Page 71 of The Trick of It

“It is,” she answered, quick and thin before she could lose her resolve.

She had seen naked men, of course. Sculptures and bathing caravan members and the odd sailor who got a bit over-comfortable on the Brighton wharfs after a night at the Crow’s Nest. She had seen male bodies.

But never his.

And never in this particular context.

He rose slowly, leaning forward to kiss her gently on the lips, sweet and without demand, his hands squeezing her legs. He searched her eyes, as though he were memorizing her face in this moment, and then kissed her once more, on the forehead this time, before backing away, taking a stance a few feet from her and running his hands over his hair.

“This is a little ridiculous,” he told her, curls springing up between his fingers. “But I have a sudden case of nerves.”

“Do you really?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Haven’t you done this a thousand times already?”

He sputtered, a slash of heat appearing over the bridge of his nose and over his cheekbones. “Not a thousand. What do you take me for?”

She giggled, reaching up to cover her mouth. “I don’t know. Enough times, then.”

He frowned at her, though it had no gravity. “I’ve never been asked to make a show of disrobing. Typically, it is the woman whose body is revealed in such a way. Men are … erm …” He looked down at himself, shrugging. “Uninspiring?”

“Oh, I must disagree with you there,” she replied with a little, throaty sigh. “And you … Rhys, you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Truly. I am already moved just by the bits of you I can see now that I never have before.”

He twisted his lips, clearly fighting off a smile. “Oh? And which bits are those?”

“Your chest,” she pointed out. “Some of it. I think I expected … hm. More hair?”

He gave an affronted gasp, reaching up to open the collar further, revealing a few thin spirals of dark hair dotting the center of his chest, over his heart. “There’s plenty of hair!”

“Mm,” she said, her eyes falling to it, surprised at the tone of muscle that banded over his narrow frame. “Indeed. But you are elegantly adorned, not covered with a thick pelt like the sailors.”

“What sailors?!” he demanded, making her giggle again, her fingers curling over her bottom lip and between her teeth.

“May I see more?” she asked, curled and shy and utterly transfixed by the state of him there, holding his robe open at the chest like a warrior in a fresco. “Please? And I will also have more of your confessions, even if you insist on stifling your … erm … crudités.”

“That means ‘vegetables,’ not ‘crude words.’” He chuckled. “Shall I withhold both?”

“If you must,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, making him laugh this time, his head shaking. “But if you are nervous, I do not wish to press. Despite your thousands of former lovers.”

“Seph,” he said seriously. “Hundreds, at most.”

“Dozens,” she returned. “Were you shy for those dozens?”

“Well, no,” he said, releasing his lapels with a huff. “But I wasn’t in love with any of them, was I?”

She froze, the impact of what he’d said thrumming through her bones like the strike of a gong.

He went still too, that mark of heat on his nose and cheeks deepening another hue of reddish pink. And then he straightened, lifting his chin in defiance. “Was I?” he repeated firmer—but softer too.

“No,” she answered. “No, you weren’t. Because …”

“‘Because’?” he pressed, taking a step closer, the robe sagging where he’d pulled it apart, revealing more of his flesh, down over the taut bundles of muscle in his abdomen and the dip of his navel, entrancing her gaze with every new inch.

“Because,” she said, swallowing to attempt to get moisture back into her throat. “Because we have only ever loved each other.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching her, waiting until she raised her eyes to meet his, blazing now in place of that emerald-green glint. “That’s right,” he said softly. “That’s exactly right.”

His hands moved down to the sash holding the dressing gown together and pulled the knot free, watching her closely all the while. He let the fabric sag down over his bare shoulders, over the light freckles on his biceps, dotted over the indents and swells of the muscles he hid there.

His ribs swelled into view as he breathed, his forearms exposed as he shook the sleeves free, and finally, carefully, and excruciatingly slowly, he peeled off the remainder of the fluffy fabric, letting it collapse in a puddle on the floor.