She rested her head on his shoulder, but didn’t close her eyes, even when he dimmed the candles. “Hoyt. Whatever happens, this was precious.”
“For me as well. And for the first time, Glenna, I believe not only that we must win, but that we can. I believe that because you’re with me.”
Now she closed her eyes for just a moment, on the pang just under her heart. He spoke of war, she thought. And she’d spoken of love.
She woke to rain, and his warmth. Glenna lay, listening to the patter, absorbing the good, natural feel of a man’s body beside hers.
She’d had to lecture herself during the night. What she had with Hoyt was a gift, one that should be treasured and appreciated. There was no point in cursing because it wasn’t enough.
And what good did it do to question why it had happened? To wonder if whatever was driving them to the battleground had brought them together, had ignited that passion and need, and yes, love, because they were stronger with it?
It was enough to feel; she’d always believed that. And only doubted it now because she felt so much.
It was time to go back to being practical, to enjoy what she had when she had it. And to do the job at hand.
She eased away from him, started to get out of bed. His hand closed around her wrist.
“It’s early, and raining. Come, stay in bed.”
She looked over her shoulder. “How do you know it’s early. There’s no clock in here. Got a sundial in your head?”
“Sure a lot of good it would do as it’s pouring rain. Your hair’s like the sun. Come back to bed.”
He didn’t look so serious now, she noted, not with his eyes sleepy and his face shadowed by a night’s growth of beard. What he looked was edible.
“You need a shave.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the stubble. Rubbed his hand over again, and the stubble was gone. “Is that better for you, a stór?”
She reached over, flicked a finger down his cheek. “Very smooth. You could use a decent haircut.”
He frowned, scooped a hand through his hair. “What would be wrong with my hair?”
“It’s gorgeous, but it could use a little shaping. I can take care of that for you.”
“I think not.”
“Oh, don’t trust me?”
“Not with my hair.”
She laughed and rolled over to straddle him. “You trust me with other, and more sensitive parts of you.”
“A different matter entirely.” His hands walked up and cupped her breasts. “What’s the name of the garment you wore over your lovely breasts last night?”
“It’s called a bra, and don’t change the subject.”
“Sure I’m happier discussing your breasts than my hair.”
“Aren’t you cheerful this morning.”
“You put a light in me.”
“Sweet talker.” She picked up a hank of his hair. “Snip, snip. You’ll be a new man.”
“You seem to like the man I am well enough.”
Her lips curved as she lifted her hips. And lowered them to take him into her. The candles that had guttered out sparked. “Just a trim,” she whispered, leaning over him to rub her lips to his. “After.”