So she pushed against him, tried to lean into him and wriggle a hand free; that accomplished nothing—his grip was unbreakable—but sensing his reaction to the pressure of her body, she shifted against him, sinuously weaving a fraction side to side, rubbing her silk bodice against his coat. Twisting at the waist, she managed to slide her hip into and across the solid length of his erection.
He groaned into her mouth. Pulled back enough to growl, “Do you have any idea…?” then abruptly sealed her lips again.
Of course she didn’t; that was what she was there to learn.
Before she could do anything further, he dragged her hands up, over her head, then changed his grip so he could trap both her hands in one of his.
His free hand lowered to her breast, covered it, squeezed. She gasped, and pressed the firm mound into his palm. He obliged and kneaded, then through the silk sought and found her nipple, circled it, then rolled the distended tip between finger and thumb.
Delicious shards of sensation streaked through her, sliding like fire through her veins to pool low in her belly. He continued ministering to her breasts until the heat flared into outright fire, the conflagration swelling, growing—until she rocked her hips against him.
He hesitated, still sunk in her mouth, his tongue sliding slowly along hers, then he released her breast, slid his hand down her ribs to her waist, then lower, over the curve of her hip to skim down her thigh as far as he could reach, then he caught her skirt, gathered the fine material until he could slide his hand beneath and touch her bare skin.
She gasped, quivered.
Gervase reached higher, palm and fingers tracing up her thigh, above her garter where the silken skin was hot to his touch. Despite his experience, he hadn’t expected such tactile delight; she rode daily—her thighs were firm, resilient, promising a wild ride of a different sort, the satiny texture of her skin made only more fascinating by the feminine strength beneath.
The feel of that skin beneath his hand, his to caress at will, subtly seduced, weakened his resolve, had instinct overriding intellect. He wasn’t thinking when his hand drifted higher, lost touch with rational thought when his fingers found the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs.
He brushed, caressed, slid his fingertips past, seeking the soft flesh those curls concealed.
Found it.
He stroked, caressed, urged on by her flaring response, by the fiery need that gripped her, that she sent pouring through him as she kissed him voraciously, urgent, hungry and greedy.
Impatient. That last was very clear as she shifted siren-like against him, evocatively pressing against his hand. The scalding slickness he’d drawn forth was hot enough, shocking enough, to shake some fraction of his wits into place, enough for him to read her desire clearly.
His lips still on hers, his fingers artfully circling, stroking, promising yet not delivering, he forced himself to focus, to consider as well as he could.
He might have drawn a line, knew vaguely that he had, and where it was, but he couldn’t think of any reason to deny her this—the satiation of her immediate need. She was growing desperate; he responded, pressed his fingers further into the slick haven, into her. With one finger he breached her entrance, then pushed steadily deeper, penetrated her to his full reach—even muffled by their lips, he heard her evocative gasp, felt the bite of her nails as her fingers curled and gripped his restraining hand tightly, felt her body arch, bowing against his.
He held still for an instant, letting her feel, grow accustomed to the sensation of his finger within her.
Then he stroked. Deliberately, deeply, repetitively.
Although she tried valiantly, she never caught her breath; in less than a minute she shuddered, and shattered, fractured.
He released her from their kiss. Breathing raggedly, eyes closed, she sagged back against the wall. He watched her face while, his finger buried in her tight sheath, he savored the rhythmic contractions, tracked her release; courtesy of the diffuse moonlight her features were visible, but any expression in her eyes would be impossible to discern.
For the moment, her eyes remained closed; he knew he had to act, to withdraw his hand from between her thighs, to flick her skirts down, before she regained sufficient self-possession to press him further.
But…
Ironically, the very fact that he had to fight, had to battle his baser instincts, to not just withdraw his hand but let her skirt fall and ease back from her until there was air between them—rather than comply with the primitive imperatives of the beast within, roaring and raring to push her skirts higher, lift her and have her—shocked him to full awareness.
Since when had he ever been driven by desire?
Being subject to desire, being ruled by it, was a weakness, one to which he’d never succumbed. Cool rationality had always been his watchword, even in—especially in—all sexual affairs. Yet never in his considerable experience had desire, sexual need—the beast within she seemed to directly connect with—wielded such excruciating spurs; never had he had to battle the impulse to simply let the reins fall and take. To ravish and devour.
The realization of how close he’d come to that, still stood in danger of that, shook him to the core.
She opened her eyes, and looked straight at him.
He eased his grip on her hands, then let them go, but as she lowered her arms, he couldn’t resist twining the fingers of one hand with one of hers, retaining possession that far.
Even in the poor light, he saw the frown that formed, marring the pure arch of her brows. She moistened her lips, and with remarkable imperiousness demanded, “Well?”
Holding her gaze, sensing the smoldering heat that still remained behind the word, sensing how strongly it drew him, he forced himself to raise his brows back. “Well what?”
If he didn’t cling to cool superiority, she would have him yet.
Madeline frowned harder. “Aren’t you going to…?” With her free hand she gestured weakly between them. She was operating on instinct, had been all along, yet while her experience in this field was all but nonexistent, she knew he’d retreated from—reneged on—the main event.
Given her determination to know, and know tonight, she was less than thrilled.
He shifted back, increasing the space between them. His brows remained high, his expression otherwise impassive. “I told you—not now, not here. If you want to know more, to experience more, then I have a price, one you need to be willing to pay.”
Detecting, clearly, the challenge in his tone, she narrowed her eyes. “I thought your stated aim was to seduce me.”
His lips curved tightly. “It is.”
“Well then, what’s wrong with here and now? Surely that qualifies, given I’m clearly willing?”
He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “No—not with you. With you, seduction equates to two hours and more of dedicated engagement in a venue conducive to the task.”
Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower. For one brief instant she considered throwing herself at him, literally, but he continued to hold one of her hands; through his grip she could sense his resistance, the tension, the determination to deny her any further engagement, and he was undeniably stronger and more experienced than she. Losing a wrestling match with him wouldn’t improve her temper.
She lifted her chin. “Where?” Her tone was as cool, as definite, as his. “And when?”
He didn’t smile; she saw not a single sign of gloating. “Tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. I’ll wait for you where the ride along the cliffs meets the path down to Castle Cove.”
She thought, then nodded. “Very well.” Pushing away from the wall, relieved to discover her limbs once more hers to command, she retrieved her hand, then turned and walked to the corner.
He followed, keeping pace alongside.
As she rounded the corner, she haughtily confirmed, “Tomorrow on the cliffs above Castle Cove.”
She’d intended to have the last word.
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Instead, as they strolled toward the clutch of guests outside the drawing room, he murmured, his voice low, deep, steeped in sinful promise, “I’ll be waiting.”
Battling the sensual shiver his tone let alone his words evoked, she accepted defeat, and kept her lips shut.
Chapter 8
At two o’clock the next day, Gervase sat on a flat rock at the top of the path that led down to Castle Cove. He held Crusader’s reins loosely in one fist while the big gray cropped the short grass nearby.
He stared out at the sea, at the long waves rolling in to gently wash the sands, their roar today muted to a soft swoosh , and tried hard not to think—not of the anticipation that knotted his gut, nor of the unexpected fear that, once away from him and with time to think, she would have changed her mind.
The sound of hoofbeats, regular and repetitive, reached him; even as he turned to see who approached, he was reminding himself how many people rode the cliff path on any day.
But it was her. Her hair, uncovered, marked her unmistakably as female; the fact she was astride a large and powerful chestnut confirmed her identity.
Nearing, she slowed, reining in to a walk. He rose.
When she halted, he was waiting to grasp the bit and hold the chestnut steady as she slid down from the high back.
She came around the horse’s head. She was wearing a long full riding skirt over trousers, a matching jacket over a crisp linen blouse; it being high summer, jacket, skirt and trousers were of lightweight twill, dyed a regal blue. As usual, tendrils of her fine coppery-brown hair had worked loose to frame her face.
His eyes traced her features. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” The confession was on his lips before he’d thought.
She raised her brows. “I asked for this…appointment.” She studied him in return. “Did you think I’d balk?”
“I thought you might think again.” Drawing Crusader around to flank her chestnut, he waved down the path, and started walking.
She gave a soft snort, and kept pace alongside. “Well, here I am. Where are we going?”
He didn’t meet her gaze but pointed ahead, down the steep path.
Madeline looked, and only then remembered the castle’s boathouse. It was almost as old as the castle itself, built of the same rough-hewn stone and set on a ledge, a natural rock platform that extended out from the cliff just above the high-tide line. Unlike most boathouses, this one had two stories. The ground floor had double doors like barn doors facing the sea, with heavy beams and tackle jutting out above to lift and swing boats out over the water, then lower them. The upper level sported a balcony built above the beams from which the tackle hung. There was no outer stair leading up, but unlike the windowless ground floor, the upper story possessed many wood-framed windows opening to the balcony and to either side. The back of the boathouse faced the cliff.
It wasn’t far; they stepped off the path onto the ledge, and tied the horses up in the sheltered space between the building and the cliff. As she turned from securing Artur’s reins, Gervase grasped her hand and led her to a door in the side wall. It was locked, but he had the key on his chain; setting the door swinging wide, he led her through, then closed the door.
The ground floor was dim and deeply shadowed; with all doors shut, the only light came from above via the stairwell. Madeline glanced around, noting four different-sized boats housed on blocks, with various pulleys and ropes dangling from above. Nearest to the sea doors sat two rowing boats.
Gervase saw her studying them. “When I took your brothers out, we used the sailboat—the one with the blue hull.”
She glanced at one of the bigger boats; it carried a mast, currently lowered, and sails.
Gervase tugged her hand and headed for the stairs. “Up here.” He glanced briefly at her, then started up. “This room’s always been a retreat of sorts. My father had it refurbished for my mother—it was hers, her place, for years.”
Ascending the stairs behind him, Madeline stepped up onto well-polished boards and looked around with no little surprise. The room wasn’t what she’d expected. The stairs came up in one rear corner; slipping her fingers free of Gervase’s, she walked slowly up the room, drawn to the wide windows facing the sea.
As if sensing her unvoiced question, he continued, “My mother was an artist—a watercolorist. She loved painting the sea.”
There were expensive jewel-toned rugs on the floor, and the furniture, while not ornate, was of excellent quality, all dark wood chosen to complement the setting. There were chairs, both comfortable armchairs and straightbacked chairs with thick cushions, and a sideboard against one wall with three books haphazardly stacked upon it as if someone had brought them to the retreat to read. In one corner by the seaward windows a folded wooden easel draped in a paint-spotted cloth stood propped against the wall. Yet all that was incidental. Dominating the room, its central focus, set in pride of place with its foot angled to the balcony windows, stood a wide daybed with a thick mattress and many cushions. On a side table stood a bowl of fruit and a stoppered decanter filled with honey-colored wine.
The place was clean and smelled fresh; not a speck of dust lay on the lovingly polished wooden surfaces.
Reaching the windows, Madeline looked out over the waves, then turned and surveyed the room. It was easy to see why an artist would have loved this place; the light was both strong and dramatic, varying with the many moods of the sea.
She let her gaze return to Gervase, let it travel up his length from his boots to his face; he’d paused by the side of the daybed. “Your father must have understood your mother well.”
“He adored her.” His eyes on hers, he continued, “I was fourteen when she died, so I remember them well, seeing them together, especially here…my father loved Sybil, too, but it wasn’t the same. My mother was his sun, moon and stars, and she loved him in the same way.”
She studied him. When he held out one hand and beckoned, she hesitated, then slowly walked back to join him. “It must be…reassuring to have such memories.”
He took her hand as she neared. “You can’t remember your mother?”
She shook her head. “She died when I was three. I’ve a vague recollection of her, but none of my father and her together.” As he drew her to him, she glanced around one last time. “So…” The breathlessness that had hovered, threatening to afflict her since she’d joined him on the cliffs, closed in. “Whose place is this now?”
His arms closed around her; she met his eyes. His lips curved. “Mine.” He drew her against him and lowered his head. “No one comes here but me.”
And now her. Even as his lips brushed hers, then confidently covered them, Madeline noted that—that he’d chosen here, his special place, one in which his parents’ love still lingered, at least for him, as the scene for her seduction.
It was her last coherent thought before the pressure of his lips, the impact of his nearness—of his arms holding her, his hands controlling her, his lips and tongue tempting her—suborned her wits. Lured them, caught them, trapped them in a web of sensation, of kisses that promised, of caresses that hinted, gently yet definitely, of what was to come.
Oddly, she felt no trepidation; contrary to what he’d imagined, she’d had no second thoughts. She’d slept well last night, and woken calm and focused, content to know that this moment, and those to follow, would come.
That she would be with him here and now, that she would lie with him through the golden afternoon and learn what he would show her, teach her, and so experience what she’d thought she never would, all the forbidden glory that with him she could.
The kiss whirled her into a familiar landscape; she readily followed where he led. For long moments as their mouths melded and their tongues boldly caressed, she sensed that he needed to reassure not her but himself—to confirm that she truly was not just there, physically in his arms, but that she remained committed to their mutual plan.
If she could have, she would have smiled; inste
ad, she reached up, speared her fingers slowly through his hair, letting her senses revel in the silky texture of the short curls, then she gripped his head and kissed him back.
A simple, unadorned demand he understood perfectly well.
She felt his breath hitch as her meaning washed over him, felt the change in him—the hardening of muscles, the tension that flowed into them—as he responded, reacted, as helpless as she, it seemed, in the face of the heat that flared between them.
He drew back from the kiss, lifted his head. His eyes caught hers; between them his clever fingers swiftly undid the buttons closing her jacket. The instant the last was undone, she shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall where it would.
His lips, set in a line she now recognized, curved just a fraction up at the ends, then his eyes dipped; he worked at slipping the smaller buttons of her blouse free.
She said nothing, just watched his face, sensed how the moment held him; he opened the blouse, paused, his eyes on what he’d revealed, then he drew a breath, tighter than she’d expected, and eased the blouse from her shoulders, his palms shaping her upper arms, then tracing down to her wrists. While she dealt with the tiny buttons at her cuffs, his hands roved her breasts, screened but in no way shielded by the fine silk of her chemise; his hands warmed her, lightly cupping, each caress tantalizing, too light to satisfy.
Her lungs were locked when, both cuffs undone, she drew her arms free. The blouse fell behind her. Lifting her arms, she reached for him; his lips curved as he gathered her in, and kissed her—took her mouth in a long, slow kiss that made her shudder.
With rising need.
She felt the tug at her waist as he undid the laces of her skirt; he held her to the kiss, immersing her in a cauldron of heating desire that swirled and swelled and steadily grew as he eased the laces free. Then she felt them release and he pushed the skirt down over her hips; it sank to the floor, crumpling in a pool about her feet.
Stephanie Laurens - B 6 Beyond Seduction Page 16
