“That,”he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek, his voice low and husky,“was only the beginning.”
And as his lips descended once more, capturing hers in a kiss that was both tender and demanding, she wondered what other pleasures he had in store. Her heart raced with anticipation.
His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, his body pressing against hers, his hardness a promise against her thigh, and she knew this was just the first chapter in a story that would leave her breathless, craving more.
"What about you?" she asked, her hand moving toward the fall of his breeches.
He caught her wrist, bringing it to his lips. "Tonight was about you. About showing you what this could be between us."
"But you didn't?—"
"I know." His smile was strained. "And I'm going to pay for it later. But I meant what I said, Isobel. I want you to choose this. All of it. When you're ready. Not because you feel obligated or vulnerable."
She studied his face, seeing the cost of his restraint in the tension around his eyes, the rigid set of his jaw. He was giving her control. Truly giving it, not as a game or a ploy, but as a gift.
"You're really quite remarkable," she whispered.
"I'm really quite desperate," he corrected. "But I'll survive. Probably."
She laughed, the sound breathless and wondering. "Stay."
"What?"
"Stay with me tonight. Just... hold me. Please."
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, hope, tenderness. "Are you certain?"
"Yes." She nestled closer, resting her head against his chest, listening to the rapid thunder of his heart. "I'm certain."
His arms tightened around her, one hand stroking through her damp hair. "Then I'm yours for as long as you'll have me, wild cat."
They lay like that in the candlelight, wrapped in each other's arms, the silence between them now comfortable instead of tense.
And as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, Isobel realized something that should have terrified her but somehow didn't:
She was falling in love with her husband.
And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a frightening thing after all.
Twenty-One
Andrew woke to the unfamiliar weight of another person in his bed.
For a moment, disoriented by sleep, he tensed, then memory flooded back. Isobel. Her begging.
He reminded himself that she had asked him to stay, not the other way around. He was inherbed.
The exquisite torture of bringing her to completion while denying himself. The way she'd fallen asleep in his arms, trusting and soft and utterly devastating.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and studied her face in the early morning light filtering through the curtains.
Her honey-colored hair was spread across his pillow, her lips slightly parted, one hand curled beneath her cheek. She lookedpeaceful. Younger, somehow, without the defensive walls she maintained while awake.
He'd bedded more women than he cared to count. Had prided himself on his skill, on his ability to give pleasure with practiced precision. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for what it felt like to watch Isobel come apart beneath his hands.
The way she'd begged. The trust in her eyes when she finally let go. The little sounds she'd made that were for him and him alone.
It had been intoxicating. Addictive. Utterly different from anything he'd experienced before.
