Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(30)

Beatrix returned her attention to Christopher, who didn’t seem to have noticed the exchange. Carefully she drew his head down and turned her cheek against his glinting amber hair. And she waited, letting him feel the even rhythm of her breathing.

The scent of him was clean, summery, like hot sun and saffron. Her eyes closed as she felt his body press along hers with intriguing firmness, his knees digging into the billowing mass of her skirts.

A minute passed, and another. For the rest of her life she would remember lying alone with him in a bright square of sunlight from the window . . . the delicious weight of him, the intimate heat of his breath collecting against her neck. She would have lived in that moment forever, if it were possible. I love you, she thought. I am madly, desperately, permanently in love with you.

His head lifted, and he looked down at her with bewildered gray eyes. “Beatrix.” His ragged whisper thrilled along her nerves. His hands cradled her head, long fingers weaving gently through her tumbled dark locks. “Have I hurt you?”

Beatrix’s stomach went tight. She shook her head, unable to speak. Oh, the way he was looking at her, really looking at her . . . this was the Christopher of her dreams. This was the man who had written to her. He was so caring, and real, and dazzling, that she wanted to weep.

“I thought . . .” Christopher broke off and drew his thumb over the hot surface of her cheek.

“I know,” she whispered, her nerves sparking at his touch.

“I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know.”

His gaze went to her parted lips, lingering until she felt it like a caress. Her heart labored to supply blood to her nerveless limbs. Every breath caused her body to lift up against his, a teasing friction of firm flesh and clean, warm linen.

Beatrix was transfixed by the subtle changes in his face, the heightening color, the silver brightness of his eyes. Possibilities entered the quietness, like sun breaking through forest canopy.

She wondered if he were going to kiss her.

And a single word flashed through her mind.

Please.

Chapter Eleven

Christopher tensed against the shaking in his muscles. His heartbeat roared in his ears. He struggled to comprehend how he had so utterly lost control of the situation. A noise had startled him, and he had reacted without thinking. He had been aware of nothing until he had found himself lying over Beatrix, trying to protect her, trying to protect them both . . . and when the ferocious heartbeat had faded from his ears, he was suffused with the hideous awareness of what he had done.

Knocking a defenseless woman to the ground. Leaping on her like a madman. Christ. He felt disoriented, and more than a little crazed. He might have injured her.

He had to help her up, offer an apology. Instead he watched as his exploring fingertips went to her throat, stroking a tiny pulse. Holy hell, what was he doing?

It had been a long time since a woman had held him. It felt so good that he couldn’t make himself release her just yet. Her body cradled his with supple feminine strength. Those slim, gentle fingers continued to stroke the back of his neck. He had never seen such blue eyes, clear and dark like Bristol blue glass.

Christopher tried to remember the reasons why he shouldn’t want her. He even tried to summon thoughts of Prudence, but it was impossible. He closed his eyes and felt her breath striking his chin. He felt her everywhere, with his entire body, her scent in his nose and throat, her warmth sinking into him.

It seemed as if all the months and years of need had distilled to this one moment, this slender form tucked beneath his. He was actually afraid of what he might do to her. He knew he should roll away, put distance between them, but all he could do was gather in the sensations of her, the enticing rise and fall of her br**sts, the feel of her legs splayed beneath the layers of her skirts. The stroke of her fingers on his nape raised chills of pleasure, and at the same time turned his flesh hot with need.

Desperately he groped for her hands and pinned them over her head.

Better.

And worse.

Her gaze provoked him, invited him closer. He could feel the force of will in her, radiant as heat, and everything in him responded to it. Fascinated, he watched a blush spread over her skin. He wanted to follow the spreading color with his fingers and mouth.

Instead he shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he said, and took a rough breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. A humorless laugh scraped in his throat. “I’m always apologizing to you.”

Her wrists relaxed in his hold. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Christopher wondered how the hell she could appear so composed. Aside from the stain of color in her cheeks, she showed no sign of unease. He had a quick, annoying sense of being managed. “I threw you to the floor.”

“Not intentionally.”

Her efforts to make him feel better were having the opposite effect. “Intentions don’t matter when you’ve been knocked over by someone twice your size.”

“Intentions always matter,” Beatrix said. “And I’m used to being knocked over.”

He let go of her hands. “This happens to you often?” he asked sardonically.

“Oh, yes. Dogs, children . . . everyone leaps on me.”

Christopher could well understand that. Leaping on her was the most pleasurable thing he’d done in years. “Being neither a dog nor a child,” he said, “I have no excuse.”