Hours later, he rose. Phoebe sensed more than felt him leave the bed; she turned and watched as he gathered his clothes in the dark, then started to dress.
He glanced up, saw she was awake. “It’s nearly dawn—I have to go.”
She heard the reluctance—real, sincere—in his voice and was inwardly delighted. From him, she felt sure reluctance at this point qualified as a compliment of the highest order.
Recent events had, she decided, made decorum redundant; she let her gaze roam the planes and bulging muscles of his body, the long lines, the dips and hollows she’d gained a much better sense of, indeed, appreciation of, through the last hours. There was absolutely nothing there she didn’t like.
Settling back on the pillows, she let her gaze rest on him and let her mind explore the changes the hours had wrought. In her, courtesy of him and his particular brand of loving.
She wasn’t such an innocent that she didn’t know that the way he approached her, the words he said, the fantasies he created in her mind and fed were deliberate, knowingly gauged to seduce and sensually ensnare her. And she wasn’t such a prude not to acknowledge that he was right, that all those things were not only necessary, needed to ease her past her old fear and into intimacy, but they also heightened and deepened her enjoyment of the act.
From the first, he had read her very well, and while she wasn’t at all sure she approved of that ability, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t appreciate the outcome.
Gone was her fear, vanquished—made as redundant as modesty and decorum, at least between them.
So yes, she felt…blissfully sated all the way to her toes, her body glorious and more alive, more whole, more real, more engaged with the world, and she owed it all to him. Gratitude was what she should have felt, but as her gaze rested on him, she was very aware that it wasn’t simply gratitude that filled her.
Inwardly, she frowned. She wasn’t sure what she truly felt, only that it went deep and stirred her in ways she hadn’t before encountered.
He sat on the bed to pull on his boots. She stared at his broad back and wondered.
She didn’t want him to leave, although she accepted he must. But it was her certainty that she wanted to see him again, to invite him to her bed and her body the next night, and the next, that troubled her.
Such a fascination—wanton and real, unfettered now they’d indulged to the point of intimacy—wasn’t going to make her life, the decisions she would need to make, any easier. Her simple plan to embark on a liaison, short-lived and soon over, had headed down a track she hadn’t intended…and now he’d learned about the agency and her secret, her “little crusade.”
The events of the past night had created an upheaval in the landscape of her life. How should she respond?
As he rose, glanced at her, then came around the bed, she rephrased her question: How was she going to manage him?
He halted beside the bed and looked down at her. After a moment, he reached out, with the fingers of one hand lightly stroked her cheek. Then he caught her chin, tipped it up, leaned down, and kissed her—gentle and sweet.
“Take care.” He breathed the words against her lips, then released her and straightened. He hesitated, then said, “I’ll call on you later in the day.”
With a nod, he turned and silently crossed the room. Even though she was watching, she barely saw the shadow that was him open the door and slip through, then the door closed, and he was gone.
With a sigh, she sank back and stared up at the dark canopy. There was simply no sense in imagining she might draw back and bring their liaison to a quick end, not before she’d fully explored all the pleasures to which he could introduce her and, even more, learned of all the ways in which she could pleasure him.
Learning one without the other seemed immensely unwise; if he was going to be able to hold her senses hostage, she wanted to be able to reciprocate. That, to her mind, seemed eminently sensible; she shouldn’t give him—or any man—any unnecessary advantage.
As matters now stood, every time Deverell came near her, she felt an illicit thrill—an expectation of forbidden, deeply sensual delight. Every time his eyes met hers, every time he touched her, however innocently, she thought of being with him, alone, in his arms.
Now she would think of having him between her thighs, or behind her, of the indescribable pleasure of him joining with her.
Of course, he was the only man with whom she could imagine engaging in such activities, so obviously the time for her education in this sphere was here and now.
With him she had a chance to explore all that fate had left her ignorant of, and there was no way she would turn aside from that. No matter the risk…if she was honest, to her heart. It was that that had stirred when minutes ago she’d stared at him through the dark.
She pushed the thought away; in attempting anything worthwhile, there was always some risk. Witness the agency.
Tugging the covers up, she snuggled down. As matters now stood, there was nothing to prevent her from accepting Deverell’s standing offer to fully experience her sensual self, to explore her own nature and come to know and understand the full gamut of all as a woman she could be.
That was important, as important as all else.
“And he already knows about the agency.”
Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep; to her surprise, she succeeded.
Chapter 15