And it had worked.
Thank God, it had worked.
He felt giddy, like a green boy. When the idea had come to him—to wed that day—it had been like a strange shot of electricity through his veins, and he’d barely been able to contain himself. It had been one of those moments when he knew he had to succeed, would have done anything to win her over.
Now, as he stood on the threshold of his marriage, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would be different now. Would she feel different in his arms as his wife than she had as his lover? When he looked upon her face in the morning, would the air feel changed? When he saw her across a crowded room— He gave his head a little shake. He was turning into a sentimental fool. His heart had always skipped a beat when he saw her across a crowded room. Anything more, and he didn’t think the organ could take the strain.
He pushed open the door. “Francesca?” he called out, his voice soft and husky in the night air.
She was standing by the window, clad in a nightgown of deep blue. The cut was modest, but the fabric clung, and for a moment, Michael couldn’t breathe.
And he knew—he didn’t know how, but he knew—that it would always be like this.
“Frannie?” he whispered, moving slowly toward her.
She turned, and there was hesitation on her face. Not nervousness, precisely, but rather an endearing expression of apprehension, as if she, too, realized that it was all different now.
“We did it,” he said, unable to keep a loopy smile off of his face.
“I still can’t believe it,” she said.
“Nor can I,” he admitted, reaching out to touch her cheek, “but it’s true.”
“I—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“What were you going to say?”
“It’s nothing.”
He took both of her hands and tugged her toward him. “It’s not nothing,” he murmured. “When it’s you, and when it’s me, it’s never nothing.”
She swallowed, shadows playing across the delicate lines of her throat, and she finally said, “I just…I wanted to say…”
His fingers tightened around hers, lending her encouragement. He wanted her to say it. He hadn’t thought he needed the words, not yet, anyway, but dear God, how much he wanted to hear them.
“I’m very glad I married you,” she finished, her voice matching the uncharacteristically shy expression on her face. “It was the right thing to do.”
He felt his toes clench slightly, gripping the carpet as he tamped down his disappointment. It was more than he’d ever thought to hear from her, and yet so much less than he’d hoped.
And yet, even with that, she was still here in his arms, and she was his wife, and that, he vowed fiercely to himself, had to count for something.
“I’m glad, too,” he said softly, and pulled her close. His lips touched hers, and it was different when he kissed her. There was a new sense of belonging, and lack of furtiveness and desperation.
He kissed her slowly, gently, taking the time to explore her, to relish every moment. His hands slid along the silk of her nightgown, and she moaned as the fabric bunched under his fingers.
“I love you,” he whispered, deciding there was no use in holding the words to himself any longer, even if she wasn’t inclined to say the same. His lips moved across her cheek to her ear, and he nibbled gently on her lobe before moving down her neck to the delectable hollow at the base of her throat.
“Michael,” she sighed, swaying into him. “Oh, Michael.”
He cupped her bottom and pressed her to him, a groan slipping across his lips as he felt her tight and warm against his arousal.
He’d thought he’d wanted her before, but this…this was different.
“I need you,” he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees as his lips slid down the center of her, over the silk. “I need you so much.”
She whispered his name, and she sounded confused as she looked down at him, at his position of supplication.
“Francesca,” he said, and he had no idea why he was saying it, just that her name was the most important thing in the world right then. Her name, and her body, and the beauty of her soul.
“Francesca,” he whispered again, burying his face against her belly.
Her hands settled on his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He could have remained like that for hours, on his knees before her, but then she dropped down, too, and she moved toward him, arching her neck as she kissed him. “I want you,” she said. “Please.”
Michael groaned, pulling her toward him, and then pulling her to her feet before tugging her toward the bed. In moments they were on the mattress, the soft down of it drawing them in, embracing them even as they embraced each other.
“Frannie,” he said, his trembling fingers sliding her silk gown up and over her waist.
One of her hands cupped the back of his head, and she pulled him down for another kiss, this one deep and hot. “I need you,” she said, her voice almost a groan of need. “I need you so much.”
“I want to see all of you,” he said, practically tearing the silk from her body. “I need to feel all of you.”
Francesca was as eager as he was, and her fingers went to the sash on his robe, untying the loose knot before pushing it open, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. She touched the light dusting of hair, almost feeling a sense of wonder as her hand moved across his skin.
She’d never thought to be in this place, in this moment. This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d seen him this way, touched him in this manner, but somehow it was different now.
He was her husband.
It was so hard to believe, and yet it felt so perfect and right.
“Michael,” she murmured, tugging the robe over his shoulders.
“Mmmm?” was his reply. He was busy doing something delectable to the back of her knee.
She fell back against the pillows, completely forgetting what she’d been about to say, if there had been anything at all.
His hand wrapped lightly around the front of her thigh, then slid up toward her hip, to her waist, and then finally to the side of her breast. Francesca wanted to take part, wanted to be adventurous and touch him as he was touching her, but his caresses were making her languid and lazy, and all she could do was lie back and enjoy his ministrations, occasionally reaching out to trail her fingers along whichever part of his skin they were able to reach.
She felt cherished.
Worshipped.
Loved.
It was humbling.
It was exquisite.
It was sacred and seductive, and it took her breath away.
His lips followed the trail his hands had forged, sending tingles of desire up and across her belly, coming to rest in the flattened hollow between her breasts.
“Francesca,” he murmured, kissing his way to her nipple. He teased it first with his tongue, then took it in his mouth, biting it gently.
The sensation was intense and immediate. Her body convulsed, and her fingers gripped frantically into the bedsheets, desperate for purchase in a world that had suddenly tilted right off its axis.
“Michael,” she gasped, arching her back. His fingers had slipped between her legs, not that she needed anything more to ready her for his eventual entry. She wanted this, and she wanted him, and she wanted it to last forever.