Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

Anne stopped in the center of the room. She heard the door shut. An instant later, she sensed Reggie behind her, then his hands slid around her waist and he drew her back against him.

In the hearth before them, flames licked the dark logs and sent sparks rising up the chimney.

The fire warmed the front of her; he warmed her back. He bent his head, she tilted hers as he touched his lips to her throat.

Raising her hand, she stroked his hair, soft, warm.

“Before, in Lady Hendrick’s parlor, why did you stop?”

The caress of his lips halted, but he didn’t lift his head; she felt his breath on her skin when he answered, “Because I didn’t know if you’d made a decision—or if you’d been swept away by the moment.” His voice was low, deep. “It’s not as if we’d had any courtship—you hadn’t had time to consider, either the act or its consequences.”

His lips returned to her skin, their touch sweet, drugging; he didn’t say more, spell out what he meant, but she knew, understood. Marriage wasn’t a state he had any interest in trapping her in, no matter how much he wanted her. It had to be her decision, taken in full command of her wits.

A decision they were both aware was in the past.

She turned in his arms, lifted her own, and draped them about his neck. His lids rose, heavy over rather sultry eyes. How much he wanted her was there in the blue, there for her to see.

She felt a slow smile lift her lips, light her face. “We’ve known each other for such a long time.”

“We’ve been would-be lovers for only three days.”

“Time doesn’t matter, not once one understands—sees.” She held his gaze. “Once one recognizes the truth.”

His arms slid around her, closed; he drew her to him. “I love you.”

His gaze didn’t waver; she smiled, assured. “And I love you. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

He searched her eyes, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

She kissed him back, offered her mouth, shuddered with anticipation when he took. His hands spread over her back, pressing her breasts to his chest, then slid lower, molding her to him, searching, learning, possessing.

The tangle of their tongues trapped her attention—the slow, hypnotic quality of the kiss; the steady build of heat between them captured her awareness, ultimately to the exclusion of all else. She didn’t realize his fingers had been busy until he raised his hands and eased her gown from her shoulders. In a giddy daze, she drew her hands from the sleeves, let him peel the bodice down and away, let him loosen her skirts and let them fall.

Only when her petticoats followed and she stepped free of the frothing folds did she feel the touch of air cool on her legs, and realize—and shiver. He paused, hesitated, but she’d made her decision. Drawing in a breath, she boldly stepped back into his arms and lifted her lips to his.

He took them willingly; she felt the breath he’d held ease from him. Then he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her off her feet, and carried her to the bed. He tumbled her down and she giggled, the sound not as nervous as she’d expected. He shot her a look from under heavy lids and reached for her stockings, drawing first one, then the other, off.

Lying across the coverlet clad only in her fine chemise, she studied his face, conscious of a sense of freedom, of rightness, welling within her. Despite her nervousness in company, she’d never lacked for courage—never turned aside from a challenge.

This challenge was one she could wholeheartedly devote her life to.

When Reggie turned and sat to pull off his boots, she squirmed around and crawled toward the pillows, intending to burrow beneath the covers.

His hand closed around her ankle and anchored her. “No.”

She turned back to him, brows rising, letting her head fall against the lowest pillow. The expression on his face was not one she’d previously seen—hard, uncompromising—intent.

“Stay there.”

With a fell look, he released her and started to unbutton his shirt.

She tilted her head. “Are you going to be a dictatorial husband?”

He snorted. “In this sphere, yes.” He didn’t look back at her, but stood, stripped off his shirt, then his hands fell to his waistband. A second later, his breeches hit the floor, and he turned to the bed.

Before her eyes had finished growing wide, he was on the bed beside her. Then his lips were on hers—stopping her host of sudden questions at the source. Her hands touched his chest, then gripped, spread, slid, caressed. Passion flared, cindering any reservations she might have had, any last-minute hesitations. Within seconds she was convinced that nothing on earth was more important than being closer, getting closer, skin to skin.

His hands slid beneath the fine fabric of her chemise, touched, caressed, stroked.