Then she straightened, saw him; through the shadows, she studied him, then she crossed the room. Halted a yard away, trying to read his face.
“I didn’t expect you to still be up.”
He looked into her face, sensed more than saw her sudden uncertainty. “I wasn’t expecting you—I didn’t think you’d come.”
He hesitated only an instant more, then set the glass on the sill and reached for her—as she walked into his arms.
They closed around her; her arms went around his neck and locked as their lips met, then their mouths melded, their aching bodies pressing close. For one long minute, they both clung to the kiss—salvation in a world suddenly dangerous.
She sighed when it ended and he lifted his head; she laid hers on his shoulder. “It’s awful—dreadful. How could Kitty have done it? Even acting . . .” She shuddered, lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “It makes me feel literally ill.”
His laugh, harsh, abrupt, shook. “The script’s not doing anything for my stomach, either.”
The feel of her, long, slender, vibrantly warm and alive between his hands, the mounds of her breasts firm against his chest, her hips flush to his thighs, her stomach cradling his erection—her simple physical closeness soothed him as nothing else could. The promise that she was his was so inherent in her stance, the predator in him lay down and purred.
He stroked her back, felt her instant response. Smiled. “We’d better go to bed.”
“Hmm . . .” She smiled back, stretched up and touched her lips to his. “We’d better—it’s the only way either of us is going to get any sleep.”
He laughed, and it felt so good; the shackles of the day melted away, left him free to breathe, to live, to love again.
Free to love her.
He let her take his hand and lead him to the bed, let her script their play as she wished. Gave her all she wanted, and more, even though he had no notion if she’d yet realized.
If she’d guessed or seen or deduced that he loved her.
It didn’t, anymore, seem to matter if she had; what he felt was simply there, too real, too strong, too much a part of him to deny.
As for her . . . she wouldn’t be here, tonight, sharing herself and the moment with him as she was, if she didn’t, in her heart, feel the same. Again, he had no idea if she’d realized her state, let alone if she would readily, easily, acknowledge it.
He was prepared to be patient.
Lying on his back, sprawled naked on the bed, he watched as she rode him, as she used her body to caress him, and flagrantly, blatantly enjoyed every second. He filled his hands, drew her down and feasted, then eased back to watch as she climaxed, perfectly sure he’d never seen any sight so wondrous in his life.
The only thing that felt better was what followed, when she slumped, replete, and he rolled her beneath him, and sheathed himself fully in her warmth. In the slick, scalding haven of her body, and felt her hold him, then stir and rise to him as he filled her, deeper, more powerfully, with every stroke.
And then they were there, where they’d wanted to be, the pinnacle they’d set out to reach.
Bliss filled them, ecstasy overwhelmed them, taking their wits, leaving nothing behind but the fused beat of their lovers’ hearts.
The warmth closed around them, drawing them down.
They slumped together, limbs tangled, and slept.
Parting was hard. They both felt it. Both struggled to slip from the bonds that now linked them, more deeply than either had ever expected, more precious than either had ever imagined such things might be.
When just after dawn, Portia slipped from his room—alone after a hissed argument that she’d won—Simon remained sitting up in bed, consciously dwelling on the past hours, on all they’d meant, to him and to her.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on; when it struck seven, he sighed. Deliberately, reluctantly, set aside what was—tucked it all away in his mind, safe, real, not to be affected, besmirched, by anything they were forced to say or do today. By any act they were forced to play.
Throwing back the covers, he rose and dressed.
Charlie was already in the breakfast parlor when Simon entered. So were James, Henry, and their father. Simon exchanged the usual morning greetings, let his gaze touch Charlie’s as he took the seat opposite James.
Lucy Buckstead arrived, then Portia breezed in. Bright, cheery, her smiles were directed predominantly at Charlie.
Simon she ignored.