Page 74 of A Bride By Morning
Gabriel shoved her down onto the bed. “Tell me you’re mine again.”
Lydia’s teeth pressed to the skin above his shoulder, then he felt the wet edge of her tongue. “I’m yours.”
Gabriel settled on top of her, pushing her thighs open. He wanted her exposed to him like his soul was to her. His retribution for breaking him wide open, fracturing the walls that he would have to diligently construct all over again.
Gabriel pressed his hands to the mattress on either side of her. He looked into Lydia’s eyes and whispered, “Tell me you love me.”
Gabriel wanted her to say the words she had whispered in the darkness, thinking he wouldn’t hear. Words she’d never spoken to him ten years before. He didn’t deserve the answer to this demand—not when he was going to abandon her again. Gabriel had already made his decision.
But before he left, Gabriel wanted to hear her declaration just once. He was a selfish bastard.
Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. With their bodies pressed together so intimately, Gabriel felt her hesitation. But her eyes remained on his, as unerring as a blade that struck its mark.
“I love you,” she breathed, her voice like a curl of smoke at his ears. So soft, he might have imagined it had he not seen her lips move.
Gabriel thrust inside her, gratified by the sound of pleasure she made. Lydia’s leg hitched around his hip to urge him closer. He had never watched a woman in the middle of this intimate act, never so closely cataloged the little details that demonstrated her arousal: the part of her lips, the broken staccato of her breath, the gradual softening of her features as she gazed back at him. These were things he would memorize. Aspects that he would examine after he left her safely in England. He would no longer be so precious with her memory; he would not leave it behind when life became too harsh. Instead, he would carry it with him to eclipse his memories of Moscow and Kabul—this pleasure he did not deserve, but he took it like a villain.
Gabriel increased his pace, watching her pleasure shift as climax grew closer. “Tell me again,” he demanded.
He was insatiable. He wanted those words. He wanted them branded onto his bones beneath the layers of ice he’d be forced to rebuild. She was the only thing in this world that he wanted to carry with him, like the scar of a knife.
“I love you,” she gasped, shutting her eyes as he slammed back into her.
Her fingernails found the skin of his back and scraped him roughly. But not deep enough to leave a mark—the ones he wore of her were his own private scars, written beneath his skin.
That feral, animal part of him demanded more. It would not be satisfied; he, after all, had many years and nights ahead of him where he would have to content himself with this. This short time with her that he’d stolen like a new identity.
“Open your eyes. Look at me,” he said. She complied, those beautiful dark eyes like twin pools of ink in the low light. Like the space between stars. “Tell me again.”
Nails dug deeper into his back. Gabriel pounded into her, holding off his climax. Needing those words again. Needing to hear them one last time.
Her eyes met his like an arrow striking true. “I love you, Gabriel St. Clair.”
Then her throat arched as she cried out her release. Gabriel let his control go, gathering her into his arms as he came. He pressed his lips to hers and said in that kiss everything he could not express in words.
His conscience would not let him say them back.
36
When Lydia woke, it was still dark.
Gabriel held her against his naked body, entirely still behind her. Hours earlier, she had been roused by his uneven breathing—a nightmare that left him hot and beaded with sweat.
Lydia had sat behind him and asked quietly, “Moscow or Kabul?”
His answer came in a whisper. “Moscow.”
She’d leaned forward until her lips were at his ear. “Then take me with you again, so you’re not alone.”
Lydia had sensed his indecision. But in the end, he had turned to her. Pushed her down into the mattress and took her roughly from behind. He had not said anything, had not demanded anything from her. He replaced words with ragged exhales as he thrust into her.
Afterward, he had quietly gathered her into his arms and nuzzled her neck as if in apology. But he never saidI love youback.
With a sigh, Lydia pulled out of his hold and lit the candle at her bedside. She rose from the mattress, staring down at her husband as he slumbered. The candlelight played against his beautiful features, but his countenance held a weariness. She had noticed it earlier when he stared out the window. When Medvedev was caught, she hoped the lines would smooth from his brow, that tonight was an indication of a future where she could ease his nightmares. Where she could watch over him while he slept.
Lydia went to retrieve her needlepoint from the table. Her notice snagged on a paper that had been folded and refolded so often that the creases made it fragile. The label from the telegraph office peeked from underneath one of the folds.
Frowning, Lydia picked it up.
