Page 18 of His Wicked Little Christmas
Dex rolled to his back and pulled her with him, tucking her against his chest, angling her knee over his belly, wrapping them in a moist, molten package. “I may never recover,” he whispered, his voice breaking, throat raw. His lids fluttered, long lashes dusting his golden skin. “I hope not, anyway. My God, are you perfection. Arewe.”
She blinked back a salty sting, the lapis on the night table sitting in apuddle of moonlight, a steady glow in the darkened bedchamber. Dex’s breath evened out, his fingers falling loose from where they’d been secured around her waist.
She could spend this time deciding what to do, what to say, how to go on with life, but right now, she’d accept the harmony and tenderness invading her soul. Breathe deeply of his scent and tangle her body with his.
Accept what he offered if only until morning.
He woke slowly, the silk sheet an invigorating caress, a subtle abrasion against sensitive skin. A gust through the window he’d cracked open after they made love before the hearth whispered over his body, the chill crisp and calming. A floral scent—lavender?—and woodsmoke permeated the room, the bedding they lay tangled in, her hair, a wild, flaxen mass covering her face and his. A slice of spring in the middle of winter.
He elbowed to a half-sit, stretched, yawned, depleted in the best of ways.
And Georgie…
Dust motes fluttered through the flickering rays of dawn to shimmer over her. She lay on her side, arm tucked beneath her cheek, chest rising and falling in a bottomless, exhausted tempo.
They had worn each other to the bone.
The first time in his life he’d utterly surrendered himself. And the last if, when she awoke, she got dressed and left him, as he feared she planned to do.
Lifting his fingers before his face, he inhaled their scent, lush and earthy. The memories of the night were razor-sharp, bringing with them arousal so robust, Dex was left with the choice to wake her for another round or walk it off. Drawing the sheet to her shoulders, he gave it a neat tuck and slipped from the bed, searched the room until he located his trousers in a wad under the chaise lounge along with one of her slippers. Good enough, he resolved and tugged them on, because he’d no idea where he’d tossed his drawers in the frenzy.
He prowled the room, gathering clothing, lighting candles, stokingthe fire into a blaze that would quickly chase out the chill. He also looked for clues to solve the mystery of the Ice Countess, the Georgie he didn’t know but feared.
I was supposed to be her first, he reasoned with irrational venom, dusting the heel of his hand over his heart, conflicted, jealous, guilt-ridden. What an utterly masculine bit of idiocy the statement was. Possessive to the extreme. He knew she wouldn’t like it, although he couldn’t help but feel it.
He’dalwaysfelt it.
Startled by his perplexing emotions, he paused at the window, staring into the snow-shrouded distance, the Derbyshire hills and valleys he loved almost as much as he loved her. “No one understood how to touch you,” he whispered and trailed his finger through the mist his breath was painting on the pane. “How to make you come alive.” This much about her he’d figured out. A soft approach with Georgie was vital. He’d relinquished control, let her hold the reins, drive his carriage. She’d been abused, her confidence shaken, her sense of self destroyed. At a time in life when one was discovering oneself, she’d been thrust into a relationship with a man old enough to be her father, a heartless man from the little she’d imparted, a man Dex would gladly kill if he stood before him.
She hadn’t known herself fully until he’d taken the time to show her.
Dex hadn’t known himself, either. Honestly, he hadn’t.
Watching her sensuality flower and bloom had been nothing short of the most magical sexual experience of his life. Part of him had bloomed with her.
Glancing at the bedside table, he noticed the jewel beetle he’d stolen from a German museum sitting among other personal effects. The lapis, a hair clip, a crimson ribbon, an olive-green glass bottle. He wondered if this was all she’d have of him. A damned chunk of stone and a filched fossil. He sank to the window seat, his oath muttered against his closed fist so as not to wake her.
He was fit for no one. Georgie had ruined him, utter destruction.
He hoped she’d be happy when she realized this.
“Is foul language part of the seduction? I think I like it.”
He snapped his head up, embarrassed and provoked. The sweet, teasing fire in her eyes only brought him closer to doom. His emotions were tender, his chest aching. He debated, then decided touching her right now would be a mistake and stayed where he was.
“Merry Christmas, Dex.”
Christmas. He’d almost forgotten.
“I didn’t separate from you the first time,” he shocked himself by saying, thinking he’d love nothing more than to have a child with her, but if he admitted this, she’d run back to London like he’d lit a fire beneath her lovely bottom. “A risk for which I humbly apologize. I was overcome with—” He laughed, his temple knocking the window frame before he located her gaze again. “Hell, I couldn’t think, I could barely breathe I was so taken with you, with us.” He shrugged, scratched a nonexistent itch on his chest. “I have no words. I told you I wasn’t charming, not by half. This impressive speech proves it.”
Georgie tucked her bottom lip between her teeth in a move he grasped meant she was reasoning something out. He believed she wanted to laugh, which might not have gone over well. “Did I say I minded?” she finally whispered, sitting, letting the sheet plunge to her waist.
This was his first view of her in abundant light, and his pulse skipped, his mouth going dry. His childhood friend and the woman he loved melded into one. He fell hard, like a boulder over a cliff.
“I have five days until I return to London,” she said after a strained silence, her gaze sweeping from his bare feet to his neck and back again—the heat of her regard turning him to ash.
At least she seemed as entranced with his body as he was with hers.
