“You damned little . . .” He had no time to search out the right word, for she pressed herself against him, her hand between them, holding him gently but firmly.
“I am not afraid, Michael. Not of you, in any case. Please, be my husband.”
“Oh damn,” he said, still not moving. Suddenly she released him and moved away. He drew a jagged breath, aware of relief and dreadful disappointment.
He reached out his hand, not really meaning to, thinking that perhaps she was upset and needed reassurance. His hand met bare flesh. Her shoulder. She’d pulled off her nightgown. Very slowly he rose from the bed. He lit one lamp, turning to face her.
A sheet was pulled just barely over her breasts. She looked very beautiful, her eyes luminous, her hair tousled about her face, her shoulders white and slender.
She was smiling at him.
“You look silly in that nightshirt,” she said.
“Yes,” he said finally, “I suppose I do.” He pulled it off, standing very quietly at the end of the bed, naked. He was aware that she was studying him, and his member, the focus of her attention, thrust outward.
“Have you had enough yet?” he asked, his voice hard.
He watched her lick her lower lip. “Oh no,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Please, Michael, don’t be afraid of me.”
“I am afraid for you, Jules. Look at me, for God’s sake!”
“I have, and you’re beautiful. You were perhaps more romantically beautiful that night on the beach when you came out of the water—”
“I am not beautiful. I am a big, hairy man, and you know very well that if I touched you, you would hate me.”
“And be terrified of you?”
“Yes, damn you!”
“Aren’t you getting cold standing there with only your hairy chest on?”
She was goading him, and doing it very well, he thought, frowning at her. She let the cover slip, on purpose of course, and obligingly he dropped his gaze.
“Jules,” he said finally, reaching for his dressing gown, “you don’t know what you’re asking. I would touch you and caress you, and I would come inside your body. It would bring back all the pain and fear you felt with Wilkes.”
She felt a surge of warmth at the very graphic image his words created in her. Wilkes and her experiences with him were a million miles away. As were those with John Bleecher.
“Please, Michael.” She wanted to touch him, wanted to feel his body covering her. She wanted him to kiss her and tell her how much he wanted her, how much he loved—Her thoughts broke off at that. He didn’t love her, at least not yet he didn’t. She would make him love her.
“Please,” she said again. “Come to bed, Michael.”
“You’re my wife,” he said very quietly to himself. He chucked aside the dressing gown and climbed into bed beside her.
He lay quietly, still uncertain. Then she was pressed against him, her soft breasts against his chest. He swallowed, and without further thought, he clasped her to him. “Oh God,” he whispered, gently pressing her onto her back. He lowered his head and lightly touched his mouth to hers. A bolt of searing need shot through him, and he trembled with the force of it. He had to go slowly, very slowly. If he frightened her, if he hurt her, he would never forgive himself. He called on every bit of experience he had. He remembered his wedding night with Kathleen, her pain when he entered her that first time. It was a pity that women couldn’t be like men in that regard. No maidenheads, no pain. He drew a deep breath. Very slowly. He merely kissed her, gently, giving her time to decide, to pull away from him, or to react to him. He felt her hand stroking down his back, caressing his buttocks.
“Jules,” he whispered into her mouth. “Let me love you, it’s better that way.”
“Why? I want to touch you.”
“Because I won’t be able to control myself,” he said, his voice raw. He clasped her hands and drew them above her head. The cover came only to her waist, and his eyes were draw
n to her breasts. “You are so white . . .” He said his thought aloud: “You are a man’s dream.”
“And you are my dream,” she said, looking at him while he studied her. She felt his warm breath on her breast. Would he touch her there, as Wilkes had done? Make her feel ashamed and somehow dirty? Stop it! He is not Wilkes!
But when his mouth closed over her, she felt a moment of utter terror. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. He was so very gentle, his tongue playful and teasing. He raised his head and looked at her in the dim light. “I don’t know where to kiss you first,” he said. “I want all of you at once.”
He came back over her and clasped her to him. He kissed her ears, the tip of her nose, smoothed her eyebrows with a fingertip, told her over and over how beautiful she was. “Now, you must learn how to kiss properly.”