Rose(106)

And George. He suffered, too.

George was trying to learn how to love. Could she desert him just when he was about to reach out to her? And not just as a lover. He was reaching out to save himself from the morass of his own doubt, from the terrible sense of worthless-ness about to drown him.

She wanted to be his lover, not his savior, but she realized it might not be possible to be the one until she had been the other. He had reached out and saved her against his will. Didn’t she owe him the same?

Maybe, but she didn’t want to stay with him because she owed him something. She wanted him to stay with her because he loved her, because he couldn’t do anything else.

That’s exactly what he said, you little fool. He said he married you because he couldn’t do anything else.

He did love her! He was approaching knowledge slowly, unable to see his way, unable to catch sight of his goal, but he was coming, steadily, inexorably.

But how long could she wait? Could she withstand disappointment once again?

She could stand anything as long as George loved her. She knew that. She might not like to admit it, she certainly didn’t want to have to endure it, but like George, she would stay because she couldn’t do anything else.

“I’ll stay if you’re sure you want me,” she said.

“Even though I can make no promises?”

“Do you want me even though I can’t make any either?”

His answer was instantaneous. “Yes. And I will make you one promise.”

Rose felt disappointment. She knew he was going to promise to take care of her. She also knew it was no longer enough.

“I promise to try to learn to love you. I want to.”

Rose was so happy she almost jumped up and threw her arms around George. She’d have done it if she hadn’t been afraid it would cause him to withdraw. He did love her. He only needed some more time to realize it.

“And I promise to wait as long as it takes.”

Rose felt as if they were pledging their vows for the first time, that this time their lives were truly bound together. If he made love to her tonight, their marriage would truly begin. She reached out and took his hand.

“Are you going to stay with me?”

“Are you sure you want me to? I can’t leave you untouched. I tried, but I can’t any longer.”

“I don’t want you to.”

George felt his whole body tremble with hunger. Even as his fingers took hers in his grasp, he felt the heat of desire begin to spread through his loins. He knew if he didn’t leave now, he’d never be able to tear himself away from her.

But he didn’t want to leave. Tonight he had decided he wanted Rose with him for the rest of his life. And he would do what it took to keep her here.

George felt the tension flow from his body. Not the tension caused by Rose’s invitation. Not the tension of anticipation that caused his muscles to quiver. But the tension that kept his senses from focusing entirely on the fulfillment of a longing that had been tearing him apart for weeks.

George moved up on the bed until he lay alongside Rose. For the first time he felt as if he belonged here. He didn’t feel the fear of his own failure or the nagging guilt about his intentions. He felt happy. At ease.

He felt content.

Almost without conscious thought, he reached out and let his fingers move over her skin. More than an act of passion, it was an act of commitment. It established a line of communication between them. It said he wanted her; he desired her. It also said he would continue to want her for the rest of his life.

His head sank until his lips brushed the top of her breast, scattering feathered kisses across her velvety smooth skin. His lips said he wanted her, that he desired her. They also said he would cherish her, that she was precious to him. That he would care for her as long as he was able.

The subtle scent of violets assailed his nostrils. He usually liked it, but tonight he wanted to inhale Rose’s scent, not something from a soap.

Yet the scent seemed to fit her. Strong, yet not heavy or clinging. Like Rose herself.

He tasted her skin. It tasted faintly of moisture. Moisture produced by the warmth of the night. Moisture produced by uncertainty. By desire.

He, too, felt damp. The fire building inside him would soon cause him to break out in a fierce sweat. Already his body had begun to swell with urgent need. George shifted to get more comfortable, to be able to roll on his elbow so his lips could range over still more of Rose’s tempting perfection. But as he planted a chain of kisses across her shoulder and along her collarbone, his body grew taut with need. His right hand covered Rose’s breast, caressing it through the thin cotton of her nightgown.

Responding to the primeval urge to capture and possess, he claimed her as his own. He encompassed her with his passion, surrounded her with his desire, draped her in his need, covered her with his heat.