“I don’t know,” she admitted.
He laughed, the sound low and soft, and strangely heartwarming. “That’s a good thing,” he said, his fingers finding the loosened bodice of her gown. “A very good thing.”
He tugged, and Hyacinth sucked in her breath as she was bared, to the air, to the night.
To him.
“So pretty,” he whispered, smiling down at her, and she wondered if his touch could possibly leave her as breathless as his gaze. He did nothing but look at her, and she was taut and tense.
Eager.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, and then he touched her, his hand skimming along the tip of her breast so lightly he might have been the wind.
Oh, yes, his touch did quite a bit more than his gaze.
She felt it in her belly, she felt it between her legs. She felt it to the tips of her toes, and she couldn’t help but arch up, reaching for more, for something closer, firmer.
“I thought you’d be perfect,” he said, taking his torture to her other breast. “I didn’t realize. I just didn’t realize.”
“What?” she whispered.
His eyes locked with hers. “That you’re better,” he said. “Better than perfect.”
“Th-that’s not possible,” she said, “you can’t—oh!” He’d done something else, something even more wicked, and if this was a battle for her wits, she was losing desperately.
“What can’t I do?” he asked innocently, his fingers rolling over her nipple, feeling it harden into an impossibly taut little nub.
“Can’t make something—can’t make something—”
“I can’t?” He smiled deviously, trying his tricks on the other side. “I think I can. I think I just did.”
“No,” she gasped. “You can’t make something better than perfect. It’s not proper English.”
And then he stilled. Completely, which took her by surprise. But his gaze still smoldered, and as his eyes swept over her, she felt him. She couldn’t explain it; she just knew that she did.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmured. “Perfection is absolute, is it not? One can’t be slightly unique, and one can’t be more than perfect. But somehow…you are.”
“Slightly unique?”
His smile spread slowly across his face. “Better than perfect.”
She reached up, touched his cheek, then brushed a lock of his hair back and tucked it behind his ear. The moonlight glinted off the strands, making them seem more golden than usual.
She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. All she knew was that she loved this man.
She wasn’t sure when it had happened. It hadn’t been like her decision to marry him, which had been sudden and clear in an instant. This…this love…it had crept up on her, rolling along, gaining in momentum until one day it was there.
It was there, and it was true, and she knew it would be with her always.
And now, lying on her bed, in the secret stillness of the night, she wanted to give herself to him. She wanted to love him in every way a woman could love a man, and she wanted him to take everything she could give. It didn’t matter if they weren’t married; they would be soon enough.
Tonight, she couldn’t wait.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He smiled, and it was in his eyes even more than his lips. “I thought you’d never ask.” He leaned down, but his lips skimmed hers for barely a second. Instead they veered downward, breathing heat across her until they found her breast. And then he—
“Ohhhh!” she moaned. He couldn’t do that. Could he?