Wicked Becomes You(91)

He slid his hand up her arm, and her startled attention flew to him. “Gwen,” he said softly, and ran a rough thumb over her mouth, pushing inside. She sucked it obediently, and then watched, wide-eyed, when he put it down between them. When he touched the space where they joined, she gasped and felt herself contract.

Inside her, he pulsed.

Her mouth went dry. She swallowed with an effort and tightened her legs around his hips. She wanted to lick him, devour him, wrap herself so closely around him that no inch of his skin was spared. But she had no idea of how to do it. “I don’t . . . what should I do?”

His finger probed gently, stroking, causing her to gasp again. “There is no way to do this wrong,” he murmured, his voice like banked coals, dark and hot. “Everything about you is right.”

The words struck her dumb. So simple, they were. But such a statement . . .

She seized his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers, and he began to move again. This time, it was different. This time, she tried not to hear her doubts, and his mouth and his hands did not permit her to dwell on them. His palm at the small of her back guided her so she was moving with him, and she found a way to rub against him that stroked the pleasure higher, so suddenly they were both moaning as they moved, together, as if they were in one skin, the sweat between them no barrier; she licked a bead off his chin and he sucked her earlobe as his thrusts quickened.

The final pleasure took her gradually this time, stealing up in bits and pieces; she imagined herself as a well, being filled to the brim—a drop here, a bucketful there, slowly, pleasure mounting so slowly—and then, all at once, too much, overflowing, pure bliss. She clung to him as she trembled, then felt him move hard into her, again and again, until his own climax took him with a groan.

He pulled her on top of him as he rolled to his back, keeping her joined to him, as close as their skins would allow.

She lay listening to the diminishment of their breathing, as beneath her cheek, his heartbeat began to slow.

Gradually the silence began to assume overtones. Someone needed to say something. The thought made her tense. She could think of nothing to say. Love me, Alex, and I will never cling too tightly to you: it was the only thing she might say that was remotely close to honest. But it was still a lie.

In the end, it was he who filled the silence. He smoothed the hair away from her eyes, and then combed his fingers through her hair, an idle, contemplative gesture. “The Christmas you were eighteen,” he said. “Just before your debut. You and Richard spent the holidays at Caroline’s. I was about to make my first trip to Argentina. Richard spilled my plan to do that trek through the Andes. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she said absently. His eyelashes distracted her. They were long enough to grace a woman’s face. His eyes were purely beautiful. “The twins were furious.”

“Mm. They asked if you had any advice for their mad, suicidal brother. Do you recall what you said?”

She reached out, very tentatively, to touch his lashes. He did not flinch. He watched her, unblinking, as she ran the lightest finger across them. This is trust, she thought. “I said that I could have no opinion on such matters, as I was afraid of heights and knew nothing of mountains. And you made some irritating reply, of course—That is why ladies don’t climb mountains, or some such masculine nonsense.”

The lines bracketing his mouth creased in a smile. “Actually, your answer was slightly different. You never said you feared heights. You said, ‘I would be afraid to take some misstep and fall off.’”

“Oh.” She put her thumb to his brow now, tracing the rough arch, simply for the sheer pleasure of witnessing her entitlement. She could touch him as she liked.

His voice lowered. “And I said, ‘That is why you don’t climb mountains, Gwen.’ But now I wonder. You aren’t afraid of heights.”

“No,” she said. “Not particularly.”

“Only missteps.”

She paused midstroke. Did he mean to imply this had been a misstep? “I was afraid,” she said carefully. “For a very long time. But no longer.”

“So was I,” he said, and lifted her chin and kissed her.

The next morning, she woke twined around him, her face tucked into his shoulder, her leg between his, her arms wrapped around his torso. The hour was early; the ghostly glow of dawn barely lit the room. Alex was sleeping soundlessly, one arm thrown over his head, the other wrapped around her waist.

Disbelief moved through her, sweet as a strain of music. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she fell back asleep wondering how much she dared to dream.