My Oxford Year(86)

It’s dark. The light from the hallway creeps through the bottom of the door, only illuminating about three feet in front of me. I have no idea where the bed is.

“Jamie?” I whisper, taking tiny steps forward.

“Who goes there?” he growls playfully, his voice coming from the left.

I continue forward, keeping my hands in front of me as I reply, “’Tis none but I, sir.”

“Ella.” He hates it when I do my Dickensian orphan accent. Which only makes me do it more.

“Wot, sir? Does I displease you? Evuh so sorry, guv’nuh.”

He groans as my eyes begin to adjust to the moonlight slipping in through the curtains. I can see him lying in bed, turned toward me, propped up on an elbow. Waiting. The sexiest silhouette in the history of light and dark.

I stop walking when I get to the side of his bed. I look down at myself, illuminated by the ambient silver light. I untie the terry-cloth belt around my waist and drop the robe.

It’s an echo of our first morning-after, when I dropped the sheet just to be shocking. I’m not even sure he remembers this until he says throatily, “The last time you did that you were telling me how much you didn’t want a relationship.”

“Oops.”

He leans forward and snakes his hand around my wrist, tugging me onto his high, plush, inviting bed. I giggle. “Oi, guv! I likes me a bit of a rough tumble ev’ry now an’ den, but—” Jamie puts his finger to my lips and I go quiet. I feel his encroaching heat as his other hand slips up and over my shoulder, grasping the side of my neck. His thumb trawls up my throat, stroking the underside of my jaw.

I liquefy.

“Haud yer weesht, lass,” Jamie murmurs in the flat-out sexiest Scottish accent I’ve ever heard. His breath warms my throat and his lips find the hollow at the base. “Yer in Scotland now, ye ken?” His tongue flicks out, sending a spike of need shooting through me. “None of that sassenach glaiber here.”

I can’t take it anymore. I haul his face up and kiss him, pushing myself into the heat of his bare chest. He’s so warm, I want to burrow in there and hibernate.

But, later. Right now I have other plans.

Jamie’s breathing has quickened and shallowed, there’s a slight rasp. Even though his hands are kneading my hips eagerly, I tip away and ask, “Feeling up for this?” Wordlessly, he brings our mouths back together, throws a long leg over my hip, and slides me toward him, pulling our lower halves flush and answering my question.

Wasting no time, Jamie rolls me onto my back and nudges my legs apart with his knee. He rises up on an elbow, the fingers of one hand tangling into my hair, his other hand finding my stomach. I reach out and card my fingers through his hair. His hand trembles slightly on my abdomen, his breathing still hoarse.

I’m transported. Blame the house, blame the events of the day, blame the ring Antonia gave me, but I suddenly feel as if I’ve slipped into another era. The two of us, in this timeless room, finding our way back to each other. There’s a feeling of reverence in the tilt of Jamie’s head, in his attention to my body. It feels sacred, blessed, even matrimonial. The awareness of centuries of wedding nights that may have passed in this room swoops in on me, and I shiver. Which prompts Jamie to look at my face. His eyes glitter in the dimness. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

I don’t have to ask for what. It doesn’t matter. It ripples through me like a stone dropped in a lake, compelling me to say, right back at him, “Thank you.” For all the same reasons, whatever they are.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

My seamless reply seems to catch him off guard. He’s not the sort of man to clarify, to ask, “Really?” But I can see it in his eyes. How could he doubt it? In response, I tighten my fingers in his hair. Yes, really.

He drops his head and kisses my stomach. Then sweeps his lips upward. He pivots over me, settling fully between my legs. He lifts onto his palms, rising above me. I bend my knees, wrapping my legs around his hips, so very ready. But he pauses. I notice that his arms are shaking. He’s weak still. He drops his head, hanging it between us. I stretch my neck and kiss his forehead. It’s so warm. He’s overexerting himself.

Before he does something ridiculous like apologize, I grab his shoulders and push him off me, flipping him onto his back. His surprise alone is worth it. He laughs. Without skipping a beat, I straddle him, sliding myself down on him in one go. He sucks in a breath and throws his head back.

I can’t help but grin. We may be timeless, but something tells me this room hasn’t seen many women on top.

MY EYES OPEN slowly, leisurely. Early-morning light finds its way through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains. Jamie’s turned away from me. Caught up in the memories of last night, I slide over and rest my face between his shoulder blades.

I lurch backward. He’s covered in sweat. He’s trembling. “Jamie, you okay?” I whisper. He doesn’t respond. I grab his shoulders and turn him onto his back. His breathing sounds like there’s a baby rattle stuck in his chest. “Jamie!” I hiss. No response. I shake his shoulders. “Jamie, wake up!” I reach for his face.

His skin is on fire.

I bolt upright. “Jamie!” He doesn’t open his eyes. I crawl over him, straddling him in a tragic reprisal of last night, and open his eyelids.