was surprised by the gentleness, and by her accompanying prick of tears. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, willing them away, so she could be all casual and unconcerned when he made his excuses. Instead he surprised her further by rolling her to his side and tucking her body up against his. She glanced at him, but his eyes were closed. He was toying with the hair on the back of her neck, urging her cheek down on his chest.
She fit naturally—too naturally—against him. It felt good. Okay, better than good, it felt bloody fantastic, she thought, smiling privately. She didn’t move away, or roll to the side of the bed and initiate his leaving. Although that would certainly have been the wisest thing to do. She’d worry later about the wisdom of drawing out the moment. She thought about the unexpected gentleness in him and snuggled closer, the motion purely instinctive.
For now, he was there, and he was hers.
9
Well, that had been…something, hadn’t it then?
He should be pulling on his trousers, making his excuses. And getting right the bloody hell out of there.
Instead he was tugging her closer, molding her against him, feeling his heart still racing beneath her soft cheek. He couldn’t seem to keep his fingers out of her hair, nor could he stop wanting to tip her head back, lean down, and kiss her some more.
Like a starving man, he was. A man whose appetite had been well and surely slaked…though his body was done for, the rest of him wanted what it wanted, which was Melody Duncastle, plastered to his sweaty, happy side. And what was the “rest of him” he referred to? There was only one part he should be—could be—concerning himself with. And that part was temporarily out of commission.
He stroked her hair, closed his eyes, and tried like hell not to think about those other parts. He should be grinning like a loon, happy to have had a hearty round of it. That was what he’d thought he wanted, was it not? Just put out the fire, so the only thing left afterward were ashes.
Only that’s no’ how it felt.
He wanted her again. And very likely again after that. His body might not be up to the task, but that didn’t slake the desire. The pure sexual craving.
Even as he thought it, he knew his feelings went far, far beyond that. He didn’t only want to have her, watching her slowly come apart under his tongue, sinking into her, driving into her, rushing up and over her like a roaring train, and taking her with him. He wanted all of that, aye, indeed he did.
But he wanted far, far more. He wanted to know her. To know what made her laugh. To know what made her cry. To glory in the bliss she found in her work, and bask in that glow. She had the heart of an artist, which she was still discovering, and an intellectual’s mind. She appealed to his earthy side, as well as to the part that yearned to share his professional successes with someone who could grasp the complexity of what he did. He had to be creative, too, only in an entirely different way. One he suspected she’d understand and appreciate.
He’d never once felt compelled to tell anyone about his past, nor to discuss what he did. He was generally too busy to think about the former, or to talk about the latter. He’d known her such a very, very short time…but there was something to her that had his full and complete attention. He’d no business wasting an evening, much less a whole night, with all the work he had in front of him. Yet, he wouldn’t change the events of that day and night for the world.
That he’d put pleasure before work—hell, anything before work—was a miracle of noteworthy proportions.
One day. How could anyone feel so changed by a person they’d known for a single day? Her impact on him had been instant. It made no rational sense whatsoever, but there he was. And there she was. And he’d give almost anything not to have to leave.
Her. Hamilton. He resented anything that would deprive him of the time it would take to find out if their instant combustion could sustain itself. He’d never before cared enough to find out. In business he was always on the hunt, always the pursuer. But when it came to relationships, it had always been the other way around.
It occurred to him then the only other time he’d felt so certain of something was when he found a new project that would benefit from his attention. One he knew would be profitable for him and a remarkable new start for the people he wanted to help. He rarely, if ever, second-guessed his gut instinct on those occasions…and he was rarely, if ever, wrong.
Perhaps his certainty now wasn’t such an odd, inexplicable thing after all. Maybe his gut just knew.
The problem was…what in the bloody hell could he do about it?
“You know, if you wind my hair any tighter around your finger, I’ll have a perm,” she said on a soft laugh, startling him from his thoughts.
She hadn’t moved from where he’d cradled her, and she was presently tracing aimless patterns on his abdomen with her fingertips. It felt good.
He smiled as he untangled the lock of hair from his finger. “Sorry. What’s a perm?”
She lifted her head then, and if he’d thought her eyes were deep blue pools he could drown in before, they were downright bottomless now. Suddenly drowning didn’t seem like such a bad way to go.
“Seriously? Don’t Irish women get their hair curled?”
“I wouldn’t know, never really paid attention. If you mean those rollers they put in—”
She laughed. “Close enough.”
He massaged her scalp a little, liking the feel of her hair sliding over his hands. “I didn’t mean to tug it out.”
“It felt good, actually, until right at the end.” She shifted a little, rolled into him so she could prop her chin and hands on his chest. “Why did you stay?”
“Stay…you mean now?” His heart sank, and it shouldn’t have. Of course she wanted him out of there. She still had work to do, and he wouldn’t be the least surprised if she headed straight back down the stairs to do it.
“No,” she said, smiling up at him. She slipped her hand up and tracked her fingers over his cheek, along his jaw. “I like you right where you are.”
Hearing that shouldn’t have been the heady rush that it was. “I’m growing rather partial to the spot myself. So…what did you mean, then?”
“Tonight. In the kitchen with me. I know you said you wanted to talk to me, explain the situation, but you could have just laid it all out there in five, ten minutes. You certainly didn’t have to put in the work you did.”
“I believe you told me I had to work if I was to talk.”
She grinned. “You bought that?”
He smiled, too, and tousled her hair. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
“So will I,” she said dryly, then looked away.
“Hey,” he said, when a few moments passed and she didn’t look back at him. “I wanted to stay. It stopped being about talking up the project pretty much as soon as you let me in. In fact, if you want to know a secret, I’m no’ too certain I ever much cared what we discussed. I just
