He knew what she needed.
He reached between them and pressed his thumb to her pearl, working it in small, tight circles. The tension broke into a thousand facets of pleasure, and she clung to his neck as her world constricted to the thick, hard, stroking length of his cock. Her orgasm was weightless, helpless, endless. Like free-falling through clouds of bliss.
Above her, he cursed. Then groaned. Then cursed again.
Out of nowhere, she felt like laughing. He’d been right. Words were beyond him now. It felt good to know she’d sent him to some other place.
One last frantic barrage of thrusts, and he slumped atop her. Heavy, panting, sweating, shuddering.
At last, he released her hands. His arms went about her middle, clutching tight. He laid his head on her breast.
Tentative, Izzy placed one hand flat on the slick surface of his back. With her other hand, she touched his hair.
He tensed for a moment. She did, too. And then he exhaled so deeply, she could believe he was expelling air from his lungs that had been there for months. Perhaps years. Everything went out of him—all the arrogance, pride, anger, fear, lust. Until he just existed in her arms.
She stroked his hair, teasing her fingers through the soft, heavy locks. Her heart swelled with an unbearable sweetness. It didn’t matter what happened tomorrow. This tenderness was worth everything.
“Ransom,” she whispered. “I’ve fallen just a little bit in love with you. You needn’t be worried. I won’t expect you to return the emotion, and I know that this can’t last. But I’ve been waiting so long for somebody to care for, and I . . . I can’t help it.”
She waited, heart pounding in her chest, for his reaction.
And when it finally came, it was this:
A faint, reverberating snore.
Chapter Nineteen
The strangest things woke Ransom the next morning. Sunlight, streaming warm on his face. A gentle breeze, scented of blossoms. The chirp of songbirds.
The tickle of hair against his neck.
“Ransom. Ransom.”
Someone was shaking the limp, dead weight of his arm.
Izzy.
He opened his eyes. He saw the halo of curls surrounding her pale face. Those dark eyebrows. Her red lips.
“Ransom, wake,” she said, shaking him again. “What’s wrong? Are you dead?”
“No.” His voice was a rasp. “I’m not dead.” Emotion burned at the corners of his eyes, like acid. He said it again, slowly. Gratefully. “I am not dead.”
He was very much alive. Awakened, in a way he’d never felt before. His heart was like a new organ, pumping a fizzy, champagne-like joy through his veins. He felt like dashing to the window and bursting into song.
He hadn’t been with a woman since . . .
Well, since.
For the first few months after his injury, he was simply in too much pain to contemplate it. And then . . . then, he’d feared it would be like entering an unfamiliar room. He’d be fumbling about, cursing. Making stupid mistakes as he learned the lay of the space. What if it was bad?
What if he was bad?
But it hadn’t been bad. It had been good. So damned good for them both. Memories came back to him in bits and pieces. Her slick heat clenching around his fingers, making him wild to get inside her. The tight, willing welcome he’d found once their bodies joined. The sweet way she’d held him at the end.
Izzy, Izzy.
“Good,” she said. “Now hurry and dress.”
“What?” He blinked and sat up in bed.
She fluttered about the room, washing up and donning her clothing. Watching her was like watching a burlesque dancer. Water splashed and dripped as she dragged a sponge over her body. He watched, transfixed, as her white shift drifted down over her dark head, then the pale pink column of her nude body. She pulled her hair free, and it tumbled like a black cascade, transforming her silhouette once again. Light and dark tugging back and forth.