She gave a startled gasp. Conall gripped her shoulders—almost bare, oh damn, they felt delicate—and said quietly, “Shh, it’s me, Lia. Conall.”
Her “Oh” came out in a shocked exhalation. “What are you doing…?”
He bent his head so his mouth wasn’t far from her ear. “On my way to bed.”
“Oh,” she whispered again.
His hands, all on their own, slid up and down her arms. Bare arms. He was gently kneading, arousal having slammed into him. He’d been halfway already, thinking about her. Now her hair was tickling his face. It was braided, but strands had slipped loose. The scent was tart, lemon or lime. He’d seen her shampoo in the shower, imagined her naked with the water pouring over her body and her arms raised as she washed her hair.
His hands cupped the balls of her shoulders. A shiver ran over her. Her collarbones were fragile, the skin unbelievably soft. Only a camisole with tiny straps kept him from sliding his hands down to cover her breasts. God, he wanted to strip it off her. She stood very still, as if paralyzed. He could hear her breathing, quick, hard pants. He nuzzled her cheek and murmured, “Lia.”
“What…what are you doing?”
“Touching you,” he whispered. On impulse he dropped his hands to hers and lifted them to his own chest. “Touch me,” he said, near soundlessly. She jerked, and he realized she hadn’t known in the dark that his torso was bare. He pressed her hands flat against his chest and almost groaned from the pleasure.
He removed his hands from hers. For an instant she didn’t move at all and he was afraid she would back away. Then she stroked him, almost shyly, a timid exploration that made a groan rumble in his throat.
He wrapped one of his hands around her nape, beneath that heavy braid. The other he slipped under her camisole to feel more of her soft skin. Her fingertips found his nipples and paused with interest, then skated upward as if she were discovering how his muscles lay. Once her fingers curled into his chest hair. He thought about the kneading of a small cat. His own hands had mostly stilled; he was frozen in wonder at the sensations she was awakening. Conall had never had a more sensual experience. He couldn’t make out her face, any more than she would be able to see his. The darkness was near complete with no windows opening into the hall. It was all touch, and the tiniest of sounds. The hitch of a breath, a whimper, another groan he couldn’t stop.
He wanted desperately to haul her against him, to shove his hips against hers. He wanted to rip that camisole off and feel her breasts against his bare chest. He wanted to find her mouth in the dark, swallow her small, helpless sounds, dig his fingers into the richness of her hair as he angled her head.
Instead, he stood completely still and experienced more pleasure than he’d had from a woman in…forever. It was torture, and it was exquisite.
She stroked his belly. The muscles tightened and quivered beneath her palm. She traced the line of hair to the open snap of his jeans, hesitated and then stopped.
Recoiling, she remained in place only by his hold. “No!” she whispered furiously. “I can’t.”
“Lia.” Now he bent his head and tried to find her mouth, but she evaded him, stiff, her entire body trying to pull away.
“Stop. Please stop.”
His brain was hazed by desire, but from force of will he let her go. She jumped back two feet and collided with the door frame. Her “Ow” was muffled.
He’d blown it. Upset her.
But she’d touched him, and damn it, she’d enjoyed it.
Conall realized with shock that he was shaking. There wasn’t anything he could do but say in a low voice, “I’m sorry. Good night, Lia,” and retreat.
She had hurried to the bathroom and closed the door behind her with a decisive click before he reached his bedroom.
Conall stripped and got into bed, then lay staring at the ceiling, his body ready to bury itself in hers, a hundred emotions he didn’t understand brushing against each other and rattling like a not very melodic wind chime.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY was Saturday. Lia took all three kids swimming. She didn’t wait until Conall appeared, having no desire to invite him. Not, she realized belatedly, that he likely would have come anyway, since he was trying not to be noticed.