He wanted to memorize her—every line of her face, the way her hair curled behind her ear, the tiny constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He wanted to learn her again, as if he had never known her at all.
“May I?” he asked, lifting his other hand to her cheek, stroking her smooth skin with the gentlest of caresses.
Grace nodded, her breath catching. She closed her eyes, and Silas bent his head to kiss her, slow and searching, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world, because now they did.
Grace’s lips parted, her body pressing closer, and her arms wound up around his neck with the easy certainty of someone returning home.
All those years, he’d hungered for her—for her presence, her touch, her laugh, the way she could pull him out of his own head with just a glance—and now, she was finally his.
He kissed her again and again, his hands roaming from her face to her shoulders, from the delicate arch of her back to the curve of her waist. He felt her shiver and, mistaking it for cold, tried to draw her closer to the fire.
Grace laughed into his mouth. “I’m not cold,” she whispered. “I just—” But whatever she meant to say was lost as Silas kissed the words away.
He fumbled for the fastenings of her dress, but she caught his hands, holding them still. “Slowly,” she whispered, and he obeyed.
He loosened the ribbons and buttons with reverence, baring her shoulders, then her arms, the line of her collarbone. She shrugged out of the gown, leaving it to pool around her ankles, and stood in a simple white chemise, the fabric almost luminous in the firelight. She watched him, her gaze steady and soft, and Silas felt every inch of himself exposed and laid bare—not in the physical sense, but in the way that mattered.
Grace reached for him, working at his cravat, her fingers deft and sure. She undid the knot, then slipped the jacket from his shoulders, unbuttoning his shirt with the same slow patience he had used on her. He was grateful for her control; if it were up to him, he might have torn every barrier away in an instant.
When they were both in only the thinnest of layers, Grace drew him toward the bed. She lay down and opened her arms, and Silas followed, pressing her into the mattress, gasping at the feel of her beneath him at last.
The linens were cold at first, but the heat of their bodies quickly warmed them. He slid beside her, running his fingers along her jaw, her neck, the hollow at the base of her throat. He kissed her there, listening to the hitch in her breath, then followed the line down to her shoulder, her arm, her wrist. He pressed his lips to her palm, to each fingertip, and looked up to find her watching him with an expression of such open trust that it nearly undid him.
“Is this real?” he whispered.
Grace smiled. “My love for you is the realest thing I’ve ever known.”
He rolled onto his back and pulled her with him, so that she straddled his waist. Her hair tumbled forward, spilling a few of the flowers onto his chest. She leaned down and kissed him, hertongue tracing the seam of his lips, her hands braced on either side of his head. He buried his fingers in her hair, discarding the pins, savoring the texture and the scent of roses as they cascaded around them.
They undressed each other completely, trading kisses for every inch of skin revealed until at last they were completely bare to each other. Silas marveled at the softness of her thighs, the lovely swell of her breasts, the way her body fit against his as if shaped for him alone. When they were young, they’d never had the time to savor each other this way.
But in the intervening years, he’d had plenty of time to imagine what he’d do if he ever had the chance to make love with her again. He’d imagined it a thousand times in his solitude. So he slowly learned her body, what made her gasp and whisper his name. He teased her breasts for an eternity, and when he finally slid his fingers between her thighs, she was damp with heat and need.
“Silas,” she moaned, digging her fingernails into his shoulders. “Oh, Silas.”
He teased the little bud at the juncture of her thighs until she cried out and clenched around his fingers, coming completely undone.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, sliding back up her body and holding her tightly as she slowly recovered from her release, pressing more kisses upon her flushed face. “I love you so much, Grace.”
His cock throbbed against her thigh, his need so great he was surprised he didn’t spend against the sheets. He’d never wanted anything the way he wanted to bury himself within her.
“I love you, too,” she managed, and then, she parted her thighs and wrapped her hand around him, finally guiding him home.
He pressed inside her with a sob of pleasure, her soft heat enveloping him, and the whole world fell away. Nothing existed but this moment, the overwhelming feeling of completeness he felt with his body joined to hers.
They moved together in the firelight, their shadows merging on the walls. He buried his face against her throat, breathing in her scent of roses and vanilla, focused on the glorious feeling of making love to his wife.
Pleasure washed over him far sooner than he would have liked, but he gave into it, his vision going dark for a moment from the sheer power of it. They had all night, after all. An eternity, actually.
Afterward, Silas pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in. “I wasted so much time,” he murmured.
“No,” Grace replied, her voice thick. “We were always meant to find our way back to one another exactly when we did.”
The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a single glowing ember, but the room was still warm, wrapped in the hush of night. Grace lay beside Silas, her head pillowed against his shoulder, golden hair fanned out in a halo that caught the stray gleams of moonlight pouring through the frost-laced panes. In repose, her features softened further—no trace of hardship or sorrow.
Silas traced the line of her cheekbone with a careful finger, not wanting to wake her. He examined the sweep of her lashes against her skin, the pink curve of her lips, the faintest echo of a smile even in sleep. For a long time, he did nothing but watch, content to exist in this stillness, this rare and perfect peace.
His thoughts, unhurried for once, turned back over the path that had brought him here: the cold corridors of the old manor, his bitterness held close as a shield, the books he had oncebelieved were his only companions. He thought of his father, whose portrait still glared from its place above the fireplace in the great hall, and felt not the old resentment, but something akin to pity. How lonely he must have been, too, and how little he had known of this kind of joy.
