The Australians' Brides. Lilian Darcy

her hands between his rigid upper arms and his sides and began to stroke them down his chest. To begin with, she stopped at his ribs, which moved up and down with his breathing. His back moved with his breathing, also, pushing against her breasts. Her nipples were hard against his body. Could he feel?

      She let her caress drop lower, reaching the waistband of his shorts, and then his hips, drifting in toward the center, and she forgot about anything more she might want from these moments because they were so precious and delicious all on their own.

      He moved.

      At last.

      His body snaked around and he held her. She wanted to kiss him, take his face in her hands and press her mouth over his, imprint her taste onto him, drink him, make him respond. More than that, however, she wanted him to talk, which meant she couldn’t capture his mouth. Not yet.

      “You said you were incomplete, and you didn’t mean incomplete because you’d lost Liz,” she whispered. “We haven’t known each other very long, but you’re important to me, Callan. You’re good to me. Good for me. And I trust you. I wish you’d trust me, because we can help each other better then.”

      “I trust you. I don’t need help.” She thought he was going to push her away at that point, but he didn’t. After a moment, like an afterthought, he added, “But I want you. Oh, I want you.”

      “Yes …”

      “But that’s where I’m incomplete, Jacinda. God, can I say it? Am I saying it?” He was talking more to himself than to her. His whole body was shuddering, shaking.

      “I don’t understand.”

      “I couldn’t satisfy you, that’s the problem. I couldn’t satisfy either of us. I haven’t been able to in four years, since—” He broke off and swore beneath his breath, then looked her full in the face with his blue eyes burning. “You see, I’m impotent,” he said, and she knew for him these had to be the ugliest two words in the world.