Page 12 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
He knew that it would be the death knell, if he did it. That he could never hope to bridge that gap between them again. And as much as he longed for it, he resisted it, hoping that one day, perhaps he might be able to bridge that gap. That he could finally lay his ghosts to rest and be the husband that she deserved.
It wasn’t a lack of desire for her that stopped him. He wouldn’t have to manufacture it at all. It was the simple fact that he was dead inside, his heart gone, completely shattered. At the start, he had hoped that perhaps he could build it again, but he knew now it just wasn’t possible. Enough time had passed, after all. If it was going to heal, it would have done so by now.
Resolutely, he turned away from her, gazing at the wall. Usually, it worked. He would close his eyes and pretend that she wasn’t there; that he was alone in the bed, rather than lying next to this lovely woman. Before he knew it, he would be asleep.
He tried, now. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to come and drag him away into the blessed peace of oblivion.
He waited. And waited. But tonight, it just wasn’t happening. He knew she was lying there beside him, even though he couldn’t see her. It was as if her body heat was tangible, reaching out to touch him.
And then, he felt it. Her hand, on his arm.
He suppressed a strangled gasp. His skin seemed to burn, where she was touching him.
“James?” Her voice was as soft as silk.
Almost in a dream, he turned around to look at her. And then, he wished that he hadn’t.
She was lying there, her breath coming in quick bursts, making her chest rise and fall rapidly. He watched the top of her dusky breasts, visible where her nightgown fell open, fascinated. He just couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, no matter how hard he tried.
She still had her hand on his arm, but she didn’t speak. Her large brown eyes were like pools of molasses as she gazed at him. He felt like he was drowning in those eyes.
He wrestled with a sudden, sharp desire to lean forward and kiss her. His gaze travelled to her face. Her lips were full, with a perfect Cupid’s bow, so very inviting. He could almost taste them now…
But, just as he was about to lean forward, he stopped. It would not be fair on her to do this. He could not give her his whole heart; it would only be a small piece of himself, and she would know, wouldn’t she? Even if she let him do it, she would feel his resistance, his guilt. All of the things that had stopped this happening, long before now.
He was just about to turn around, back to the wall, when she suddenly leaned forward, brushing her lips gently on his.
His heart started hammering in his chest. Her lips…they were so unbearably sweet. In a dream, he deepened the kiss, tasting her fully.
His body leapt in response as the kiss continued, her hair falling against his face. The next minute, she cupped his face in her hand, gently caressing it. In an agony of desire, he grabbed her head, pulling her closer towards him, straining against her.
She pulled back, just a little, gazing into his eyes, her own burning. “I want to try again,” she whispered feverishly. “I want you to finally love me…”
It was as if he had landed back on earth with a sickening thud.
Gently, he pushed her away. She looked confused, almost dazed.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, his heart lurching with guilt and sorrow. “But I cannot.”
She turned her face away, quickly, to the opposite wall. But he knew what he would see there if she let him. He would see her confusion and pain at the rejection. Fervently, he wished he could have spared her it, could take it away from her.
He was trembling, now, with the aftermath of his sudden passion, and the effort to control it. It had seemed to come out of nowhere, this abrupt desire for her, but he knew that it could not be trusted. That it would confuse her more in the long run, if he gave into it.
I want you to finally love me.
Her fevered whisper rang in his ears again. It was those words, more than the previous ones, which had finally stopped him. It was those words which convinced him that he should stop, that hemuststop. Because it did not matter if he took her in passion.
Nothing had changed. He could not love her, and she would wither with the pain of it, of trying to convince herself that desire was love. Far better, then, to stop it completely, to nip it in the bud, before she became hollow and bereft from the fact her husband could make love to her but could not love her.
“Adaline?” he said, in a soft voice.
She did not turn around. Gently, he took her hand, sighing.
She didn’t pull away. Slowly, she turned to face him. He flinched, seeing how heartbroken and defeated she looked.
“It has nothing to do with you,” he said slowly, feeling a heaviness in his chest. “The fact that I cannot make love to you…”
She winced, as if he had struck her. Her eyes widened in pain, glistening with the tears she was desperately trying not to shed.
