Alone in the dark, she realized, she became the woman she was with Alex.
I trust only you and the dark always to look at me so honestly.
The idea unfurled through her like a slow, sweet poison, collapsing her thoughts and better intentions, dissolving her nerves and fear and longing into a hot, formless appetite for the whole hot press of his body against hers, atop hers. Into hers.
“There’s nothing in you to be ashamed of,” he murmured. “Never let the world tell you otherwise. Never let it trap you into hiding again. That would grieve me, Gwen . . . inexpressibly.”
She caught his hand in her own. His pulse hammered beneath her thumb, news that gladdened her in a fierce, elemental way. He was not unmoved. He was not unmoved in the slightest. “Alex,” she said.
“Gwendolyn Elizabeth Maudsley,” he said, and kissed her.
Chapter Fourteen
It was the slowest, sweetest kiss. It carried her back toward the mattress like a warm wind, and the mattress caught her, soft as a cloud, as he came over her. She twined her hands in his hair and shut her eyes, and he lowered himself against her so his chest brushed hers. His mouth charted every inch of her lips, leisurely and thoroughly, before his tongue gently pressed for entrance. She opened her mouth and he deepened the kiss, his broad palm sliding up her waist, her ribs, the side of her breast, her throat, until it cupped her cheek, large and warm, a gentle reminder that he was here, all of him, as his mouth alone made love to her.
In the darkness behind her eyes, the world contracted to this: the sheets that crackled with starch as she restlessly stirred; the light scrape of his teeth, the quest of his lips and tongue; the brush of his chest against hers. She groped blindly up his back, feeling across the muscled expanse, the sharpness of one shoulder blade, the path of his spine, which swept her hand into the small of his back, the perfect place to press him closer to her. His body came fully against hers, and with a start she remembered the rest of him, so much taller and broader and harder, pressed against her now, over and around her. Her breasts ached; she shifted restlessly against him, and his hands slid down to her sides, over and over, steady and soothing until his knuckles brushed the sides of her breasts, a touch light enough to be accidental, but not soothing at all.
Her eyes opened just in time to catch the flutter and lift of his own long lashes. They stared at each other. The silence seemed too full to break. His eyes were the shade of high alpine lakes, the color of water in spaces close to the sky; so close that she could see the flecks of gold scattered through them, secrets that so few people would ever know.
Her impulse was to shove off his jacket. To strip away his shirt. Her brain bade her press herself against him, to act quickly before he changed his mind again.
Her instincts held her still. She did not move. Some defiant impulse made her turn her face away. If he wanted her, he would have to prove it.
He smoothed his hand over her hair, pushing it away from her face, and kissed her jaw. His mouth moved down her throat, and he licked her once, where her throat joined her collarbone. A shuddering breath escaped her. She wanted to move. Her fingers curled into her palm.
His hands slid around her waist. He pulled her up and she set her face into the darkness of his throat, breathing him, her fists at her sides as his clever hands unlaced her gown.
The corset gave his fingers brief pause. “My God,” he said. “What is this?”
A giggle escaped her, scratchy and startled. “The Pretty Housemaid.”
He gave her a look through his lashes, extreme skepticism, his brow quirked. But when it came off so quickly, he leaned into her ear and growled, “Always wear that corset,” and then he was lifting away her chemise.
She was naked. Utterly bare. She felt the blush move across her skin; the air seemed painfully cool in comparison, brushing like another touch across her breasts. He went still, briefly, and then she felt the hot rush of his exhalation across her shoulder.
“Gwen,” he said. The softest thread of sound. “You are . . .”
When he did not go on, the possibilities began to penetrate her daze. She was—naked, yes, but what else? Too round? Too full? Too long in the waist? “I’m what?” she whispered.
His hands moved slowly over her waist, one finger tracing a slow line to her navel, up her abdomen, to her collarbone. “You’re the palette from some pre-Raphaelite’s dream,” he murmured. “Cream and strawberry and scarlet. You are . . . beyond my imagination. It’s a wonder you can be touched at all.”
She stared at him. His words were so far removed from her worries that for a moment, they did not seem to address her concerns in the least. And the next moment, as they turned in her brain, they seemed to reassemble her expectations entirely. Round, full, long-waisted, what matter?