Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

“One I’d like to repeat.” Another simple truth.

Her gaze searched his for several seconds, then she nodded. “As would I.”

He released a breath he hadn’t even realized he held. Only a few hours had passed since he’d held her, kissed her, but it suddenly felt like years. And as if he would suffocate if he didn’t touch her.

Stepping forward, he erased the distance between them and drew her into his arms. He brushed his mouth over hers, half amused, half irritated that such a feather-light touch ignited him so. Her lips parted and his tongue slipped into the silky heat of her mouth. He felt as if he were sinking into that same dark pool of pleasure in which he’d drowned last night. His hands roamed her back, molding her soft curves to him. Need, hot and urgent, swamped him, vibrating a groan in his throat.

“Genevieve…” Her name came out in a husky rasp as he broke off their kiss to drag his open mouth down the fragrant length of her neck. He wanted her. Now. In the light, where he could see her. Bending his knees, he scooped her up and walked briskly toward his bedchamber.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed. Given how badly I want you, I considered the table in the kitchen, but since I’ve no desire for either of us to suffer splinters in the backside, I’ll find the fortitude to wait until we have the comfort of my mattress beneath us. But rest assured, the thirty seconds it’s taking us to get there is sorely taxing my patience.”

EVERYTHING inside Genevieve turned icy with dread. She had to put a stop to this. Immediately. “Simon, please put me down.”

“Gladly.” He shouldered through the bedchamber door then strode to the bed where he set her down with a gentle bounce. He started to follow her down, but before he could cover her body with his, she rolled away and stood up. She quickly walked to the fireplace, to put as much space as possible between her and his bed. He approached her slowly, his eyes questioning, even more so when she backed away from him. He halted several feet away, and to her vast relief he made no move to touch her again. “I thought you said you wanted more of what we shared last night?”

“Actually, I said I wanted another incredible night. And I do.” Her gaze shifted briefly to the window where a bright stream of sunlight spilled into the room. “It isn’t night.”

His gaze searched hers with such intensity, she had the disconcerting sensation he could read her every thought. Finally he said, “You only want to make love in the dark.”

“Yes.” Although she prayed he’d accept that without any further questions, she knew he wouldn’t.

“Why?” To her alarm, he stepped closer, until less than two feet separated them. Her dismay grew when reached out and lightly clasped her shoulders. Dear God, the warmth of his hands felt so good, the heat of them almost melted her resolve. And that could not happen. She could only, would only, give herself to him under the cover of darkness. To do otherwise would only leave her open to rejection.

“Why?” he asked again. “Why would such an exquisite woman insist on hiding herself in the dark?” When she remained silent, he said softly, “This cannot be due to modesty-you’re far too passionate.”

“Don’t you mean wanton?” The words came out more harshly than she’d intended, yet they were true. God knows what he’d think of her if he knew the truth-that she wasn’t really a respectable widow, but had spent her entire adult life as a mistress to a nobleman.

A frown creased his brows and he shook his head. “Not if you’re attaching any sort of lewd or unsavory connotation to the word, and it sounds as if you are. Please don’t tell me you regret what happened between us.”

“I don’t.”

“Good. Because I certainly don’t. As for you being wanton…” He touched her face with a tenderness that threatened to undo her. “You are the most exciting, passionate lover I’ve ever been with. I think you are stunning and I want to see you, all of you, when we make love.” He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. “I want to watch your skin flush and your eyes glaze as you become aroused. Watch as I thrust inside you. Watch you ride me. Watch you come.”

Her breath caught at the mental pictures his vivid words painted. “I want that too, but…I cannot. We must meet in darkness or not at all.”

He leaned back and studied her for several long seconds. Then slowly released her. Relief filled her at his acceptance, but it was short-lived, because, rather than stepping away from her as she’d expected, he instead gently clasped her gloved hands and raised them to his chest. She tried to jerk away from him, but he pressed her palms more firmly to him and shook his head. “Your hands are why you don’t want to make love without darkness.”

It was a statement rather than a question. Anger rushed through her and she had to clamp her lips together to stop herself from snapping out that it was none of his damn concern. She forcefully yanked her hands away from him and stepped back, ignoring the shaft of pain that darted through her fingers. “My reasons are my own.”

“Tell me,” he said softly. Once again he reached for her hands and to her horror he brought them to his lips and pressed gentle kisses against her gloved palms. His heat branded her skin through the thin kid leather and she gasped. “They felt so good on me last night, touching me, stroking me. Your touch excited me, inflamed me. Pleasured me beyond anything I’d ever experienced. That is something to be celebrated, not hidden. Tell me why you hide them.”

Dear God, his persuasive voice, his gentle touch, the warmth of his breath beating through her gloves all conspired to evaporate her resolve. Her anger died as quickly as it had flared, replaced by weary resignation. Clearly he wasn’t going to let the matter drop. What difference did it really make if she told him? It wasn’t as if their time together wasn’t temporary. Telling him didn’t mean showing him.

She pulled in a deep breath. “My hands…cause me pain. The condition is called arthritis. My joints swell and become stiff, making it difficult for me to perform certain tasks. I coat them with a special cream that offers me some relief and therefore I wear gloves to keep the cream intact.” She didn’t add that she hated looking at them, at the daily reminder of why the man she’d been foolish enough to love had cast her aside.

“Do they hurt now?”

“A bit, although not too badly today. It’s worse when the weather is damp.”

He took her hands and very gently massaged them between his. “Does this help at all?”

“That feels-” Lovely. Knee-weakeningly so. “-nice.”

“Your hands are why you settled in Little Longstone. To be close to the springs.”

She nodded. “They offer me a great deal of relief. The pain started several years ago, just as an occasional twinge, but it grew worse over time, as has the swelling.”

“You’ve seen a doctor?”

“Several. Other than the springs and the cream, they say nothing can be done.”

“I’m sorry they cause you pain.” Once again he raised her fingers to his lips. “Take off your gloves, Genevieve. Touch me. In the light. I felt your hands on me last night and they were pure magic. Let me see them touching me.”

“No.” She could barely choke out the word. “I…can’t.”

“Why? I have a number of scars. I’m hardly perfect.”

She snatched her hands away. “Has anyone ever rejected you because of them?” The question came out in a harsh whisper, and to her horror, she felt hot tears push behind her eyes.

He studied her for several long seconds with an expression she couldn’t read. Indeed, his only outward sign of emotion was the muscle that ticked in his jaw. “No, but I take it that’s what happened to you.”