The Unknown Beloved(110)

“Don’t say that, Dani,” he said, aghast.

She pressed her palms to her eyes and breathed deeply, fighting, struggling, winning. She dropped her hands, straightened her back, and met his gaze again.

“Forgive me,” she murmured.

His heart ached and his spirit howled, but he picked up his hat and put it on his head. It was time to go.

“I will call if that’s . . . all right,” he said. “To see how you are. Maybe I could . . . send a letter, now and again. But only if you want me to.”

“Do you have to go tonight?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“I would very much like for you to stay. With me. Just . . . tonight.”

“It will not change anything.”

She was silent as though she thought it might.

“It will hurt more,” he warned.

“I can’t imagine that it would.”



She’d asked him once not to make her beg. She would not beg him now. And she would not chase him. But she had flinched when he’d reached for her, and it was not how she wanted to part. She had not flinched because she didn’t want his touch. She wanted it too much, and she didn’t want to weep in front of him. Not for herself.

He set his hat back down and approached her, his eyes wary.

Once, he had yearned for pretense. So pretense was what she would give him. She would pretend his leaving was what they both wanted. That it was for the best. She would pretend she was steady. And she would take whatever he would give her.

He lifted his hands to her face, the pads of his thumbs bracketing her mouth. Then he leaned in and laid his lips on hers. So kindly. So gently. And when he withdrew, she was angry.

“I am not a child,” she said, keeping her voice low so it wouldn’t quake. “And I am not glass. I am not sending you away or begging you to stay, so don’t kiss me like I am. Don’t kiss me like I will break.”

“How should I kiss you, Dani?” he whispered, still holding her face in his hands.

“You know how to kiss me, Michael. You know! Why do you act as if you don’t?”

“Why don’t you show me?” he said.

She did, flattening her lips against his and gripping his coat in her hands. It was too hard and too angry, too much passion and not enough pleasure, and not at all what she wanted.

“Are we fighting or kissing?” he ground out against her mouth.

She pulled away, but he tightened his grip on her jaw, his fingers curling in her hair, and brought her back to him. He coaxed her lips to yield with a soft mouth and sweet pressure, and when they did, he sank into her, deep and deliberate, and there he stayed. He was not frantic. He did not kiss her with pent-up desire or a pending goodbye. He simply kissed her, thorough and slow, like he had nowhere else to go and nowhere else he wanted to be.

The pull in her belly and the heat in her breasts betrayed her, weakening to him when she needed strength, and desperation rose in her chest. She grew bold, chasing his tongue and letting her hands rove, daring him to deny her. He didn’t, though he shuddered, his lips still seeking and his eyes closed, like the pleasure was dragging him under.

She let herself memorize him, the smoky clean scent of his skin, the contrast of his silken mouth and his freshly shaved cheeks. Wide shoulders, long biceps, strong forearms, big hands. His fingers flexed against hers, but she didn’t cease her explorations. He was lean, and the knobs of his shoulders, elbows, and knees were sharp, the ridges on his back and the ribs beneath a well-developed chest too defined. She’d seen him eat—he ate heartily—but he allowed himself no glut, no vice, and very few comforts. He was harsh with himself. Unyielding and unforgiving. It made it easier to accept what he withheld from her, knowing it was his way.

His hands had fallen to her bottom, urging her against him. Then he swooped her up and laid her on the bed, a magnanimous bridegroom, but he did not cover her body with his own or lay down beside her. He stood, bent over her, his mouth on hers for a minute more before burying his face in her neck, one hand stroking her hair, one hand resting low on her belly, as if he knew the heat he’d kindled there and wished to protect it.

She pressed her hand over his, urging him downward, silently begging, but he turned his palm and stayed her motion. Then he lifted his head and looked down at her. His throat worked, and his lips were wet from her kisses. And she knew what he was going to say.

“I love you, Dani Flanagan. I . . . adore you,” he whispered, emphatic. “But I won’t make love to you and then leave. You would not thank me when it was all said and done, and I would hate myself. This way is better for both of us.”

He kissed her again, a fleeting touch with closed lips, as if he didn’t trust himself to linger, and then he straightened and stepped away, his hands falling to his sides.

She could not speak. She could not even look at him. She rolled to her side, away from the door, away from him, and waited for him to go.



When he’d said it would hurt more if he stayed, he’d known with certainty that it would. In the space of mere minutes the situation had gone from terrible to intolerable, and he’d learned long ago that the only way to deal with intolerable was to move. And keep moving.

Dani had turned away from him, giving him her back. But he understood. There was nothing to say, and no good way to say it. In the soft glow of the lamp, her hair was copper, and the line of her back, the curve of her waist, and the flare of her hips were desert dunes draped in soft pink. She glowed.