“Then they should take c
are of each other,” she pronounced. “That’s what love is all about.”
He figured they would have plenty of time to discuss the changing roles of women in the late twentieth century. He would make time for long, leisurely walks, for philosophical discussions, for anything important to her.
Perhaps he’d neglected his first wife, put his work and everything else ahead of her in his life. He would never do that with Anna.
He had come so close to losing her forever. He would never take her for granted, no matter how busy he became with his—with their—inn.
“I love you, Anna,” he said evenly, holding her gaze with his own.
Her face softened. She lifted a hand to his cheek. “I love you, Dean. With all my heart.”
He threaded the fingers of his left hand through her dark hair. It was soft and thick, and it curled around his fingers.
Her eyelashes curled, too, he noticed, long and lush and naturally dark. There were three freckles across the bridge of her small, perfect nose. She had a dimple at the left corner of her full mouth.
He would never grow tired of studying her, learning every centimeter of her. Beginning tonight.
“Anna,” he murmured, brushing his lips across hers. “I want you.”
Her cheeks darkened with a flush. He touched them, relishing the faint heat. “I want you, too,” she said steadily, holding his gaze with hers.
He would have liked to sweep her into his arms and carry her to his bed. Considering that he’d probably bust a dozen stitches and bleed all over her if he did, he’d better wait until a better time for that particular romantic gesture, he decided wryly. Instead, he took her hand in his good one and led her to the mattress.
He ran his finger across the high neckline of her white dress, noting the delicacy of the fabric, the fragile daintiness of the lace. He’d seen dresses like this in vintage shops, and knew it would be worth a great deal to a collector. But all he cared about now was getting it out of the way. “How does this unfasten?”
She smiled. “I hardly remember.”
He kissed her nose, her cheek, the dimple at the left corner of her mouth. “Think hard,” he suggested, his voice growing rough.
She giggled softly and reached up with both hands. Despite her disclaimer, she unfastened the dress easily enough. Shyly, she lowered the bodice, baring the creamy tops of her small breasts.
Almost reverently, Dean kissed her there. So soft, he thought with a groan. So warm. So incredibly beautiful.
“Dean?” Anna’s voice was a shaken whisper.
“Mmm?”
“I—I hope you don’t mind too badly, but I—I’m not a virgin,” she said in a brave rush. “Jeffrey and I—two times, we—”
He shushed her by placing a finger over her lips. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m not a virgin, either,” he said. “I was married, Anna.”
She smiled rather sheepishly. “I know that.”
He didn’t return the smile. “The past doesn’t matter. Somehow, we’ve found each other. And all I care about is our future—together.”
Her eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “I love you.”
“I love you.”
“Make me yours.”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, drawing her close. “Mine. And I’m yours. Forever, Anna.”
With surprising ease, he removed her dress, her tiny sandals, her sheer stockings and quaint undergarments. He would study them and marvel over them later; for now, he had eyes only for her. His own clothes fell in a careless heap on the floor.
There wasn’t an inch of her he missed in his lovingly thorough exploration. The pulsing hollow of her throat. Her firm, coral-tipped breasts. Her sleek, flat stomach. A small, round mole at her waist. Her thighs. The softness between them.