,” he said. “Free. Real. Mine.”
