To a man who tried to treat life as an endless series of ironies and witticisms, nothing could have been more terrifying.
He reached out and roughly pulled her to him. He was not delicate, nor was he gentle. He couldn’t be. He couldn’t manage it, not now, not when he needed her so desperately.
“Grace,” he said again, because that’s what she was to him. It was impossible that he’d known her but a day. She was his grace, his Grace, and it was like she had always been there within him, waiting for him to finally open his eyes and find her.
His hands cupped her face. She was a priceless treasure, and yet he could not force himself to touch her with the reverence she deserved. Instead, his fingers were clumsy, his body rough and pounding. Her eyes-so clear, so blue-he thought he might drown in them. He wanted to drown in them, to lose himself within her and never leave.
His lips touched hers, and then-of this he was certain-he was lost. There was nothing more for him but this woman, in this moment, maybe even for all his moments thereafter.
“Jack,” she sighed. It was the first time all morning she’d used his name, and it sent waves of desire pulsing through his already taut body.
“Grace,” he said in return, because he was afraid to say anything else, afraid that for the first time in his life his glib tongue would fail him, and his words would come out wrong. He’d say something and it would mean too little, or perhaps he’d say something and it would mean too much. And then she would know, if by some miracle she did not already, that she had bewitched him.
He kissed her hungrily, passionately, with all the fire within him. His hands slid down her back, memorizing the gentle slope of her spine, and when he reached the more lush curves of her bottom, he could not help it-he pressed her more firmly against him. He was aroused, and wound more tightly than he’d ever imagined possible, and all he could think-if he was thinking at all-was that he needed her close, closer. Whatever he could get, whatever he could have-right now he would take it.
“Grace,” he said again, one of his hands moving to the spot where her dress touched her skin, just at her collarbone.
She flinched at his touch, and he stilled, barely able to imagine how he would tear himself away. But her hand covered his, and she whispered, “I was surprised.”
It was only then that he once again breathed.
Fingers shaking, he traced the delicately scalloped edge of her bodice. Her pulse seemed to leap beneath his touch, and never in his life had he been so aware of a single sound-the quiet rasp of air, brushing across her lips.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, and the amazing thing was that he was not even looking at her face. It was merely her skin, the pale, milky hue of it, the soft blush of pink that followed his fingers.
Softly, gently, he bowed his head and brushed his lips along the hollow at the base of her throat. She gasped then, or maybe it was a moan, and her head slowly fell back in silent agreement. Her arms were around him and her hands in his hair, and then, without even considering what it meant, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the room, to the low, wide settee that sat near the window, bathed in the magical sunlight that had seduced them both.
For a moment, kneeling at her side, he could do nothing but look at her, then one of his trembling hands reached forth to stroke her cheek. She was staring up at him, and in her eyes there was wonder, and anticipation, and yes, a little nervousness.
But there was also trust. She wanted him. Him. No one else. She had never been kissed before, of that he was certain. She could have done. Of that he was even more certain. A woman of Grace’s beauty did not reach her age without having refused (or rebuffed) multiple advances.
She had waited. She had waited for him.
Still kneeling beside her, he bent to kiss her, his hand moving down the side of her face to her shoulder, then to her hip. His passion grew deeper, and hers, too; she was returning his kiss with an unschooled eagerness that left him breathless with desire.
“Grace, Grace,” he moaned, his voice lost in the warmth of her mouth. His hand found the hem of her dress and then slid under, grasping the slender circle of her ankle. And then up…up…to her knee. And higher. Until he could bear it no longer, and he moved to the settee himself, partially covering her with his own body.
His lips had moved to her neck, and he felt her sharply indrawn breath on his cheek. But she did not say no. She did not cover his hand with hers and bring him to a stop. She did nothing but whisper his name and arch her hips beneath him.
She couldn’t have known what the movement had meant, could never have known what it would do to him, but that ever-so-slight pressure beneath him, rising up against his own desire, brought him to the very peak of need.
He kissed his way down her neck, to the gentle swell of her breast, his lips finding the very spot at the edge of her bodice that his fingers had so recently traveled. He lifted himself away from her, just a bit, just enough so he could slide his finger under the hem and slide it down, or maybe push her up-whichever was needed to free her to his devotion.
But just when his hand had moved toward his destination, just when he’d had one glorious second to cup the fullness of her, skin to skin, the stiff edge peaking in his palm, she cried out. Softly, with surprise.
And dismay.
“No, I can’t.” With jerky movements she scrambled to her feet, righting her dress. Her hands were shaking. More than shaking. They seemed filled with a foreign, nervous energy, and when he looked in her eyes, it was as if a knife had pierced him.
It was not revulsion, it was not fear. What he saw was anguish.