His gaze snapped to her. “No, not like you,” he argued.
But they both knew that was not true. “A little like me?”
“No, damn it. There’s more to you.”
He pounded his fist on the mattress in a rhythmic beat, nostrils flaring, as he seemingly searched his mind for the words to convince her. But then, his expression changed. Grew pensive. “I’ve always blamed her for what happened. I never once thought of it the way you did—that she was merely playing the hand life dealt her. Maybe there’s more to her, as well.”
She cupped his cheek and urged him to face her again. “Maybe. Maybe not. We are all individuals, are we not? Some of us are better than others.”
He covered her hand with his. “Some of us are far worse. I think you know that.”
She frowned, uncertain what he meant by that. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I’m sure I am,” he said, his tone belligerent. But the look in his eyes bespoke old pain, and she could not find it in her to be annoyed.
“I know one thing, Sterling: what happened on that dawn field wasnotyour fault.”
“You know that, do you?”
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
A tiny smile played at his broad mouth. “You see? One of your hidden traits. Compassion.”
Her heart seemed to swell to a size too large for her chest. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s not compassion, it’s the truth. It wasn’t your fault.” She kissed the opposite corner.
She’d only meant to comfort him, but something was happening to her, inside and out. An intoxicating warmth pooled low in her belly, and her nipples had gone taut. And like before, the place between her legs thrummed, and she could swear, grew damp.
He had not mentioned the odd and embarrassing phenomenon the first time. She could only assume he was being kind, or, better still, that he had not noticed. Would that he not notice, again.
She kissed a trail to his ear, then, on impulse, nipped his earlobe.
He groaned, tightened his arms around her, and lifted his head, his mouth seeking and finding hers for a voracious kiss.
His hunger thrilled her, making the blood in her veins sing.
“I want you,” he breathed against her lips, “but it’s too soon. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No, I…want you, too. Please, make love to me.”
“Annabelle.” Her name was like a prayer on his lips. He shifted their weight, edging her onto her side, turning onto his so they faced each other. Wedging one powerful knee between her thighs, the hand he’d freed coursed over her back, her waist, her hips.
“So soft.”
Then his fingers slid down to stroke over her curls.
“Oh, no,” she said on a gasp, squeezing her thighs to prevent him from touching herthere. It was almost as humiliating aswhen he heard her sing. She ducked her face into his neck. “I’m terribly sorry, but it seems…I’m almost certain I’m wet. Down…there,” she finished on a squeak, pointing to the offending area.
The next thing she knew, he was shaking.
She drew back to eye him, then glared.
He was laughing. The blackguard was laughing. She reached for the first thing she could grasp—a pillow—and swung it at his head.
He blocked it, easily, the cur, still wearing a blinding smile. “Darling, that’s…Someone should have talked with you about what happens between a man and a woman.”
Her cheeks burned. “I would have died had anyone dared, and I’d rather not discuss it now.”
An indulgent grin curved his mouth. “Very well. At the very least, allow me to tell you that this,” he slid his fingers into her apex before she could react to stop him, and pleasure shafted through her. “This moisture means I’m doing something right,” he finished gruffly, insinuating one long finger into her. His thumb found that particularly sensitive spot from before and circled, slowly, slowly.
