Page 41 of The Lover’s Eye

“You … know what to expect?” Giles asked. In the dim light, Isobel saw his throat convulse on a swallow.

“Yes. Marriane told me.”

“And about children?”

She ducked her chin, assailed by a spark of self-consciousness. “Yes, about that. I … I should like to wait. I want to know you, first.”

Giles ran the side of his thumb along her temple and smiled. “Darling, I would never expect you to be ready for that. You’ve been through enough change.”

“Many of them good changes,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder. “I am your wife, aren’t I?”

A warm stir of desire shone in his eyes, and his hand trailed down her side, cupping her bottom and pulling her close against him. “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

Isobel could feel the shape of him against her, and the low simmer of heat between her legs scorched into something new and urgent. She wanted this.

There were enough barriers between them—Finch’s routine interruptions, the ceaseless reminders of who came before, and the fact they could discuss poems with more ease than their feelings.

Suddenly, and with immense fervor, clothes became a boundary Isobel couldn’t condone.

Something tangible she could rip out of the way and savor being in closeness with him.

She jerked her nightdress up and over her hips, but before she could get it any higher, Giles was over top of her, his brilliant game of distraction starting anew.

Her inhibitions slipped away with each press of his mouth on hers, her eyelids, her earlobe.

He eased the fabric higher to expose her breasts and kissed them with provoking laziness, his lack of urgency only intensifying her need.

Her hands ached for him, and she dug them into his thick hair, letting his curls knot around her fingers as he worked lower, kissing his way down her stomach.

He spent minutes brushing his lips over her skin before his mouth finally landed on her center.

Isobel had grown so desperate that she jolted at his first touch.

“Would you rather me touch you, like before?”

She shook her head violently on the pillow. In place of words, she pushed him down by the shoulders in shameless pleading.

Giles doled out pleasure in small doses, his mouth warm and tantalizing against her and his unhurried gentleness agitating.

Uncertainty burned away, replaced by the persistent thrum of pleasure building in her body.

A tremor of delight caught her by surprise, and she shivered, digging her hands into his curls.

“Is this all right?” he asked. She could feel his eyes assessing her, even in the darkness.

It took Isobel a long moment to find the word, but when she did, she couldn’t stop using it. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

The warm breath of his chuckle tickled against her sensitive flesh, and his fingers tightened on her hips, hard and sweet.

One hand trailed up to cover her breast, teasing it beneath the thin fabric of her rumpled nightdress.

The gradual climb of ecstasy crested then, and the transformation occurred before Isobel was fully aware of it. She surrendered entirely to pleasure—

To Giles, to them.

Ever patient, he drew out the feeling, waiting until her body’s tremors eased to move up and lie beside her. He pulled her close against him and kissed her hairline, unperturbed by the light sweat of her skin. “That’s enough for tonight, my sweet.”

She was still reeling from the release, allowing every muscle to fade into total relaxation. But at this, she lifted her head. “No. I want you.”

“Isobel, if this is you being concerned for me—”

She put a hand over his mouth, and kissed the tip of his nose. “No. This is me being entirely selfish.”

Giles laughed, a soft, honeyed sound, not completely without nervousness behind it. Slowly, he rose from the bed, and Isobel almost voiced her protest, when she saw his hands reaching for the hem of his nightshirt, the waist of his drawers.

Her heart plummeted when the white garments crumpled to the floor. She felt like the earth had been taken out from underneath her. She didn’t need to be familiar with the male form to know her husband was exquisitely formed.

The long, pale lines of his body flitted in and out of the firelight’s shadows. She admired the broad, taut flesh of his chest and the muscled shape of his thighs, even more attractive in their totality than in the glimpse she had gotten.

Giles smiled at her, his eyes glistening with dark humor. Damn it , he could read her like a book, could probably pick out her every rapturous thought.

I love you.

Oh God, she did love him. When had it happened? When had the metamorphosis occurred from attraction, to affection, to … this ? A pulsing conviction that left no margin for doubt. It was weightlessness and sparks, like spinning in warmth and sinking without fear. A little dizzy, a little drunk.

She would give anything for him. To see him well and at his happiest—that narrowing glimmer in his eyes and a mussed stack of books. The sharp scent of soil still clinging to his clothes and hands, the world quiet and close, just as he liked it.

But Giles would never want her to give anything up for him. He was the most generous soul she had ever known.

“Would you prefer to keep yours on?” he asked, easing back to the bed.

Too dumbstruck for words, Isobel sat up, drawing the fabric of her nightdress up over her head. His lips were waiting for her on the other side of it, his kiss softer this time, patience and need in equal measure.

She lay back on the bed, and Giles caged her beneath his body. His breathing changed as their bare skin met, miles of softness and heat. Her pulse was running wild, and as she wrapped her arms around his neck, she felt his heart matching hers.

“If you wish for me to stop, or if—”

“I know,” Isobel smiled, surprised to feel tears pricking the backs of her eyes. “You’ll take care of me.”

He smiled and kissed her again, his hand easing down between them to guide himself in place.

The moment met some of what Isobel had been taught to expect.

Insistent pressure. Stinging pain that made her bite the inside of her cheek.

And then they merged, settling together, and her discomfort eased, small muscles learning to relax around the fullness.

But then there were the things her sister hadn’t warned her of, perhaps because she hadn’t experienced them herself.

Giles took Isobel’s face in his hands, the faint callouses of his palms raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She had spent hours staring into his eyes, and never before had she seen them like this.

This great, vital man had been stripped of more than his clothes. It was as though he wore his heart in his gaze. It was almost a lost look. Lost to shame? To desire?

She didn’t know. She only knew him. Only knew she was matching that wild, helpless vulnerability every second, in each slow dip of his hips.

Isobel smiled, trailing a hand lightly down his back as she grew more comfortable with the feeling of his possession.

“I wanted you sooner. I …” Her recent sensitivity had slipped back into dormancy, and she felt the deep, delightfully nagging buildup begin anew.

She wrapped her legs around him and his hand fisted the linen sheet to a tight knot.

“I wanted you from the first moment,” he said raggedly. He slipped a strong arm under her back, pressing her closer against him and altering the angle of her hips. His lips trailed down the side of her neck, drawing a soft moan from her.

She put her palms against the bristle of his cheek; felt the moment his jaw flexed and saw his eyes turn hazy. She had words to say, an answer to give, but it seemed to be slipping through the cracks of her consciousness, disappearing along with everything else amid the mounting pleasure.

Giles was kissing her, desperate and ceaseless, the muscles of his shoulders flexing under her touch.

She watched his struggle for control until the surge of pleasure reached her, sending her limply into the abyss, her eyes closed against the onslaught of feeling.

A moment later, he was withdrawing from her, his release spilling hot against her stomach and his breathing labored.

Their eyes connected, glassy and sated, and they laughed. Isobel found her voice, and unearthed the words she had meant to say sooner. “I am all yours, Giles Trevelyan.”

?

Isobel lay in Giles’s sleeping arms, a soft smile at her lips. Her hair was a tangled mess on his pillow, and her hand roamed over the dry warmth of his bare chest.

The fire had almost burnt itself out, but she was exquisitely warm and comfortable, even divested of her nightdress. We created this, she thought. A little lagoon of mutual desire and love that was untouchable from the outside; a space where she felt confident and safe and free.

Isobel nudged closer against him, wanting more , even though he already held her close. The movement made Giles stir in his sleep, and he tightened his arm around her, blinking. He smiled and kissed her.

“I’ve not slept that good in months,” he said. “Actually, I think I’ve made a grave understatement. I don’t think I’ve slept any better in the whole of my life.”

“I stayed up half the night wishing I could look at you.”

He ran his hands over her rumpled hair, seemingly unable to stop himself. “And now that you can, what is your assessment of me?”

She levelled herself over him, staring attentively down. “You have the most spectacular eyes. The blue is almost like the shade of a bluebell.” She touched a finger to his brow. “And did you know they’ve a pattern? Like little ripples in a lake.”

“Why not like waves in the sea?” He raised a joking brow.

“Don’t be silly, I’m serious,” Isobel said, but she was smiling equally bright. “They are not like the sea. They’re too calm, too sweet—like their keeper.”