swallow, to give himself a moment to get past the aching lump of emotion that had formed in his throat. “When I look at you,” he whispered, “I justknow .”
And he realized that sometimes the simplest words were all it took. He loved her, and he knew, and that was all there was to it.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you.” He kissed her softly. “I love you, and I would be honored if you would allow me the privilege of spending the rest of my life making you happy.”
She nodded, tears slipping from her eyes. “Only if you will let me do the same,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, this time more deeply. “It would be my pleasure.”
The time for words was over. He moved to his knees, pulling his shirt from his trousers and sweeping it off with one fluid motion. Her eyes widened at the sight of his bare skin, and he shuddered with desire as he watched her reach slowly out to touch him.
And then when she did, when her hand found his heartbeat, he groaned, unable to believe that one tiny touch could set him afire.
He wanted her. Dear God, he wanted her like nothing he’d ever known, nothing he’d ever imagined. “I love you,” he said, because it was in him, and it had to come out. Again. And again. He said it as he slipped her nightgown from her body, and he said it as he shed the last of his own clothing. He said it when he finally held her against him, completely and utterly, with nothing between them, and he said it when he settled between her legs, preparing to make that final move, to enter her and join them forever.
She was so hot against him, so wet and welcoming, but he held back, forcing himself to stand firm against his raging desire.
“Annabel,” he rasped. He was giving her this last chance to say no, that she wasn’t ready, or she needed words in a church first. It would kill him, but he would stop. And he hoped to God that she understood all of this, because he didn’t think he could manage another word, much less a complete sentence.
He looked down at her face, flush with passion. She was breathing hard, and he could feel every gasp in the rise and fall of her chest. He wanted to take both of her hands and hold them over her head, make her his captive, keep her here for an eternity.
And he wanted to kiss her, tenderly, everywhere.
He wanted to slam into her, showing her in the most primitive way imaginable that she was his, and his alone.
And he wanted to kneel before her, begging her to love him forever.
He wanted everything with her.
He wanted anything with her.
He wanted to hear her say—
“I love you.”
She whispered it, the words coming from deep in her throat, far down to the very center of her being, and it was all that it took to set him free.
He pushed forward, moaning as he felt her grasping him, pulling him in. “You’re so…so…” But he couldn’t finish the thought. He could only feel, and sense, and allow his body to take over.
He had been made for this. For this moment. With her.
“Oh God,” he moaned. “Oh, Annabel.”
With each push, she gasped, arching her back, lifting her hips, drawing him closer. He was trying to go slowly, to give her time to adjust to him, but every time she moaned it was like a spark that fired his blood. And when she moved, it only brought them more deeply together.
He took one of her breasts in his hand, nearly losing himself then and there, just with that. She was perfect, overflowing his fingers, soft and round and glorious. “I want to taste you,” he gasped, and he brought his mouth to her, flicking his tongue across the tender tip, feeling a moment of pure masculine triumph when she let out a tiny shriek, bucking off the bed.
Which of course only brought her more deeply to him.
He suckled her then, thinking she had to be the most glorious, the most womanly creature ever made. He wanted to stay with her forever, buried inside, loving her.
Just loving her.
He wanted this to be good for her. No, he wanted it to be spectacular. But it was her first time, and he’d been told that the first time was rarely good for a woman. And he was so damned nervous that he was going to lose all control and take his own pleasure before he could help her reach hers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous making love to a woman. But then again, what he’d done before…that hadn’t been making love. He hadn’t realized it before now. There was a difference, and the difference was in his arms right now.
“Annabel,” he whispered, barely recognizing his own voice. “Is it…? Are you…?” He swallowed, trying to form a coherent thought. “Does it hurt?”
She shook her head. “Only for a moment. Now it’s…”
He held his breath.
“Strange,” she finished. “Wonderful.”
“It only gets better,” he assured her. And it would. He began to move within her, not those first hesitant motions when he’d tried to set her at ease, but something real. He moved like a man who was coming home.
He slid a hand between them, reaching down to touch her, even as he thrust inside. Her hips nearly rose from the bed when he found her, and he stroked and teased, spurred on by the quickening of her breath. She grabbed his shoulders—hard, with tight, tense fingers, and when she called out his name, it was an entreaty.
She wanted him.
She was begging for release.
And he swore he would give it to her.
He brought his head to her breast again, nipping and licking. If he could have he would have loved her everywhere, all at once, and maybe she felt like he did, because just when he thought he might not be able to hold off any longer, she bucked and tensed beneath him. Her fingers bit into his skin, and she tightened around him, squeezing, quivering. She was so tight, her muscles so powerful that she nearly pushed him out, but he surged forward, and before he knew it, he had spilled himself within her, reaching his climax at the very moment she started to come down from hers.
“I love you,” he said, and he curled against her side. He pulled her against him, fitting like two spoons in a drawer, closed his eyes, and he slept.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The sun rose early this time of year, and when Annabel opened her eyes and checked the clock on the table beside her bed, it was barely half five. The room was still quite dim, so she slipped out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and walked to the window to open the curtains. Her grandmother may have given tacit permission for Sebastian to stay in her room the night before, but Annabel knew that he could not be there when the rest of the house woke up.
Her room faced east, and so she took a moment at the window to enjoy the sunrise. Most of the sky still held the purple tones of night, but along the horizon the sun was painting a brilliant stripe of orange and pink.
And yellow. Right there on the very bottom, yellow was beginning to creep into view.
The slanted light of dawn, Annabel thought. She still hadn’t finished that Gorely book, but something about the first line had stayed with her. She liked it. She understood it. She wasn’t a
