The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

shadows, a softer fragrance. From the tall bottle on the table by the bed he took one of the flowers she had picked from the cottage garden and put there. He handed it to her.
    Then he sat beside her, lifted her into his lap and held her. The way she curled into him as if she’d been waiting made him wonder how they had missed this step. Why they had both rushed to reach the peak, time after time, night after night, without once lingering over the journey.
    This time, he promised himself. This time. When he touched a hand to her cheek, she lifted her face, lifted her mouth to meet his. Time spun out, lost importance in this new and sumptuous mating of lips. The love hidden inside her heart poured into it without shame or fear, and still continued to rise inside her as if from a well that never ran dry.
    Here was the compassion neither thought they needed, the tenderness both had shrugged aside, and all the patience they’d forgotten.
    He pressed his lips to the center of her palm. Her hands were elegant, he thought, silky of texture. They might have belonged to a princess in a castle. No, there was too much strength in them for a princess. A queen, he decided, kissing her fingers one by one, who knew how to rule.
    He brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist, and felt her blood beat there.
    Music whispered on the wind as he laid her back on the pillows. Her arms came up, her fingers skimming over his face, into his hair, as gentle as his had been. Her eyes weren’t clouded now, but clear.
    “There’s magic tonight,” she said, and drew him down to her.
    They touched, as if it was the first time, as if there had been no others before or would be no others after.
    Innocence reaching for intimacy. For that night at least, she knew it was true and gave herself to it. To him.
    Through the glow of candlelight and moonbeams, they gave to each other.
    He tasted and she whispered. She stroked and he murmured. Sounds of pleasure twined together. Without rush, they undressed each other and savored the magic.
    His skin was tones darker than hers. Had he noticed that before? Had he paid enough attention to how like silk she was, or how passion, the gradual, glorious build of it, gave that lovely white skin a flush of rose?
    The taste of her, there, just at the underside of her breast. Nothing else had that delicacy of flavor. He thought he could live on that alone for the rest of his life.
    And when his tongue slid over her and she shivered,he was sure of it.
    Even when warmth simmered toward heat, when breaths became gasps and murmurs moans, there was no hurry. She crested on a long, gentle wave, her body flowing up to his. She felt golden, rich with sensation, each one somehow separate and shining even as they merged together.
    Love made her selfless, nudged her to give back the glory. She rose over him, slid down to him, her lips warm and tender. Her hands skimmed over him, tough muscles that quivered at her lazy strokes, smooth skin that delighted her.
    Now, she thought, now before greed could sneak back and steal this time from them. She clasped his hands with hers and took him into her.
    Slowly and silkily, with urgency only a pulsebeat away. He filled, she surrounded.
    The light danced over her skin, her hair, into her eyes, bewitching him. He remembered the painting of the mermaid with her face, that gorgeous arch of body, lovely thumble of hair. She belonged to him now, fact and fantasy. He’d have followed her, if she’d asked, into the sea. Into the heart of it.
    Her eyes closed, her head tipped back, her body bowed. Nothing he’d ever seen was more beautiful than that moment when she lost herself. The shiver ran down her and into him. He swore he could feel it, feel her, in every cell.
    He came up to meet her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat. And it was there, holding each other, that they let go of everything else and sank under the surface, and toward the heart, together.
     
     
    In the dark, wrapped around him, her mind sliding toward sleep, Darcy closed a hand over the silver disk that lay on his heart. She assumed his Irish-loving mother had given it to him, and that he wore it touched her.
    “What does it say?” she murmured, because the words were faded and unclear to her.
    But when he told her she was already drifting, so his voice floated like out of a dream. Forever love.
    Later, when they slept, he dreamed a dream of blue water shot through with