“Yes,” she said, reaching up to entwine her arms around his neck. “I think she’s asleep now.”

Chapter Twenty-six

If he were writing the story, Sebastian thought, as he swept Annabel into his arms, this would be the end of the chapter. No, the chapter would have ended at least three pages earlier, with no hint of intimacy or seduction and certainly nothing about the mind-shattering lust that surged through him the moment Annabel put her hands at the back of his neck and tilted her face up toward his.

One wasn’t allowed to put such things to paper, after all.

But he wasn’t writing the story, he was living it, and as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, he decided this was a very good thing, indeed.

“I love you,” he whispered, laying her down. Her hair was loose, a dark wavy mass of delight. He wanted to trace every curl, to let each one wrap itself around his fingers. He wanted to feel them against his skin, tickling his shoulders, sweeping across his chest. He wanted to feel all of her, against all of him, and he wanted that every day for the rest of his life.

He settled down on the bed, a little bit next to her, a little bit on top, forcing himself to take a moment just to savor, and enjoy, and give thanks. She was looking up at him with all the love in the world in her eyes, and it humbled him, left him without words, without anything but this amazing sense of reverence and responsibility.

He belonged with someone now. He belonged to someone. His actions…they were no longer his alone. What he did, what he said…they meant something to someone else now. If he hurt her, if he disappointed her…

“You look so serious,” she whispered, lifting her hand to touch his cheek. Her hand was cold, and he turned into it, kissing the palm.

“I always have cold hands,” she said.

He felt himself smile. “You say it like it’s a deep, dark secret.”

“My feet get cold, too.”

He dropped one soft, serious kiss on her nose. “I vow to spend the rest of my life keeping your hands and feet warm.”

She smiled, that big, gorgeous, magnificent smile of hers, the kind that so often turned into her big, gorgeous, magnificent laugh. “I vow to…”

“To love me even if I lose my hair?” he suggested.

“Done.”

“To play darts with me even though I will always win?”

“I’m not so sure about that…”

“To…” He paused for a moment. “That’s all, actually.”

“Really? Nothing about eternal devotion?”

“Included in the one about my hair.”

“Lifelong friendship?”

“Right there with the darts.”

She laughed. “You are an easy man to love, Sebastian Grey.”

He gave her a modest smile. “I try my best.”

“I have a secret, though.”

“Really?” He licked his lips. “I love secrets.”

“Bend down,” she instructed.

He did.

“Closer.” And then: “Closer.”

He brought his ear very close to her lips. “I obey you in all ways.”

“I’m very good at darts.”

He started to laugh. Quietly-a big, shaking thing that moved from his belly to his toes and back. Then he brought his mouth even closer to her ear. Close enough to touch, to let the heat of his breath wash over her. And he whispered, “I’m better.”

She reached up and took his head between her hands, shifting it so that her mouth was at his ear.

“You are bossy,” he said before she could get a word in.

“Winslow Most Likely to Win at Darts,” was all she said.

“Ah, but by next month you’ll be a Grey.”

She sighed, a happy, wonderful sound. He wanted to spend his whole life listening to sounds like those. “Wait!” he said suddenly, edging himself away. He’d almost forgotten. He had come to her room that night with a purpose.

“I want to do it again,” he said.

She tilted her head to the side, her eyes showing her confusion.

“When I asked you to marry me,” he told her, “I did not do it properly.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he put a finger to her lips. “Shush,” he scolded. “I know it goes against your every natural impulse, oldest child that you are, but you are going to be quiet and listen.”

She nodded dutifully, her eyes bright and glistening.

“I have to ask you again,” he said. “I’m only doing it once, well, several times, but only to one woman, and I’ve got to get it right.”

And then he realized he didn’t really know what to say. He was fairly sure he’d rehearsed something in his head, but now, watching her face, watching the way her eyes searched his and her lips moved ever so slightly, even in her silence…

All those words were gone.

He was a man of language. He wrote novels, he conversed with effortless ease, and now, when it mattered most, his words were gone.

There weren’t words, he realized. There weren’t words good enough for what he wanted to tell her. Anything he might say would just be a pale facsimile of what was in his heart. A line drawing instead of a lush canvas with swirls of oils and color. And Annabel-his Annabel-was nothing if not a lush swirl of color.

But he was going to try. He had never been in love before, and he didn’t plan to ever do it again, and right now, while he had her in the candlelight and in his arms, he was going to do it right.

“I am asking you to marry me,” he said, “because I love you. I don’t know how it happened so quickly, but I know that it is true. When I look at you…”

He had to stop. His voice had grown husky, and then choked, and he had to swallow, to give himself a moment to get past the aching lump of emotion that had formed in his throat. “When I look at you,” he whispered, “I just know.”

And he realized that sometimes the simplest words were all it took. He loved her, and he knew, and that was all there was to it.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you.” He kissed her softly. “I love you, and I would be honored if you would allow me the privilege of spending the rest of my life making you happy.”

She nodded, tears slipping from her eyes. “Only if you will let me do the same,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, this time more deeply. “It would be my pleasure.”

The time for words was over. He moved to his knees, pulling his shirt from his trousers and sweeping it off with one fluid motion. Her eyes widened at the sight of his bare skin, and he shuddered with desire as he watched her reach slowly out to touch him.

And then when she did, when her hand found his heartbeat, he groaned, unable to believe that one tiny touch could set him afire.

He wanted her. Dear God, he wanted her like nothing he’d ever known, nothing he’d ever imagined. “I love you,” he said, because it was in him, and it had to come out. Again. And again. He said it as he slipped her nightgown from her body, and he said it as he shed the last of his own clothing. He said it when he finally held her against him, completely and utterly, with nothing between them, and he said it when he settled between her legs, preparing to make that final move, to enter her and join them forever.

She was so hot against him, so wet and welcoming, but he held back, forcing himself to stand firm against his raging desire.

“Annabel,” he rasped. He was giving her this last chance to say no, that she wasn’t ready, or she needed words in a church first. It would kill him, but he would stop. And he hoped to God that she understood all of this, because he didn’t think he could manage another word, much less a complete sentence.

He looked down at her face, flush with passion. She was breathing hard, and he could feel every gasp in the rise and fall of her chest. He wanted to take both of her hands and hold them over her head, make her his captive, keep her here for an eternity.

And he wanted to kiss her, tenderly, everywhere.

He wanted to slam into her, showing her in the most primitive way imaginable that she was his, and his alone.

And he wanted to kneel before her, begging her to love him forever.

He wanted everything with her.

He wanted anything with her.

He wanted to hear her say-

“I love you.”

She whispered it, the words coming from deep in her throat, far down to the very center of her being, and it was all that it took to set him free.

He pushed forward, moaning as he felt her grasping him, pulling him in. “You’re so…so…” But he couldn’t finish the thought. He could only feel, and sense, and allow his body to take over.

He had been made for this. For this moment. With her.

“Oh God,” he moaned. “Oh, Annabel.”

With each push, she gasped, arching her back, lifting her hips, drawing him closer. He was trying to go slowly, to give her time to adjust to him, but every time she moaned it was like a spark that fired his blood. And when she moved, it only brought them more deeply together.

He took one of her breasts in his hand, nearly losing himself then and there, just with that. She was perfect, overflowing his fingers, soft and round and glorious. “I want to taste you,” he gasped, and he brought his mouth to her, flicking his tongue across the tender tip, feeling a moment of pure masculine triumph when she let out a tiny shriek, bucking off the bed.

Which of course only brought her more deeply to him.

He suckled her then, thinking she had to be the most glorious, the most womanly creature ever made. He wanted to stay with her forever, buried inside, loving her.

Just loving her.

He wanted this to be good for her. No, he wanted it to be spectacular. But it was her first time, and he’d been told that the first time was rarely good for a woman. And he was so damned nervous that he was going to lose all control and take his own pleasure before he could help her reach hers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous making love to a woman. But then again, what he’d done before…that hadn’t been making love. He hadn’t realized it before now. There was a difference, and the difference was in his arms right now.