He did, gliding his hands up her ribcage and breasts before pinching her nipples, as if he knew that was what she really wanted.
Preshea was fracturing again, spinning out and around. Not quite so far as the first, but still there, still flying.
She lost the rhythm, collapsing down. He grabbed her hips to keep the pace, slow but steady.
It still felt good.
“Preshea, lass,” his eyes begged, voice quivering, “May I?”
She hated to say it, him having given so much, but it was a truth that needed saying. “Children would complicate matters.”
“I understand.”
He bucked under her then, holding her hips to keep her against him. Guiding her but even now, not too rough, careful of his strength. Not clumsy with it. He was never clumsy. She enjoyed watching him lose control beneath her. The tingles started again, although she hadn’t the energy to pursue them, and she did not think he had the will to hold out long enough for her to try. Although, knowing him, he’d do his damnedest if she asked.
He lifted her off him at the last, seating her back onto his thighs. Care for her safety even as, face contorted, he spilled onto his own stomach and chest.
It was incredibly erotic to watch and left him looking utterly vulnerable.
I could kill him so easily right now, Preshea thought.
He was boneless under her, entirely at her mercy. She felt it, too (the profound relief after pleasure) but she was also energized.
“You do realize I could end you now with so little effort?”
“Are you certain you’ve had full use of me, lass? You wouldna wish to waste resources.”
“Quite right. Maybe later.”
“I’d as lief you dinna.”
Preshea found she’d rather not either.
Which really was a concern. Always, there was a tiny part of her that wanted to kill any man she knew. On principle. With Gavin, as easy as it would be to accomplish, she had not the slightest inclination. That terrified her.
In Preshea’s world, the man she didn’t want to kill was as near to a man she might love as made no difference.
CHAPTER NINE
The Deadlier of the Species
Her absence woke him.
He had not been sleeping, only dozing, but the weight of her against him was such a comfort that the lack caused him to sit up.
Preshea was standing at the window, naked. The fire still blazed (he had made certain to build it up), so she likely felt no cold.
She looked ethereal and bereft.
“It’s all right to have enjoyed yourself, lass.” He tried to fix the loneliness in her stance with words.
She turned to face him, her arms crossed protectively over her breasts. Was she guarding herself from him or from her own thoughts? Her face, for once, was mobile with confusion and not at all haughty.
He did not approach and take her in his arms, although he ached to do so. It wouldn’t work. It wasn’t the right tactic. He wondered if she guessed that one of his roles within the Coldsteam Guards had been that of master tactician.
He said, very softly, “Who did this to you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Nay, lass. Who made you so wary of men?”
“My father.” Her faced stilled, no confusion there.
“Was he violent?”
“Not really. He was proud of my beauty, in a strange way. He didn’t want to damage the goods.” Her tone was very flat, her words chosen with exacting care.
“So, just cruel?”
“Yes, just that. He liked to wound with words. Taught me to do the same, I suppose. He was particularly adept at unfounded accusations. I sometimes think it might have been easier if he had yelled at me for being what I already was. He wasn’t one to identify a weakness and play upon it. That would require too much effort, learning about another person.”
She paused, formulating her words so as not to wound, he supposed. She had to think carefully when speaking truth, his lass. “There was a footman. He was older, kind to me, fatherly. Used to carry me piggyback about the house.”
Gavin’s skin prickled and he focused on making himself calm, trying to be as unthreatening as possible. Not easy in a man his size. Although nudity helped.
“What happened?” He needed some reality of her life, of her past, that was nothing to do with the artificial aristocrat she presented to society. Yet his need was hurting her, and that was nigh unbearable. Perhaps he should let her slide back into truncated words and false expressions.
But she was gracious, gave him more of her ugliness. “Father accused him, accused us, of all manner of things. Sexual things. I was ten. I understood little except that it was not true, and disgusting. Father explained it all to me in detail. Then I understood too much. I vomited in Father’s best slippers. The footman was horsewhipped and dismissed without a character. All because he was kind to me.”
“So, you learned kindness as weakness.”
“Is it not? Well” —she gave a tiny smile— “perhaps not for you.”
He would not let her be distracted. “What happened after?”
“He sent me to finishing school. Not the normal kind. We were taught other things. Etiquette, of course. But there are spaces in between the done thing and the right phrase. Spaces where a lady may hide information or death.”
“And your father?”
“I remember returning home that first Christmas. Already, I knew what I could achieve. He sent me away to learn espionage and assassination, to become a weapon for his use. He never once considered that I would have my own plans.”