Gwen’s head. With infinite care she closed her fingers around him.
His hand shot out like a striking cobra and seized her wrist.
Half afraid of what she might see, she glanced at his face. If the man on the bed had been Mitch instead of Dorian, she would have expected a healthy dose of shock. He would have every reason to wonder when she’d adopted such a shameless attitude, what a good Catholic girl was doing handling a man’s private parts, even if that man wanted to make an honest woman of her.
But Mitch’s instincts were all male. He was impatient for their marriage because he wanted to share her bed. Whatever his momentary reservations, he wouldn’t be able to conceal the hunger in his eyes.
Dorian could, and did. His teeth clenched, and the tendons in his neck stood out like steel cables. He looked at her as if her touch was as unwelcome as a case of the measles.
“Go,” he rasped. “Get out.”
Gwen snatched up the bowl and fled the room, feeling more shaky than she had right after he had rescued her from drowning.
Once in the bathroom, she closed the door and leaned over the sink, too dizzy to trust her balance. Her reflection in the mirror looked drawn and haggard, the result of two weeks of balancing her work at the paper with the desperate search for Dorian. Now that she’d found him, she didn’t know what do to with him.
She didn’t know what to do with herself.
Gwen blew out her breath and splashed water over her face, knowing it would take a lot more than a good dousing to make her forget what she’d seen and felt tonight.
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