The Unknown Beloved(60)

A soft snore escaped his lips, signaling he was well and truly out.

She turned off two of the lamps nearest her but left the light glowing on the side table. She took a throw pillow from the sofa and made sure there were no stray pins or needles jabbed into it, a hazard when three seamstresses lived together, and crouched beside him, trying to decide whether she could ease the cushion beneath his head. He would sleep much more comfortably if she did.

Lifting his head with her right hand, she shoved the cushion under his head with her left. His arms, now free, unfurled at his sides, and she thought for sure he would wake. But he didn’t.

She went to her room and drew a blanket from the end of her bed and lay down beside him, not too close, but close enough that she could share the edge of her blanket with him. This way, if he woke up she would hear him, and he wouldn’t go without her.

He rolled away from her, burrowing down in her blanket and gathering it around him. She moved a little closer, just to stay under the covers. He rolled again, this time toward her, and her half of the blanket became his too. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow and deep or she might have thought he was playing possum. She didn’t think Malone capable of that kind of silliness.

She inched her pillow closer and tried to free enough of her blanket to just put it around her shoulders, but it brought her so close that she could count his eyelashes, and his exhalations tickled her lips. She lay beside him for several deep breaths, too out of her element to know what to do, or even if she was allowed to enjoy it.

She should just wake him up. She couldn’t sleep on the floor, and he shouldn’t sleep on the floor. She put her hand on his cheek, not wanting to startle him . . . and not really wanting to wake him either.

His skin was warmer than hers. Considerably warmer. Her skin was always cool. He kept his face and neck clean-shaven, but the sandpaper roughness of his skin tickled her palm and made her fingers long to explore. His ears were small and the lobes oddly silky compared to the sharp stubble of his squared-off sideburns and the shortly cropped hair at the base of his neck. Like most men, he wore the top longer, but slicked it back from his brow. A vein snaked from his hairline to the deep groove between his brows.

She traced the furrow, still prominent even in sleep, but didn’t press her finger into the indentation or try to smooth it out. Surely that would wake him. His lashes were short and dark but as thick as the bristles on a shoeshine brush. She studied them but didn’t touch.

She moved the tip of her finger to the bump on his nose. It was slight, just a wider ridge that preceded the slope of an otherwise unremarkable feature. His mouth was wide above a clefted chin, the furrow in his chin almost identical to the one between his brows and the crease in his lower lip, like God had drawn his finger down the center of his face, marking him.

His face was one of peaks and valleys, horizontal and vertical—the ridges of his cheeks and jaw and brow, the blade of his nose, the creases beside his unsmiling mouth. The lines would only deepen, but his skin was still taut over sturdy bones and tight sinews. It was far different from her own in color and texture, and far different from the paper-frail skin of her aunts.

She found him fascinating and longed to touch all his edges, jagged and smooth. Warm and weathered. She had spent very little time around men and had little to compare him to—Michael was right about that—but she’d also had very little desire to know a man before. She had much more experience with dead men than living ones. She grimaced at that. What must Michael think of her?

He had kissed her as though he liked her. He kissed her as though he liked her very much. But he’d told her it was too soon. She wasn’t certain she believed him—he’d said he and Irene were estranged for fifteen years—but it was not her right to question it.

How many times had she repeated his words in her head in the last week? It’s too soon. It’s too soon. It’s too soon. It definitely wasn’t too soon for her. She had no doubt about the way she felt. None at all.

She desperately wanted to kiss him again. She was lying next to him, his lips mere inches away. And Lenka was right. He had beautiful lips. She inched closer, closer, closer, until her mouth was positioned a breath from his. He smelled like the licorice tea he was fond of. He’d sipped at a cup after dinner, listening to “Clair de lune” and eating one of Margaret’s gingerbread cookies.

She brushed her lips against his, puckering gently, and then withdrew enough to see his eyes. They remained closed and he was still breathing regularly. No twitching. She leaned in again, determined this time to not be so frightened that she wouldn’t enjoy it.

She moved her lips so they hugged the curve of his top lip ever so gently, and then slid down to savor the fuller swell of the bottom one. She stayed too long, savoring the sensation, but she didn’t increase the pressure or even purse her lips. When she pulled away again, incredibly proud of herself and the enjoyment she’d taken, she was met with a pair of sleepy, brooding eyes and a confused scowl.

She didn’t immediately start to babble or make excuses. What could she say? She’d kissed him while he was sleeping. She was quite certain that was wrong. She met his gaze instead, measuring his response. The room was shadowed, but not dark. And he was awake, but not alert.

His hand rose and cupped the back of her head. And he brought her mouth back to his.

She swallowed her surprise, and his hand tightened in her hair.