Page 68 of Calling on the Matchmaker
Did he want to resist? A small part of his brain warned him he needed to, that he had no right to this beautiful woman. But another part of him shoved aside all rational thought. If this was a dream, he wanted to be fully present. And if it wasn’t a dream, he’d worry about the repercussions later.
He didn’t know what had transpired to bring her there, but he was holding her, his arms wrapped around her, all of her soft curves pressed against him.
One of her hands rested on his bicep. The other was draped across his hip. How was she daring to touch him so familiarly?
Covers were piled over them both, keeping them warm. But his nose, his forehead, even his cheeks were cold, the temperature in his room close to the freezing mark. Internally, he felt as well as if he’d never been sick. Maybe a little weak and hungry, but his cholera was clearly gone. He’d survived.
And sweet saints above. He really was in bed with Finola.
A surge of heat flared in his gut—deep heat like a hot underground wellspring that couldn’t be contained. It started to flow through his veins, searing him so that he wanted to draw her even closer, let his body cover hers, and kiss her until they were both delirious.
He swallowed hard and fought to control himself. As eager and ready as he was to show her how much he adored her, he had to go slow with her, had to go slow for himself.
With the softest brush of his fingers, he shifted several strands of her hair away from her neck. Then he grazed a line there, skimming just the tips of his fingers.
At his touch, she released a soft sigh, one that bathed hisneck and made him aware of how near her face was to his. Mere inches. Her freckled cheeks, her long lashes, her sweet lips pressed together and almost touching his chin.
He was in heaven. In fact, this was better than heaven.
Ever so gently again, he let himself draw another line over her skin, before he tucked a strand behind her ear.
She shifted nearer, her curves grazing him first before her lips made contact with his chin. She huddled against him, the barest contact leaving him suddenly breathless and aching with need.
He was going to kiss her. He wasn’t strong enough not to.
Bending in, he laid a kiss against her cheek, then closed his eyes, relishing the softness and warmth and scent of her but forcing himself not to go any further.
As though sensing his restraint, her fingers circled around his bicep and tightened, and she arched into him just enough for him to know she was willing. Willing for what, he didn’t exactly know. But he wanted to find out.
He only had to shift a little to reach her mouth. And in the next instant, he covered her lips completely. Like a forge blast to the flames, fire and heat and light exploded to life.
Her response was nearly immediate. Even though her inexperience and innocence was clear, she tested his lips with a fervor that told him she was eager for this connection too. Eager to share the intimacy. Eager for him.
She desired him, and that thought was like a bellows, pumping longing through him. He wanted Finola Shanahan more than he wanted anything or anyone.
He rolled just slightly, enough that he was leaning on her and able to press into the kiss with more power and all the passion coursing through him. With his hands splayed at her hips, he slid his knee between hers, wanting to get closer, wanting to tangle their bodies.
But at the feel of her bare leg brushing his bare leg, he froze. Was she unclothed? Was he?
Full wakefulness slammed into him with the force of a dam breaking. The current swept him back to the night after he’d taken her ice-skating when she’d told him she didn’t care about him and never wanted to see him again.
He’d ridden away from her home believing he’d lost the woman he loved. What had changed? And how had they ended up in bed? Naked?
She stopped kissing him. As her eyes popped open, her gaze darted first to him, the bed, and then herself. The haziness of sleep in her expression rapidly evaporated, and she gasped and began to scramble away.
He snaked out an arm and caught her wrist. “Wait.”
She was partially suspended above him, looking down at him. The covers had fallen away enough to reveal that he wasn’t entirely naked after all but was wearing his undergarments. She, on the other hand, seemed to be attired in one of his flannel shirts and a pair of his trousers that had bunched up to her knees.
Before he could make sense of their situation, voices resounded in the hallway, and in the next moment, someone was stepping into his room. Actually, several people were entering and conversing among themselves.
At the sight of the two of them in bed together with Finola all but lying on top of him, the voices came to an abrupt halt.
“What’s wrong?” came Bellamy’s voice, as he sidled into the room behind the others, followed by several more men—mostly from Riley’s campaign committee. Had someone decided they needed a meeting this morning? And if so, why?
“What in the blazes,” Riley muttered. “I don’t think we have enough people in my room. Why don’t we invite a few others?”
“Dontcha worry one wee bit,” Bellamy said with a grin. “More folks are on their way now that news of your recovery from cholera has spread.”
