She watched him with amusement, laughter bubbling up inside of her but not quite coming out.
When he was done, he looked back down at her, his eyes aglow like that of a young boy waiting for Christmas. ―What about now?"
Her lips parted, and she meant to scold, to tell him to be patient, but it just wasn‘t in her. She was so in love with him, and she was going to marry him, and so many things had happened that day to make her realize that life was to be lived and people were to be cherished, and if she had a chance at happiness, she was going to grab it with both hands and never let go.
―Yes," she said, reaching up to entwine her arms around his neck. ―I think she‘s asleep now."
Chapter Twenty-six
If he were writing the story, Sebastian thought, as he swept Annabel into his arms, this would be the end of the chapter. No, the chapter would have ended at least three pages earlier, with no hint of intimacy or seduction and certainly nothing about the mind-shattering lust that surged through him the moment Annabel put her hands at the back of his neck and tilted her face up toward his.
One wasn‘t allowed to put such things to paper, after all.
But he wasn‘t writing the story, he was living it, and as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, he decided this was a very good thing, indeed.
―I love you," he whispered, laying her down. Her hair was loose, a dark wavy mass of delight.
He wanted to trace every curl, to let each one wrap itself around his fingers. He wanted to feel them against his skin, tickling his shoulders, sweeping across his chest. He wanted to feel all of her, against all of him, and he wanted that every day for the rest of his life.
He settled down on the bed, a little bit next to her, a little bit on top, forcing himself to take a moment just to savor, and enjoy, and give thanks. She was looking up at him with all the love in the world in her eyes, and it humbled him, left him without words, without anything but this amazing sense of reverence and responsibility.
He belonged with someone now. He belonged to someone. His actions…they were no longer his alone. What he did, what he said…they meant something to someone else now. If he hurt her, if he disappointed her…
―You look so serious," she whispered, lifting her hand to touch his cheek. Her hand was cold, and he turned into it, kissing the palm.
―I always have cold hands," she said.
He felt himself smile. ―You say it like it‘s a deep, dark secret."
―My feet get cold, too."
He dropped one soft, serious kiss on her nose. ―I vow to spend the rest of my life keeping your hands and feet warm."
She smiled, that big, gorgeous, magnificent smile of hers, the kind that so often turned into her big, gorgeous, magnificent laugh. ―I vow to…"
―To love me even if I lose my hair?" he suggested.
―Done."
―To play darts with me even though I will always win?"
―I‘m not so sure about that…"
―To…" He paused for a moment. ―That‘s all, actually."
―Really? Nothing about eternal devotion?"
―Included in the one about my hair."
―Lifelong friendship?"
―Right there with the darts."
She laughed. ―You are an easy man to love, Sebastian Grey."
He gave her a modest smile. ―I try my best."
―I have a secret, though."
―Really?" He licked his lips. ―I love secrets."
―Bend down," she instructed.
He did.
―Closer." And then: ―Closer."
He brought his ear very close to her lips. ―I obey you in all ways."
―I‘m very good at darts."
He started to laugh. Quietly—a big, shaking thing that moved from his belly to his toes and back. Then he brought his mouth even closer to her ear. Close enough to touch, to let the heat of his breath wash over her. And he whispered, ―I‘m better."
She reached up and took his head between her hands, shifting it so that her mouth was a this ear.
―You are bossy," he said before she could get a word in.
―Winslow Most Likely to Win at Darts," was all she said.
―Ah, but by next month you‘ll be a Grey."
She sighed, a happy, wonderful sound. He wanted to spend his whole life listening to sounds like those. ―Wait!" he said suddenly, edging himself away. He‘d almost forgotten. He had come to her room that night with a purpose.
―I want to do it again," he said.
She tilted her head to the side, her eyes showing her confusion.
―When I asked you to marry me," he told her, ―I did not do it properly."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he put a finger to her lips. ―Shush," he scolded. ―I know it goes against your every natural impulse, oldest child that you are, but you are going to be quiet and listen."
She nodded dutifully, her eyes bright and glistening.
―I have to ask you again," he said. ―I‘m only doing it once, well, several times, but only to one woman, and I‘ve got to get it right."
And then he realized he didn‘t really know what to say. He was fairly sure he‘d rehearsed something in his head, but now, watching her face, watching the way her eyes searched his and her lips moved ever so slightly, even in her silence…
All those words were gone.
He was a man of language. He wrote novels, he conversed with effortless ease, and now, when it mattered most, his words were gone.
There weren‘t words, he realized. There weren‘t words good enough for what he wanted to tell her. Anything he might say would just be a pale facsimile of what was in his heart. A line drawing instead of a lush canvas with swirls of oils and color. And Annabel—his Annabel—was nothing if not a lush swirl of color.