At his touch, shivers of sensation ran over her skin and echoed deep within her. It felt wondrous. It felt awful. She wanted this, wanted him, yet she had no idea who he truly was, and it was all so strange, so terribly strange.
His gaze intent, he moved closer to her. He angled his body so that he faced her, and he filled her vision, every part of it, with the fire burning behind him.
This must be what rabbits feel when the hawk’s shadow blocks the sun.
He braced one hand beside her thigh. His nearness overwhelmed her. With his other hand, he slid her hair over her shoulder, revealing the shape of her breast beneath the delicate nightgown. Her nipple made a pale point under the silk.
Leo stared at her breast, rapt as a scholar, and she could hardly catch her breath. No man had ever looked at her in this state of undress. Focus and desire sharpened Leo’s face, and she felt pierced by it, by him, simply looking at her. At that moment nothing existed but the confines of the bed, and the truth that soon their bodies would be joined as intimately as possible.
Slowly, as if tracing a shadow, his hand moved from her shoulder. Down. The brush of his fingertips over her collarbone, the very top of her chest, and then lower. She bit back a gasp as his large, warm hand cupped her breast.
A rough sound came from deep within him, and an answering thrill shivered through her. His eyes were hot and sharp. When his thumb moved back and forth across her nipple, he watched the tightening bead with the intensity of a man searching for answers.
The rasp of silk and his thumb against her was exquisite, a gathering of terrifying sensation. She had learned, years ago, how to touch all the places on herself that gave pleasure, but it was so different having someone else touch her, a frightening drop into a dimly lit chasm.
“Anne,” he rumbled. He lowered his head.
Another kiss. Could she do this properly? She closed her eyes.
His lips met hers, and she was grateful that she didn’t jolt again. Instead, she kept herself still, willing herself to stop her mind, to simply let this happen. His lips were warm and firm, and they lightly moved back and forth over hers, coaxing response. The very tip of his tongue stroked against her mouth just as he grew bolder with his hand on her breast, his touch there deepening.
She was aware of everything: his mouth on hers, his harsh breath against her lips, the heat and size of his hand caressing her breast. Her own fear mingled with arousal in an alchemy she could not understand. It felt wondrous and odd and fearsome. She could not lift her hands from the counterpane. They seemed pinned like butterflies, her fingers spread, pushing down onto the bed. Part of her wanted to lift her hands and touch him, feel his sleek, hard body underneath the banyan. Part of her wanted to keep her hands flat, as if touching him were the final word spoken in an incantation that released an unknown magic.
The bed tilted as his long body stretched alongside hers. With one hand, he wove his fingers into her hair, cradling her head, and the hand that held her breast moved down with intent. The counterpane blocked its progress, and he shoved impatiently at the blanket until he found the curve of her waist. She gasped against his lips to feel the heat and strength of his hand on her. With her lips parted, he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Tastes flooded her—tobacco, wine, the flavor of a healthy male.
Oh, God, she felt him against her thigh. The hard thickness of his arousal. It was real, he was real, and a man, and she felt a rising need building within her, and she had never experienced such fear in her life, for Leo was different from her in every way. In her imaginings of this moment, she had seen herself as serenely acquiescent, almost detached. Instead, she shivered and wanted and was afraid.
His hand continued on its progress, stroking slowly from her waist to her hip. The lower his hand moved, the greater her shaking became, until she trembled so strongly that the vibrations from her body traveled into his hand and up his arm. Mortification burned her, for she knew he felt her fear. Her own breathing was a ragged sound, tattered as a scrap of lace in a gale, and tears gathered in her eyes.
Then ... His touch disappeared. He angled away from her. For several moments, nothing happened. Anne waited and waited, until she felt ready to shatter. Finally, she opened her eyes.
He lay on his back, his breath coming in hard, quick exhalations. His hands lay on his thighs. As her gaze moved lower, she saw the banyan tented over his erection, and she quickly brought her gaze back up to his face.
A frown formed a deep line between his brows. The tightness in his jaw revealed an inner struggle.
Was he angry? With her? Why had he stopped? Too uncertain, Anne could say nothing. She felt awkward and gauche, lying beside him, her hands still splayed on the counterpane as she balanced precariously, midway between desire and terror.
At last, he broke the silence. “My parents married for love.”
Of all the things for him to say, this was least expected. She struggled to align her thoughts, for they’d scattered in every direction like pins, and her body only now began to calm in its frantic trembling.
It took a moment for her to find her voice. “I didn’t know.”
Still staring at the canopy, he shook his head. “No reason why you would. She was a dairymaid, and she flirted with him when she passed the saddlery every day. He said she spilled so much milk from her pails—all her pretty curtsies—that every cat in the neighborhood sat on his roof. The cattery, he called his shop.”
It seemed sweet and charming, far more so than the ways in which brides were contracted for amongst the gentry, with calculated discussions of marriage portions and family connections.
“There’s an advantage to being part of the lower orders.” He turned his head and gave her a wry smile that did not fully warm his eyes. “Some apprentices marry their masters’ daughters, but for the most part, we marry on the basis of what our hearts tell us. We have the privilege of time. Of nurturing the seedling of affection into something lush and verdant.”
“That sounds ... lovely.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and a strange ache set up in her heart.
“It is. Or,” he amended, “it would be. I am not a saddle maker and you are not a dairymaid.”
“An impoverished baron’s daughter and a self-made man.” And they were already married.
Leo sighed, ran a hand over his jaw, then stood. The thick upright shape of his erection had begun to diminish. He walked to the clothespress and removed a long nightshirt. He eyed the garment with reluctance, then took it with him into the closet. A moment later, he emerged from the closet wearing the nightshirt, his banyan draped over his arm. The nightshirt was thinner than the banyan, and she watched the long, solid shapes of his limbs as they moved beneath the fabric. She saw the mass and shape of his manhood—that most fascinating and terrifying part of him—though his arousal had faded.
Slowly, he moved through the chamber, dousing the candles. She could not stop herself from staring at the taut forms of his buttocks as he crouched before the fire to bank the flames. When shadows shrouded the room, he padded over to the bed.
Anne quickly slid over when he got into bed. He filled it with his large, solid body, and she held herself rigid, trying not to roll toward him. She wanted to feel his body beside hers again, yet dreaded it, too. When he snuffed the bedside candle, the chamber went almost entirely dark, save for the lambent glow of the fire.
Perhaps they were going to take up where they’d left off a few moments ago. She wondered if she was supposed to do something. Disrobe, perhaps? Yet when she reached for the hem of her nightgown, his hand stopped her.