Page 92 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“You’re already thinking about us being done?” he asked, his brows slamming together. “About me not loving you? Why would you think that? What just happened between us moved me as powerfully as it did you. I started wondering about what we’ll need to do to have youstayhere so I can keep loving you. If you want to, that is.”
Here in Ireland, he meant. Her heart seemed to soar in her chest in joy. To stay here with him… She made herself roll her eyes instead. “It’s those words.Stay here.I shouldn’t have said them.”
He cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “We love each other. I think it’s only natural to think it. Of course, we have some thinking to do about it. But perhaps we can take our time. Everything else has fallen into place for us.”
Trust. Her lifetime nemesis. “I tell myself that, and then I have other thoughts.”
“So do I.” He smiled. “Think we can be easy with each other as those pieces settle into place? I’m willing.”
“Me too. Do you want to shake on it?”
He left her a moment, dispensed with the condom, and then put another on. Her mouth was gaping as he gave her a look and slid back inside her. They were redefining arousal as she knew it. “Is this your version of a handshake? I like it.”
“I’d rather make love again. Wouldn’t you? Unless you want to try and paint to make sure you’re still okay.”
She wet her lips. “I’m still going to be able to paint.” She wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Are we of the same mind then?” he asked softly, watching her closely.
“We are,” she whispered as he thrust into her. And of the same heart too, it seemed.
They never did get to the candles, and it didn’t matter. The waning white light coming in through the windows showed her everything she wanted to see. By the time night finally came, she knew his body well enough to pleasure his every sense, and they only deepened their knowledge of each other until dawn’s early light filtered into the room. She laid her head on his chest, love radiating through her every cell. His arms came around her and she remembered one of the first messages from Carrick’s sheep.
Love. Is. Here.
She smelled oranges and fell asleep with a smile on her face.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
She was so beautiful.
Carrick watched Angie sleep. How did she not see it? She was a painter. Shouldn’t she know beauty? Well, he supposed he had his own blind spots, though none where she was concerned. He’d known their lovemaking was going to be powerful, but nothing could have prepared him for the whole scope. Loving her was like being washed by a waterfall—potent, cleansing, uplifting. Certainly memorable. He caressed the ends of her brown hair resting on the pillow. Oh, how he loved her. He hadn’t imagined he could love like this again.
A pocket of fear rose up to clog his throat like a bit of loose gravel inside him, stirred up by traveling forward. He breathed it out like Angie had done. She’d told him the root of her fears: abandonment. He realized his fear was the same. He never wanted to lose someone he loved again. Wasn’t that fear of abandonment too?
“What are you thinking about so seriously this morning?” she asked, brushing her hair away from her forehead.
“How similar you and I are, Yank.” He leaned in and kissed her and loved hearing her soft sigh of contentment. “I hope you’re all right with me using it as an endearment. I find I can’t give it up.”
“I don’t mind at all. In fact, I rather love it.”
She stretched, her glorious curves lifting as if to meet his touch. His body rose in response. The sheet was tangled around her waist, and he was glad to see she didn’t pull it up to her chin. After what they’d shared last night, there could be no barriers between them.
“Want to know something else I love?” He rolled her onto her side and settled a hand on her waist.
She tapped her finger to the tantalizing line between her breasts. “Me?”
“Yes, you. In fact, that’s why I’m thinking of starting our first morning differently than I might otherwise.”
Laughing, she hugged him, the gesture pure delight. “You already started it, remember? Filling me as dawn’s light filled the land. I think that’s what you said. It was really hot.”
Had he said that? God, he was turning into Yeats. “I meant… I think you should paint this morning.”
Her brown eyes danced. “Paint? You want to make sure I’m still cured, Dr. Fitzgerald?”
He leaned back to the edge of the bed for her paint bag and lifted it, then plunked it down between them. “Don’t joke. This is too important. I want you to be able to paint, Angie. Always.”
She put her hand on her straw bag, her hands patting it like she would a child. “Okay. I’ll paint because it’s important to both of us. But only if you let me paint you.”
