Conor's Way (35 page)

"All right," she whispered so softly he
almost missed it, her body rigid.

He pulled back and gazed down into her face.
"Olivia, look at me."

She slowly, reluctantly, opened her eyes and
met his gaze.

He shook his head. "No, look at me." He
grasped her hand and drew it toward him, placing it against his
chest. "Touch me and look at me."

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held
it there, against his chest until he felt the pulling resistance
stop. Her hand flattened against his chest. "I don't know what I'm
supposed to do," she whispered.

He let go of her hand and spread his arms
wide. "Do what you like."

Her lashes lowered, and she remained still
for a long moment, staring at his chest. Then she leaned toward
him, fanned her hands against his chest, and touched her lips to
the jagged marks of knives and hatred, her kisses as soft and
tentative as the brush of a butterfly's wings. All the defensive
walls he'd spent a lifetime building collapsed as if they were made
of straw.

Olivia felt a tremor run through him with
each touch of her mouth, and it disarmed her to realize that she
had the power to do that. Beneath her lips, she felt the raspy
softness of the hair on his chest, the hammering of his heart, the
rise and fall of his rapid breathing.

"Enough," he groaned, and his hands tangled
in her hair, gently pulling her back. "That's...enough for now, I'm
thinking."

He slid his hands to her shoulders and hooked
his thumbs under the neckline of her dress, pulled it off her
shoulders, down to her waist, and let it fall to her feet. She
stepped out of it, and he pushed it out of the way with one
foot.

He tugged at her corset cover, and she knew
what he wanted her to do. She lifted her arms, and he pulled the
undergarment over her head, then tossed it aside. He lowered his
head and trailed kisses along her shoulder, while his fingers
worked to unfasten the front hooks of her corset. Finally, that
garment, too, was tossed aside, followed by her petticoat.

With each piece of clothing he took from her,
Olivia's anxiety grew. She didn't want him to see her without her
clothes. It was too embarrassing, too agonizing. He must have seen
many other women, far prettier women than she; and she did not want
the comparison.

He slid his hands down her spine, reaching
for the hem of her chemise. "Lift your arms, Olivia," he said
gently. "Let me see you."

Reluctantly, she raised her arms above her
head, allowing him to pull the garment away. He dropped it to the
floor, and she could feel his eyes on her body. She could not look
at him. She folded her arms over her breasts and squeezed her eyes
shut.

"Yes," he said.

The one word startled and puzzled her. "Yes,
what?" she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.

"Yes, I think you're beautiful."

Astonished, she opened her eyes and found him
smiling at her. His eyes had that smoky hue that made her feel
weak. She watched his black lashes lower as he reached out and
grasped her wrists gently to pull her arms away, spread them wide,
and gaze his fill. "So goddamned beautiful, it makes my head spin.
It does, indeed."

Relief washed over her. He didn't think she
was plain, he didn't think she was disappointing. He thought she
was beautiful. He told her so, not just with his words, but with
his eyes, his hands, his voice. Her shyness and embarrassment
melted away under his heated gaze. "You shouldn't swear, Conor,"
she whispered and pulled one hand free to touch his lean
cheek.

He turned his face into her hand and kissed
her palm, then his eyes met hers. They held the wicked gleam she
knew so well. "Goddamned bloody beautiful."

He released her other hand, and she watched
him sink to his knees in front of her. He unlaced her boots and
when he lifted one of her feet in his hands, she grasped the
bedpost to steady herself as he pulled the shoe off and tossed it
aside. He removed her other shoe, then his hands curved behind her
ankles and moved slowly up her calves to her knees, sliding inside
her drawers to the garters that held up her stockings.

His fingers lightly caressed the backs of her
knees, and that slow, aching warmth began spreading through her.
She felt as if she were melting beneath the magic touch of his
fingers, and her hand tightened its grasp on the bedpost. "Oh, my,"
she gasped. "Oh, my."

She thought she heard him laugh softly under
his breath, but she couldn't be sure. He pulled the ribbon ties of
her garters, then slowly slid the stockings down her legs, his
hands gliding over her skin like a warm breeze. She lifted her
right foot and he pulled the stocking off.

When he had removed both her stockings, he
slid his hands up her legs again, the heat of his touch burning her
through the thin lawn fabric of her drawers. His hands moved up her
thighs, her hips, to her waist, where he reached for the drawstring
and pulled, undoing the bow that held up her drawers. He bunched
the delicate fabric in his fists and began tugging it inexorably
downward over her hips.

Olivia felt another wave of embarrassment as
she realized what he was doing, what he was seeing, and she tensed,
fighting off the impulse to shy away.

"Lovely," he murmured as more and more of her
bare skin was revealed to his gaze. "So lovely."

He leaned toward her, letting go of the
drawers to grasp her bare hips in his hands. She felt the garment
slide down her legs to pool around her feet, as he pulled her
toward him and pressed a kiss to her stomach.

Olivia gave a startled cry at the carnal
pleasure of that kiss, at the quivering sensations that rippled
through her. She let go of the bedpost and reached for him instead,
her hands settling on his shoulders to keep herself from falling as
he traced kisses across her stomach and her ribs, tasting her skin
with his tongue.

His hands moved upward along her hips,
following the curve of her waist, across her ribs to cup her
breasts, his thumbs brushing lightly back and forth across the
tips. She tilted her head back with a moan, closing her eyes, and
her hands tightened convulsively on his shoulders.

His hands slid to her back, guiding her to
bend closer to him. She did, and he opened his mouth over her
breast and drew her nipple between his teeth. She felt an
incredible pulling sensation that seemed to draw all the breath
from her. She lifted her hands from his shoulders to cradle his
head, to pull him even closer.

But he did not come closer. Instead, he
pulled back and rose to his feet. He grasped the top hem of the
bedcovers and pulled them down to the foot of the bed. He turned
to her, and lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and
laid her in the center of the bed. She opened her eyes to find him
watching her as he began to pull off his boots. She kept her gaze
locked with his, unable to look lower while he undid the buttons
of his trousers and slid them off his hips.

The mattress dipped with his weight as he
moved to lie beside her on the bed. Leaning on one elbow, he gazed
down at her for a moment, then reached out to touch her face. She
closed her eyes and felt his fingertips lightly graze her cheek,
her chin, her throat, then move across her collarbone to brush
lightly over her breast. His hand lingered there for a moment, then
moved lower, tracing a light, random pattern over her stomach with
his fingertips, then lower still. Olivia forgot to breathe as his
hand slid between her thighs. When he touched her there, she cried
out and jerked against him with a wordless sound, feeling hot
little shivers race through her body.

Shocked by the intimacy of it, she thought
she ought to push his hand away, tell him to stop, but she could
not. She could not think past the tension and heat that rose within
her at the touch of his fingers. She clutched at the sheets,
bunching fabric in her fists as she began to move with his hand,
unable to stop herself. The tension seemed to build inside of her
with every stroke of his fingers. "Conor, oh, Conor," she gasped,
feeling as if she were hovering on the edge of something glorious
and wonderful.

"That's it, love," he murmured. "That's
it."

She heard herself making tiny sounds, but she
could not seem to stop. She felt as if she must be on fire with the
shame of it and the wicked, breathless excitement. Until suddenly,
everything inside her seemed to explode in a white-hot flash that
sent delicious waves of pleasure through her entire body.

Her body was still tingling
with the incredible sensations when he withdrew his hand. She felt
him move, felt his weight and strength above her, pushing her into
the mattress with sudden urgency, overwhelming her with the power
of his body. The air rushed from her lungs, and she gasped as he
pressed against her,
into
her. All the incredible, delicious sensations of
a moment before vanished as if she had suddenly been drenched with
ice water. She had thought herself prepared for this, but she was
not. It hurt.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but
he seemed to realize what he had done. His body went rigidly still,
and he bent his head to nuzzle her neck softly.

"Are you all right,
á mhúirnín
?" His voice
sounded strained, and she wondered if this had hurt him, too.
"Olivia, are you all right?"

"I think so." The sharp, stinging sensation
was already beginning to fade. She moved her hips beneath him
experimentally.

"Olivia," he groaned against her ear, "don't
move. Christ Almighty, don't move."

She tried to keep still, but though the pain
was gone, the odd, stretching sensation was rather uncomfortable.
She was not at all certain she liked it. She sucked in a deep
breath and wriggled her hips again.

"Olivia, no, don't do that. Oh, Christ. Oh,
Christ."

He began to move against her, forcefully now,
his breathing harsh and ragged, his hips pressing her into the
mattress with each thrust he made. As he moved, she began to get
used to it, and she was actually beginning to find it rather
enjoyable, when suddenly, a shudder rocked him, and he let out a
hoarse cry, then he thrust against her one last time and was
still.

It was over.

"
Neamh
," he murmured. "'Tis
Neamh
, you are,
Olivia."

She did not understand the Irish word, but
she heard her name and the tenderness in his voice, and she thought
wistfully that it might have been an endearment. Her arms
tightened around him, and she felt an overpowering wave of
tenderness wash over her. One hand caressed his broad back, the
other raked gently through his hair as she felt the tension leave
his body and lethargy take its place.

When he rolled to his side, he took her with
him, cradling her against his body. Within moments, his breathing
deepened into sleep. Olivia reached for the sheet that had tangled
at the foot of the bed, and she pulled it over them both, then she
extinguished the lamp and snuggled closer in the circle of his
arms.

She was a fallen woman now, she supposed. She
felt no regret, no shame. Just an incredible, overpowering joy that
opened and blossomed inside her like a flower and made her feel
alive, vibrant, and beautiful. She wanted nothing more than to lie
beside him like this forever. She loved him. She closed her eyes,
pressed her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heartbeat;
and she pretended—just for tonight—that he loved her, too.

***

Conor awoke with the scent of her filling his
senses. No cloying cologne, just the provocative feminine warmth of
Olivia's soft skin and tumbled hair.

Sometime in the night, she had turned over
to lie with her back pressed to his chest. Without opening his
eyes, he recognized every aspect of her form—the exquisite shape of
her calf nestled between his legs, the deep curve of her waist
where his arm curled around her, the velvety underside of her
breast against the back of his hand, the silken strands of her hair
beneath his jaw. Her body was perfectly aligned with his, as if she
were made for him. Still half-asleep, he breathed a sigh of utter
contentment, savoring the unfamiliar pleasure of waking up with a
woman in his arms.

He'd slept with her.

That thought doused his contentment. He
opened his eyes and lifted his head from the pillow they shared to
glance down at the creamy skin of her shoulder and the tangled
strands of russet-brown hair that fell across her breast and over
his hand, barely visible in the dim light that filtered into the
room around the shuttered window.

He'd slept with her.

The realization stunned him. He never slept
with women. Kissed them, sure, undressed them, enjoyed them, then
left them, and slept alone. Alone, where his nightmares wouldn't
wake them, where his weaknesses couldn't be seen or his secrets
revealed. Where his shame remained silent and hidden.

He gazed down at her
profile, a perfect cameo of long lashes, tilted nose, and parted
lips, of tangled hair and tempting disarray. He thought of the
night before, remembering everything: the scent of her skin, the
taste of her mouth, the touch of her hands, the sounds of her
passion that had ignited the lust inside him like a match to black
powder, leaving him sated and sleepy and wanting only to hold her
close. Hold her.
Christ
Almighty
.

Even as he felt the panic stirring inside
him, he also felt the desire. He wanted to do it all again; he
wanted the intense explosion of pleasure and blessed release; he
wanted the peaceful lethargy and the dreamless sleep. Beside her,
with her. He'd never felt anything like this with any other
woman.