Page 38 of She, Wolf, Him.

"Showman," I say.

"A poor knot."

He pushes the loosened cloth from my shoulders and kisses the place his knuckles touched. My skirt and petticoat follow. I step out of my clogs, untie the wool stockings above my knees, and roll them down before the fire. The boards are cold under my bare feet. He warms my waist through the shift.

I turn and pull his shirt over his head.

The old claw-rakes rise white along his left forearm, past the elbow, vanishing toward the shoulder. I trace one and lay my palm flat over the shoulder above it. His eyes stay on my face.

"They don't hurt," he says.

"I know."

I turn his wrist until his palm faces me. His knuckles are thick from old splits, more marks from a working life he keeps to himself. I kiss the worst of them.

"You watch hands," he says, quiet. "Most people watch eyes."

"Hands are the honest part of a person," I say. "Eyes are for showing."

He touches me gently behind the ear, and the tenderness of it frightens me more than his wanting does.

I answer the fright by taking off his belt.

He sits to pull at his boots. The left catches at the heel. He swears under his breath and tugs harder.

"A dangerous enemy," I say.

"It's followed me from Limousin."

"Give it here." I brace the sole with my foot and push. The boot comes free hard enough to send him back on one elbow across the bed. We stare at each other. Then his laugh breaks loose, low and rusty with disuse.

I climb over him before it ends.

The bed complains beneath us. It's barely wide enough for one man and his rifle habits, much less both of us. My shift bunches at my hips. He slides it up slowly, his eyes on me until I lift my arms and let him take it.

Under the first long look, old habit reaches to cover me. I don't let it. I meet his desire and stay exposed, looking back. He touches my ribs, my waist, the curve of my hip with the same attention he brings to ground no one else can read. His thumb passes under my breast. I catch his wrist and bring the touch up.

He follows with his lips. The scrape of his jaw over tender skin sends a sharp pleasure through me. I press closer, asking for more of it. When his tongue circles my nipple, I grip his hair.

"Gaspard."

He lifts his head at once.

I guide his touch between my thighs.

"There."

The touch is too light at first. I press down with him and show him the pressure. He learns quickly, reading my face until I have to shut my eyes.

Pleasure grows under his touch. I hadn't imagined how full it could be, or how completely mine. I rock into it, slow at first, then harder. His name leaves me again. I don't lower my voice for the widow or the village or God.

Pleasure sharpens until I can't hold still. I bow over him, my forehead against his upper arm, and let the cry leave me while he keeps the pressure I showed him. When even that becomes too much, I catch his wrist and draw it away.

When I raise my head, he looks at me with want and wonder. No man has ever looked at anything I gave him as if the gift surprised him.

I kiss him and reach for the fastening of his breeches.

He helps me push them down, lifting his hips. The last of our clothes goes over the bed's edge. His body is long and lean under mine, scarred in more places than I saw standing. I learn the shape of him by touch. I stroke him once. His breath catches, and the sound pleases me enough that I do it again.