Love, Come to Me(43)

“Here. Let me.”

His fingers, sliding possessively through the long chestnut locks, brushed over her silky hair and removed the pins leisurely. Reluctantly Lucy turned to face him. He was still wearing his trousers, thank God, but without a shirt he seemed so much larger, so much more intimidating than she had expected. She had never seen so much bare skin at once, and all of it tanned that swarthy shade of brown, marked in many places with scars. The tapered line of his waist gradually broadened upwards into a powerful chest and shoulders. One corner of his mouth lifted in the beginnings of a half-smile as he looked down at her.

Without the heeled slippers she was fond of, Lucy only came up to his shoulder. She hated feeling so dwarfed by him, hated having to tilt her head so far back when she tried to meet his eyes. She wished that he was closer to Daniel’s height. Oh, big men and small women weren’t meant to be together! If Heath took her in his arms right now and held her like Daniel might have, her nose would be flattened in the middle of his chest. His large hands settled on her shoulders; his thumbs stroked the line of her collarbone. Lucy fixed her eyes on the base of his throat as she forced herself to stay still, but his nearness was stifling. She wanted to fling off his hands and jerk away from him, run away. Her tension gathered in a big, choking knot, which became more and more unendurable. As his hands moved down to her waist, she pulled away from him with a gasp, spinning around and hiding her face in her hands. Her whole body was tensed in shrinking anticipation of his touch.

“I can’t,” she said wretchedly. “I can’t stand this. Not now—please, I need a few days, a week or two, to get used to everything—just leave me alone! I don’t want you to touch me. I shouldn’t have married you. I don’t even know you. I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t think . . .” She stopped in midsentence, gasping with the effort it took to control herself.

When Heath broke the silence, his voice was very low and quiet. “We both have a lot to learn. Come here.”

Step by step she went back to him, her eyes glued to the floor. Automatically she flinched as he reached out for her. His arms closed around her and he pulled her right against his body, which was astonishingly warm against the iciness of hers. Lucy thought that she would never be able to stop shaking. As he felt her rigid unwillingness, he murmured to her quietly, as if he were soothing a skittish animal. “Easy, easy . . . it’s all right, my sweet girl . . . there’s nothing to be afraid of.” He did nothing more than hold her, and gradually she relaxed against him as his warmth seeped through her skin, flowed through her in a slow current. She put her palms on his hard, bare chest and pressed her cheek against it so that the steady rhythm of his heartbeat was against her face. She felt his lips brush against her hair. It felt good to be enveloped and swallowed up in his arms, to rest her weight against him and know that he had the strength to support her easily. “I know how difficult it’s been for you,” he whispered, stroking her back underneath the long fall of chestnut hair. “But the worst is over.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said in a muffled voice. “Maybe for you, but not for me.”

“The last thing I intend to do is frighten or hurt you—”

“Then give me some time,” she begged. “A week, maybe a month, just so I can—”

“Do you think it’ll get any easier if we wait a month?” he asked gently. “You’ll dread it more each day.”

Illogically she clung to him in her confusion. Heath waited until it was clear that she was not going to reply. His arms loosened, his hands went to the hem of her camisole, and giving her no chance to resist, he pulled it over her head in one decisive motion.

“The lamp—,” she started, excruciatingly aware of the golden light that bathed her bare br**sts.

“I want to see you,” he said, his blue-green eyes suddenly flaring with heat. “And I want you to see me.” He braced one knee on the bed and pulled her across the mattress, his fingers splaying over her midriff as lightly as a ray of sunshine. His lips touched hers—just the briefest caress—settled more firmly, and coaxed her mouth to open to his. The taste of him filled her senses. She felt the slow, sensual stroke of his tongue against hers, and she wound her arms around his neck, finding a welcome escape in the pure physical sensation. His fingers caught in the waist of her pantalets, urgently pulling them down over her h*ps and legs.

Her mind was pleasantly clouded, focusing only on his mouth and his hands. He kissed her patiently, without urgency, and it seemed that the more eager she became to deepen the contact, the lazier he got, making her work, making her seek his elusive kisses until she thrilled with frustration and tangled her fingers in his hair to hold his head still. Chuckling softly, Heath rewarded her efforts with a long, thorough kiss, his tongue plunging deep in her mouth. Somewhere in the back of Lucy’s mind was the surprised realization that not only did she want him to go on kissing her but she was hungry for the touch of his hands. Those things he had done before—she wanted them again. She wanted him again.

Drawing away reluctantly, Heath left her in order to shed the rest of his clothes. Flushing, Lucy started to pull at the light quilt at the foot of the bed, wanting instinctively to cover her nakedness. She heard his trousers drop to the floor, and she closed her eyes tightly as he joined her on the bed. His voice was very near her ear.