over her, wishing she was naked, half feeling that he was making love to a nightgown instead of a woman. After slapping aside his shirttail and shoving a bulky roll of nightgown away from her thighs, he entered her, then froze when she stiffened abruptly.
"What's wrong?" he asked in a husky voice, peering down at her. "Am I hurting you?"
"No. It's just that I don't know what to do with my knees," she whispered. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see her staring up at him. "Or where to put my hands, and I don't know if I should close my eyes."
"I thought you said you'd done this before." He was whispering, too, and had no idea why.
"I also said I wasn't any good at it."
"Raise your knees." A film of perspiration heated his brow, and a tiny voice deep in his head congratulated him on having the control to stop the proceedings and issue instructions. "Put your hands on my shoulders. Open or close your eyes, whatever you want."
"That's a good idea. This is a lot more comfortable," she confided in the same breathless whisper after she'd raised her knees. "You can go ahead now."
"You're sure? There isn't anything else you'd like to discuss at this crucial moment?"
"If it won't make you nervous, I think I'll watch."
It did make him nervous. He couldn't really reach stride until she turned her head to the side, then he rushed toward crescendo before she looked at him again. In the end he forgot to notice if she watched, losing himself in the sweet mysterious force of a ritual that had begun at the dawn of time.
Afterward, he lay beside her in the darkness, catching his breath and feeling strangely unsatisfied.
"Max? Thank you," she said softly, her head turned away from him. "This was an amazing day, the most wonderful day in my life. I'll never forget a single detail."
Tossing back the sheets, he padded across the room and found his jacket and his cache of cheroots. In the flare of the match, he noticed that the pins had come loose from the coil on her neck and long strands of dark hair spread across her pillow. He waved out the match with an irritated gesture.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, coming back to bed. As he'd already lighted the cheroot, the question was moot.
"I like the smell of a cigar," she murmured drowsily.
After propping his pillow against the headboard, he smoked in silence, thought about what had transpired, and questioned the anger building in his chest. It wasn't difficult to identify the source. He had betrayed a woman who didn't know yet that he wouldn't be marrying her, a woman he had intended to remain faithful to for the rest of his life. Guilt twisted into a knot behind his rib cage.
He hadn't done well by Low Down, either, he realized, frowning into the darkness. He'd done his duty and nothing more. He hadn't kissed her, had shown her no particular tenderness. He'd indulged just enough foreplay to ensure that she was ready for him, and then he'd proceeded with little thought for her satisfaction or pleasure. That wasn't how a man expressed gratitude for his life; it was how he coupled when he was paying for his pleasure.
Lowering his head, he rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, regretting everything about the last twenty minutes.
Low Down.
His head snapped up, and he stared at the sleeping form beside him.
He'd been married to this woman for four days, he'd just made love to her, and he didn't know her name.
Appalled, he dropped a hand on her shoulder and gave her a shake. "Wake up."
She bolted upright, instantly alert, her hands slapping at her waist where her Colt would normally have been strapped. "What's the matter? What's wrong?" she said, starting to swing out of bed. "Are they throwing us out of the hotel?"
Max caught her arm. "Nothing's wrong. I'm sorry I woke you, but I have to know something, and the answer won't wait until morning. What's your real name?"
"You woke me up to ask my name?" After a minute, she laughed
"What's wrong?" he asked in a husky voice, peering down at her. "Am I hurting you?"
"No. It's just that I don't know what to do with my knees," she whispered. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see her staring up at him. "Or where to put my hands, and I don't know if I should close my eyes."
"I thought you said you'd done this before." He was whispering, too, and had no idea why.
"I also said I wasn't any good at it."
"Raise your knees." A film of perspiration heated his brow, and a tiny voice deep in his head congratulated him on having the control to stop the proceedings and issue instructions. "Put your hands on my shoulders. Open or close your eyes, whatever you want."
"That's a good idea. This is a lot more comfortable," she confided in the same breathless whisper after she'd raised her knees. "You can go ahead now."
"You're sure? There isn't anything else you'd like to discuss at this crucial moment?"
"If it won't make you nervous, I think I'll watch."
It did make him nervous. He couldn't really reach stride until she turned her head to the side, then he rushed toward crescendo before she looked at him again. In the end he forgot to notice if she watched, losing himself in the sweet mysterious force of a ritual that had begun at the dawn of time.
Afterward, he lay beside her in the darkness, catching his breath and feeling strangely unsatisfied.
"Max? Thank you," she said softly, her head turned away from him. "This was an amazing day, the most wonderful day in my life. I'll never forget a single detail."
Tossing back the sheets, he padded across the room and found his jacket and his cache of cheroots. In the flare of the match, he noticed that the pins had come loose from the coil on her neck and long strands of dark hair spread across her pillow. He waved out the match with an irritated gesture.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, coming back to bed. As he'd already lighted the cheroot, the question was moot.
"I like the smell of a cigar," she murmured drowsily.
After propping his pillow against the headboard, he smoked in silence, thought about what had transpired, and questioned the anger building in his chest. It wasn't difficult to identify the source. He had betrayed a woman who didn't know yet that he wouldn't be marrying her, a woman he had intended to remain faithful to for the rest of his life. Guilt twisted into a knot behind his rib cage.
He hadn't done well by Low Down, either, he realized, frowning into the darkness. He'd done his duty and nothing more. He hadn't kissed her, had shown her no particular tenderness. He'd indulged just enough foreplay to ensure that she was ready for him, and then he'd proceeded with little thought for her satisfaction or pleasure. That wasn't how a man expressed gratitude for his life; it was how he coupled when he was paying for his pleasure.
Lowering his head, he rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, regretting everything about the last twenty minutes.
Low Down.
His head snapped up, and he stared at the sleeping form beside him.
He'd been married to this woman for four days, he'd just made love to her, and he didn't know her name.
Appalled, he dropped a hand on her shoulder and gave her a shake. "Wake up."
She bolted upright, instantly alert, her hands slapping at her waist where her Colt would normally have been strapped. "What's the matter? What's wrong?" she said, starting to swing out of bed. "Are they throwing us out of the hotel?"
Max caught her arm. "Nothing's wrong. I'm sorry I woke you, but I have to know something, and the answer won't wait until morning. What's your real name?"
"You woke me up to ask my name?" After a minute, she laughed
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