9

Charles inhaled sharply and took an involuntary step back. What? What had she said? Could she really mean such a thing? Then he saw her face creasing in apprehension and he couldn't bear that she might believe him to be shocked or disapproving. How could he? His brave, beautiful wife.

He wanted to squeeze her, crush her to him, sweep her into his arms and charge them toward that ridiculously large bed and love her as a man of twenty years younger might. Or at least ten.

Instead, he cupped her face in his hands, as he had that night in his pantry, and kissed her, hoping to pour the depths of his love and affection for her into one simple kiss.

I love you. I want you terribly. I have always, and I'm sorrier than I can say that I ever left you in doubt.

He felt her relax under his hands and he twisted his fingers in some of the loose tendrils of hair around her face.

He let his hands slide down her shoulders and along her arms, grasping her by the elbows. He allowed the merest space between them. "If you're sure?"

She looked into his eyes and took a deep breath. "I have never been more sure of anything."

*CE*

The feel of her skin against his was like silk, like velvet. He had persuaded her to loosen her hair, and it was spread across the pillows in a glorious tangle of silky curls. Her small hands were stroking his shoulders, his chest, and her lips were pressed against his neck, his collarbone. He had never experienced such pleasure. He moved within her as slowly and gently as he could manage, all the while crooning softly I love you I love you I love you.