Page 81 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
She walked to the end of the bed and stood looking down at him.
Letting her eyes trace his features, the fall of one thick lock of dark hair across his brow, the elegant length of his palms and fingers relaxed on the covers, she let the essence of all he was, and all she needed him to be—lover, consort, husband—impinge and sink in to her mind, to her soul.
She’d secured the first; they were lovers, and he hadn’t tried to pull back from or deny that connection. As for being her consort, he’d been protective of her from the first; with regard to her, that was a part of his nature he hadn’t attempted to suppress, nor, she suspected, would he be able to. It was the last title that would be the hardest for him to embrace; it would, in effect, be a public declaration that he was hers and would remain by her side for the rest of his days.
Him agreeing to be her husband would be the true and final commitment—the only one that, for her and him, really mattered.
She knew beyond doubt that he would never be at peace, would never find any true and lasting satisfaction in life if he wasn’t there, living beside her, where he was supposed to be.
Filling the role he was supposed to fill, destined to fill, despite his resistance fueled by his belief that his life lay elsewhere.
But there was nothing she could do to advance their cause—hers, his, and the Lady’s—tonight.
Although he’d insisted on his sleeping pants, he apparently slept without a nightshirt; the muscled strength of his arms, the power inherent in the heavy width of his shoulders, lay exposed, displayed against the ivory sheets.
The potion she’d given him had contained enough poppy juice to take the edge from his pain and tip him into a healing sleep; he wouldn’t be stirring any time soon.
She stood silently considering his sleeping form for a moment more. She’d insisted that, here in the Vale, he had to share her bed, but in gaining what she needed, she was willing to be flexible.
* * *
Thomas woke to find the gray light of predawn filtering through the uncurtained windows—and Lucilla, a warm armful, tucked against his side.
He was lying on his back, his head cushioned on thick pillows. Without shifting his head, he studied the segment of room he could see. Although his memories were hazy, he was fairly certain this was the room, the bed, in which he’d fallen asleep last night.
So she’d adjusted her strategy; not her room, not her bed, but she was still sharing it with him.
His lips curved. He let his lids fall again, thinking that would improve his ability to think clearly. Instead, with his eyes shut, his other senses expanded, and awareness of her presence swamped him.
There was an earthy reality in the moment. An adult man, an adult woman, sharing a bed. Simple. Uncomplicated.
They lay warm beneath the sheets, their muscles relaxed, heavy in slumber. The door was closed, and beyond it, no one was stirring.
Slowly, his nerves, his skin, came alive.
She’d donned a nightgown, the fine cotton an insubstantial barrier separating naked skin from skin. The ripe swell of her bottom was snuggled against the side of his waist, the elegant curve of her spine pressed along his side.
The ache in his head had eased to almost nothing; he could still feel the wound in his calf, but the pain had dulled and was easy to ignore.
Not so the intensifying ache in his loins.
He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs—with the alluring scent of her. A mixture of herbs and flowers, a complex medley of scents that reminded him of spring edging into summer, of bright freshness transforming via a luscious ripening into something beyond desirable—into something to be coveted.
That promise was there in her, carried to his senses in so many ways, on multiple planes.
He reached for her, for that promise—compelled, unable to resist.
Having no need to resist, not here, in this quiet, private world.
He opened his eyes and turned to her, careful not to jostle her.
She was curled on her side, facing away from him, her head ducked, her face half buried in the pillow, the covers drawn over her shoulder. Her hair lay in wild disarray over the pillows; several tresses lay beneath his cheek, the silk strands catching in his stubble.
The soft fabric of her nightgown caressed his chest. He was already hard and ready for her, his erection tenting the front of his sleeping trousers. But relief was pending and so very near to hand; the tug of desire was so real, so palpable, he gave up trying to think, surrendered all thought of attempting to plot and control the engagement and, instead, simply sank into the moment and let it lead him where it would.
However it would.
Reaching around her, he pressed his hand beneath her arm, then gently closed palm and fingers about her breast. The mound filled his hand; he squeezed and felt her flesh firm. She stirred, the small movement languorous. He continued caressing until her nipple was a tight pearl beneath his palm, then he shifted his attention to her other breast.
