Meg held her breath.
She hated to hurt Lucien—if, indeed, the fog of passion had briefly convinced him he truly wished to marry her—but she knew better than anyone that she wasn’t what he wanted. At best, she was merely something he desired.
Nonetheless, men did not take kindly to rejection of any type. Even if he well knew that he hadn’t really wanted to marry her, being told ‘no’ was a bucket of frigid water. She would not blame Lucien for walking away.
But he did not.
He brushed his thumb across her lower lip and followed it with a kiss so sweet and pure, she felt it to her toes. He wasn’t leaving. He also wasn’t rushing. Instead of resuming the frenetic speed in which they’d half undressed each other, he seemed to be taking his time. Drawing each moment out as if this was the first and last time they would ever find themselves sharing a bed.
That’s what it was, she realized, the truth sharp and bittersweet. A night of goodbye.
Knowing this was the only time she would ever have him made her senses all the more sensitive, as though her mind was desperately cataloguing every detail in order to recreate this moment in her memory again and again.
The gentleness of his hands and the passion of his kisses. The slight scratch of his unshaven jaw against the side of her breast. The scent of his skin: soap, leather, sandalwood. The erotic feel of his breath and his tongue against her bared flesh. The heat in his gaze as he paused to make certain he was giving her everything she wanted.
Against her breast. “Here?”
Yes.
With her nipple. “Like this?”
Yes.
Between her legs. “Harder?”
Yes, yes, yes.
She had never said yes so many times and so breathlessly in her life.
No one had ever cared if they were touching her how she wanted to be touched, kissing her how she wanted to be kissed, penetrating her as she wanted to be penetrated. She hadn’t known that hearing the question, that forcing herself to respond out loud would be just as arousing as the act itself.
Slower. Harder. Pinch. Suckle.
Kiss me. Grab me. Deeper. Faster.
Words she’d never said aloud. Words she only thought, only dreamed of, only longed for. She wrapped her legs tight about him and tried to give him everything that he was giving her.
“Do you like it this way?” she asked, surprised at the shyness in her voice.
She could feel his buttocks tighten.
“I’ve been turgid since the day I met you,” he growled.
She grinned at him. Grinned, during lovemaking. This wasn’t a physical release between strangers. He knew her better than any man ever had. He was right here with her. Meeting her eyes. Filling her soul. Making love to her. To Meg, because he desired her. Understood her. Chose her.
He reached between them. “Do you want me to touch you here?”
Yes. Please, yes.
“Meg?”
She met his gaze. Stared right into his eyes as she boldly said, “Yes. If you touch me there, I think I’ll…”
He touched her there.
She shattered around him. Had been halfway there just from hearing him ask the question. From hearing herself say Yes, I want it as his shaft stroked deep within her. Was brought to her peak yet again when she felt him reach his own.
Had she thought she’d found pleasure before? She was spoiled now for all other men. Didn’t even want to meet any other men. No one would ever hold a candle to Lucien. Was it any wonder she’d fallen in love with him?
Her heart hiccupped. Not because she was surprised she’d fallen—anyone would have—but because she was only now realizing how utterly destroyed she would be when he left. She held on as tight as she could.
He let her, for a while. Held her just as close and just as tight. And then he kissed her forehead and reached for his clothes.
She let him go. Watched in silence as he pulled on his breeches, his shirt, his waistcoat, his jacket. Watched him tie his cravat before picking up the hammer and straightening the crooked shelf, just like she’d asked him to do.
And then he reached for the door.
“I meant it.” His voice was quiet, but clear. “When I asked you to marry me. I won’t bother you again. I’m sorry we aren’t a good match, but I am glad my first time was with you.”
She bolted out of bed, naked. “What?”
But he was already gone. She could hear his footsteps, fading. The sound of the front door.
The endless emptiness of goodbye.