Page 62 of The Defiant One
And of course, she didn't.
Nerissa headed for the stairs.
~~~~
Something had woken her.
Celsie dragged open her eyes. She was surrounded by a wonderful, drowsy warmth, and it came as something of a shock to find that the warmth came not from a dog, but from the very long, very hard, very male body against which she was curled. Actually, she was more than just curled against that long, hard, male body. Andrew lay on his back, and her head was nestled within the cup of his shoulder, a fold of his shirt tickled her nose, and she could hear his heart beating quietly beneath her ear. He was still asleep and breathing deeply, his arm slung heavily, possessively, across her back.
She opened her eyes further, looking above the fold of Andrew's shirt and across the room toward the window. It was still raining outside, and the sullen grey light coming through the parted drapes made it impossible to tell whether it was an hour past dawn or an hour before sunset. One thing for sure: The room was chilly. Almost too chilly to rise from this bed and make her escape before anyone was aware of her presence.
She had to leave. Now. Yet she didn't want to crawl from the warm cocoon of covers, to move away from the broad, solid chest upon which she'd been dozing. How very surprising. She ought to be bolting from this bed like a hare from a greyhound. Instead, she found herself thinking that she could not remember the last time she'd woken up to such pleasant coziness. Why, if someone had told her yesterday that sleeping with a man was far nicer than sleeping with a dog, she would never have believed it. But it was true. Sleeping with a man was nicer.
And you didn't wake up to find paws stabbing into your back.
Downstairs, she could hear the servants moving about, and from somewhere came a tantalizing waft of toast. Celsie tensed even as her stomach gave a responsive growl. The rumbling didn't abate but continued on, gathering both loudness and intensity until it sounded like an angry mastiff confronting a poacher. Celsie winced, hoping it wouldn't wake her bedmate, but he didn't stir, his long lashes lying against pale cheeks shadowed with reddish-brown bristle, his head turned slightly on the pillow, his chest rising and falling slowly in time with his deep, steady breathing.
She repositioned herself within the heavy curve of his arm, resting her chin on the rise of his chest muscles so that she could gaze at his face. He was easy to look at. Too easy. She liked the way his nose angled back and met his forehead so that both made a nearly straight line, with barely an indentation to mark the bridge; it gave him a noble, intelligent profile. She liked the way his hair, so thick and glossy, fell in rich waves around his face, its warm, dark-chestnut hue set off by the deep brown color of his long, straight lashes. She liked the way his mouth looked firm and sculpted, even in sleep, the lips sensual without being too wide, now slightly parted and putting thoughts in her head about how nice it would be to lean down and kiss them.
God help her, she liked everything about him —
Well, almost everything. His unpredictable moods left a lot to be desired.
But with him lying asleep on the pillow, it was easy to forget his surliness. It was easy to imagine him how she wished he were all the time; the way he'd been earlier, when they had lain side by side, hand in hand, and talked about their respective dreams just like two old friends. Celsie had met a lot of men in her life. Some were handsome, but empty between the ears. Others were witty and intelligent, but hopelessly unattractive. Yet Lord Andrew . . . He seemed to combine the best of both worlds. He was an attractive blend of sharp intelligence and splendid good looks, of creativity and imagination, of kindness and wit, of courage and vulnerability.
Vulnerability.
Yes, she knew he had felt vulnerable last night, when he had all but driven her from the room. Yet, why? Lots of people took ill. Just because he was getting a cold or wasn't feeling well was no reason to feel ashamed . . .
He was frowning in his sleep now, his breathing changing, his eyelids moving slightly as he dreamed. Celsie couldn't help herself. She reached up and tenderly smoothed the frown lines from his brow. His lashes fluttered, and sleepily, he opened his eyes.
Oh, Lord help me — I want to kiss him!
"Good morning," she whispered, smiling.
He blinked once, twice, before lifting a fist and knuckling his eyes. He looked warm and groggy and positively delicious. "Mmmmm . . . a good morning, indeed," he mumbled, yawning. "To stay inside, that is."
"Isn't it? My stomach's been growling for the past half hour but I was too comfortable to move."
"And here I feared I took up too much room in the bed . . ."
"Well, yes, you do take up a lot of room, but at least you don't snore — which is more than I can say for Freckles."
"Ah yes, that paragon of comparison again," he said dryly. "I'm delighted to find that I've emerged the victor in at least one contest with that matchless mutt."
"He's not a mutt, he's a Spanish pointer," she said, returning his own smile. And then: "Do I snore?"
"No, but you do steal all the covers. I awoke a while ago and I was bloody freezing." Reaching out, he caught the long, golden-brown fall of her hair, dragging his fingers through the silky tresses and admiring them in the faint gray light. The sensation of his fingers combing through her hair was wonderful; it was all Celsie could do not to purr, especially when they left her hair, skimmed the outside of her shoulder, and trailed down the curve of her upper arm and around toward her breast.
She tensed and caught his hand.
"You feel awfully damned good," he said. "Told you I wouldn't be able to just sleep, with you beside me all night."
"You did a good job, so far."
"I must have been too exhausted to do anything but sleep. But I'm not exhausted now, Celsie. I'm wide-awake. All of me is wide-awake. I think it's best if I beat a hasty retreat back to my own rooms before I start something we both regret."
She smiled sadly, knowing he was right but wishing he weren't.
