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She shook her head and her eyes were grim, as if she'd taken his past deep down into herself and felt the echoes of pain in her own body.
"Not in such a big hurry to touch me anymore, are you. Now that you can see everything."
He was hoping if he pushed her hard enough, she'd back away. The others who had tried to get close had fled when he'd showed them the same rage.
But Grace didn't run.
Slowly, she rose from the bed and reached out a slender gentle hand. When she touched his stomach delicately, he inhaled with a rasp.
His first instinct was to yell. He was infuriated that she had challenged him and exposed him. That she was near enough so he could smell her. That she was offering him compassion and understanding and warmth when he was battle-scarred and hard and ugly.
"I think you are beautiful," she said softly, looking up at him.
"Then you're fucking blind."
She shook her head slowly. "I see you, all of you. Clearly."
Grace traced a path across his stomach and stopped when she got to the waistband of his boxers. He felt himself swell for her touch and became instantly aware that he was half-naked and she was wearing close to nothing and they were alone in dim light.
He grabbed her upper arms and jerked her against him. Hard. Her only response was to tilt her head back so she could continue to meet his eyes.
"You might want to keep your hands to yourself." He made his words as cold as possible. "You touch me like that and I'm not thinking about what a courageous Florence Nightingale you are."
"So what are you thinking? "
He gave her a shake and watched as her hair swung around her shoulders and caught the light.
"Damn you," he growled. "Don't do this."
Her eyes were soft, luminous. Heated. He knew what she was thinking about and it didn't have anything to do with talking. In that hooded glance, she was asking for what she wanted. And she wanted him.
In spite of his anger. In spite of the marks on his skin.
The only honorable part in him spoke up.
"Listen to me, Countess. This body of mine is built for fucking. Do you even know what that is? We're talking one-night stands, up against a wall, don't know her name and don't care kind of shit. You don't want that."
She looked downcast, as if he'd robbed her of something.
"Hell." He let out some of his frustration with a deep breath. Everything that he'd been dreaming about was in his arms but the only thing he could do was let it go. "Don't you understand? You deserve better than what I can give you. You need someone who's going to make love to you. Not screw you and then leave you and your bed in a mess."
"You wouldn't do that."
"Oh yes, I would." Smith couldn't turn away but didn't want to kiss her because he knew he'd be lost.
So he pushed his hands into the waves of her hair and pulled them forward. The ends landed below her breasts, which were rising and falling as she breathed through her mouth. He lifted a strand and carried it forward to his nose. Breathing in, he caught the fragrance of jasmine. As he let the hair fall, he watched it settle between her breasts and curl obligingly around one silk-covered nipple.
Sweet Jesus, he wanted her.
He looked at her lips. They were parted, bow-shaped, tender.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said darkly. The truth was a surprise.
"I know." She reached up and touched his face, moving her palm down over the rasp of his beard growth. "But I don't want to be saved. That's not what I want. Not tonight."
Fighting himself was hard. Turning her down was ... impossible.
Smith bent forward and softly he stroked her mouth with his own. When he heard her moan, he put more pressure into the kiss and gathered her into his arms. As his tongue stole out to lick her lower lip, he felt her hands grip on to him. Moving even closer, he explored her mouth, delving deeper and deeper.
His fingers went to the straps of her nightgown. Slowly, he released the satin ribbons from her shoulders until she was bare to his eyes and the silk bodice was a pool around her hips. Blood roared in his ears and he pulled her down to the bed so that she was lying back against the lace covered duvet. He began to kiss the skin at her collarbone and then went lower, ravishing her breasts and then her stomach.
With growing urgency, his hands moved over the swell of her hips and down her thighs. Going under the thin wisp of her nightgown, he stroked her legs, pushing the fragile silk up as he went.
When Smith slid his hand to her inner thigh, he felt the soft skin and the heat coming off of her. As he moved higher, he relished the sensation of her undulating underneath him and he looked up. The image of her with her arched back and her head cocked at an angle so she could watch him was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.
