His Forgotten Bride by Aydra Richards

Author:Aydra Richards [Richards, Aydra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-03-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

“No,” she said, shaking her head. A man of his position? Seven years? Ridiculous. “No, that’s—”

“The truth.” His fingers squeezed hers. “It’s not common knowledge—nor something a man would generally admit to, you understand. But I thought you ought to know.”

“Why? Why did you not…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, and she wiggled her fingers in his grip, but he did not release them.

“Because no one was ever right,” he said. “Let’s just say I could never summon the...er, enthusiasm.” He readjusted his grip, pushing his thumb against her palm to open her hand, and pressing her fingers to his cheek as if luxuriating in the feel of them there. It seemed rather odd to her that he would so enjoy it, when her hands bore the calluses of her labors. “I’m seven years out of practice, Claire. I’m telling you because there’s every chance I’ll embarrass myself and I’d rather your understanding than your scorn.”

Her breath whistled through her teeth. “I wouldn’t scorn you.”

His eyes softened. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you are right.”

She tried to shake her head again, to deny what he was determined for her to understand, but his free hand slid into her hair, stilling the instinctive motion. With a deftness she would not have expected from him, he plucked out pins and cast them aside. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

She forgot that she was naked and he was still clothed. She forgot to deny his claim again, because as he unwound each lock of her hair from where it had been precisely pinned, she felt as if he were unraveling her. Stripping away the layers she had collected since they had been separated, peeling back years of insecurity, of anguish, of heartbreak and loneliness.

She wasn’t right. He simply didn’t know how wrong she was. And she was selfish enough to want him anyway, to take this moment of bliss and revel in it.

Her hair tumbled down her back, and he released her fingers to tunnel both of his hands into it with a raw sound of pleasure, rubbing the strands between his fingers. She’d always thought it such a plain color, stick-straight and a nondescript shade hovering between blond and brown, belonging truly to neither color. And yet he held a handful up to the flickering firelight, admiring the hank of hair caught in his fist.

“The color of honey,” he said, his voice imbued with admiration. “Of course I cannot purchase you such personal items before we are married, but when we are, you’ll have tiaras and hair combs and—”

“Gabriel,” she said, laying her palms on either side of his face. “Shut up.” And, just on the off-chance that he would decide upon tendering to her a proper proposal, she kissed him.

His hands settled on her shoulders, his warm hands sliding along her skin, sending shivers in their wake. With deliberate delicacy he smoothed his fingers over her back, exploring the texture of her skin, the dip of her waist, the contours of her hips.

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