Page 91 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
He leaned in, brushing his lips over hers. A whisper, the barest graze of skin. And again. Soft. Coaxing. Asking permission with each tentative foray. No heat, no scorching urgency. Just connection, a tether of touch. His lips moved against hers, almost hesitant – a supplicant before an altar.
An unspoken language, a solace that a man like him had always fumbled to give voice to. He was a creature of sharp lines meant for dealing death. But for her . . . for her he could be gentle. Soft in all the ways that mattered. He painted his devotion into her with touch, with taste. A wordless confession too fragile yet for the hard edges of speech.
Long moments later, Callahan forced himself to retreat. To lay his brow against hers as they traded air.
“Would you like to sleep now?”
A slight nod.
“And would you like me to hold you? While you rest?”
A stuttering inhale. “I’d like that very much,” she whispered. “Ronan Liam.”
25
Isabel surfaced from the depths of slumber, the last tendrils of a half-remembered nightmare still clinging to her.
Callahan slept on, his breaths deep and even. For a long moment, Isabel simply lay there, savouring every point of contact between her body and his – the heavy arm slung low across her abdomen, his thigh pressed to hers.
I love you, she wanted to tell him.
Her fingers drifted to the fresh bandages beneath her nightgown, tracing the phantom ache of newly carved letters.
R.L.C.
She loved them. Before he’d put the bandage into place, she’d marvelled at the careful way he shaped each letter. As if he intended to erase the memory of Favreau’s violence with his care.
“I can hear you thinking,” Callahan mumbled, the words gravelly with sleep. “It’s criminal at this hour.”
A reluctant smile tugged at one corner of Isabel’s mouth. “Someone’s surly before he’s had his tea.”
The arm at her waist tightened, hauling her back against him. “I’ll give you surly.” He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her neck. “How are you feeling? Any pain this morning?”
Yes, she wanted to say.I feel too raw.
Favreau would never stop hunting her. But Isabel was fast and clever and desperate, and desperation had always served her well. She could survive. She could—
“Isabel. Stay with me.”
But memories rose, phantom bruises blooming over her skin. Fingers digging deep, pain sparking along her nerve endings.
Ma belle. Ma petite sauvage.
“Isabel. Come back to me.”
Slowly, she turned her head, pressing her lips to the centre of his palm. She wanted to crawl into his lap and lose herself in him. Let him fuck her until she shook apart. Callahan made her want impossible things.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Liar.”
“We have work to do.”
Callahan sighed. “That we do.”
With a last, lingering squeeze, he released her and rolled to his feet.
By unspoken accord, there were no indulgent touches or heated glances as they made themselves presentable, just the efficient choreography of two professionals with a mission to complete.
