by Eve Silver
He tasted of salt. He tasted like heaven.
Hunger such as she had never known pounded through her.
He kicked open a door, then kicked it shut behind them, and she turned her head to see a massive bed canopied in striped silk, blue on blue, a vast room with rich curtains and a hearth that danced with fire. Something made her notice that—the extravagance of fire in a room no one was expected to use at this hour of the day. The strangeness made her ask, “Why do you keep the hearth burning at this time of the day?”
“I dislike being cold.” The words had a sardonic edge. “I keep a fire here and in the library and in any room I expect to spend even a handful of moments.” He paused as though grappling with himself and then continued. “I spent too many years shivering, cold to the marrow of my bones.”
She sucked in a sharp breath at the naked pain in his tone. Such revelation, from Gabriel? She had no idea how to reply other than to tighten her arms about his neck and kiss his throat, then strain up to reach his mouth and kiss him there.
Delight strummed her senses. The taste of him, like chocolate, like wine, left her dizzy and breathless.
Breaking the kiss, he tossed her in the air. She squealed and landed in a billow of skirt, the mattress dipping as she bounced and bounced again. He dropped down beside her with a laugh, the sound wonderful and startling, a rarity. A gift. She closed her eyes and let it pour over her. Then he kissed her once more, demanding, possessing, and she was lost in a tumult of sensation and need.
Deft fingers worked her gown, her undergarments, yanking aside her half-unbuttoned bodice to bare her breasts. Her nipples hardened in the cool air and she arched, aching, wanting his mouth on her as she had never wanted anything before. His lips closed over her, a gentle swirl of his tongue and then a hard, sucking pull that took her to a place between pain and pleasure. She clenched the covers in her fists and cried out, liquid need pouring through her so powerful and quick she was undone by it, left panting and thrashing.
Tracing his tongue along the dip between her breasts, he freed more buttons, tearing delicate cloth in his haste. His mouth took her other nipple in a sharp tug that made her thrust her hands in his hair to pull him away… to drag him closer still. Then he kissed her breast sweetly, his tongue swirling round and round, leaving her wanting—
“Harder,” she whispered.
He closed his teeth on her and she felt it clear to her belly, an erotic kick that made her gasp.
Somehow, she found herself naked while he was yet clothed, the situation both embarrassing and arousing, the scrape of his wool coat on her skin and the press of cold metal buttons only serving to layer sensation upon sensation.
She wanted to touch him, to know him, every masculine line and hard angle. She reached for him and he caught her wrists, braceleting them with one hand, stroking the other up her stocking-clad thigh until his palm met bare skin above her garters. He dragged her hands above her head, held them there, and kissed her once more, tongue and teeth, deep. Wet. As he drew back, she followed him, her lips clinging to his.
“Patience, love. We have all the time in the world, and I intend to savor you.” To prove his point, he brushed his lips lightly over her own. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
She was not patient. She was greedy and eager.
Through his trousers, the hard length of his arousal pressed against her thigh, powerful, thick, promising to stretch her and fill her. There was nothing subtle or sweet in the way he touched her now, his hands cupping and kneading her breasts, her buttocks. He took. He marked. He drew moans and sighs as he rolled her nipple between his fingers, then dipped his head to suck and bite. She cried out, the pleasure keener than she could bear, her legs scissoring against cool silk.
He rose above her, dragging her hands to the intricately carved headboard, curling her fingers around sections of wood.
“Hold tight to this,” he whispered against her ear, “and do not move unless I give you leave.” He let a heartbeat pass. “Or I could bind you.”
Her breath left her in a rush, the image of that both incredibly erotic and frightening all at once. No. She could not. To trust him with this, to give him leave to do this… she could not. She jerked her hands from the headboard and pushed against his chest.
He let her. She knew that. As his weight lifted and he took it on his outstretched arms, she knew he let her push him away.
Then he caught her right wrist and dragged her hand back to the headboard, curling her fingers around the wood once more. Now it was she who let him do this, trembling, panting, wanting him and afraid of what he asked, so many emotions swirling through her she knew not which one swam strongest. He took her other hand, and drew it up the same way, his voice guttural as he repeated his command against her ear.
“Do what I say, Catherine. I will not have him in my bed. Not today, or any other. I will not have you haunted by the dark memories he spawned. There will be only me in your thoughts as I come into your body. Only me there with you.” He buried his face in her neck, inhaling against her skin, his weight resting on one hand while the other held hers trapped against the headboard. “Trust me.”
She had no reason to. She had every reason to.
He would have her no other way. If she denied him, he would leave her here, aching and empty. She knew it with all she was. He would have all or nothing. Of course. Had she not secretly known exactly that all along? Was that not part of what she wanted from him, his perfect, wretched control?
Tightening her grip on the wood, she held fast, and he laughed, a low, sensual slither of sound that wound around her and through her.
* * *
“What—” Her question died in a gasp as he kissed his way down her breasts, her belly, clenching his fingers into her thighs to lift her and open her, his tongue tracing the curve of her hip bone, and Gabriel smiled, secretly, darkly pleased.
No one had kissed her here before. The wriggling of her hips and her startled, panting breaths told him that as clearly as if she screamed it aloud, or pushed him away, or leaped from the bed in dismay. No one had kissed her mons or her lovely, swollen folds.
Not yet.
“Do not move,” he rasped, imperative. He would have this of her, the taste of her—warm and wet and female— on his tongue. He breathed in the scent of her, aroused to the point of pain.
“Gabriel.” A soft, plaintive cry.
He held her hips and dipped his head, his tongue stroking her between the folds of her sex, finding moisture and warmth, salt and heaven. His mouth closed over the hot, sensitive core of her. She jerked as though struck.
“No! You—” Her denial died sharply as he nipped her, then licked her. The sounds she made, the way she thrashed, the fact that she held tight to the headboard because he had asked her to and because she chose to accede to his will, gifting him with her trust—all combined to build his own passion, to feed the flame of it. He licked her again, and when she jerked and gasped, he felt the kick of her pleasure low in his own gut.
He took his time with her, stroking her to the razor’s edge, pushing one finger, then two, deep inside her. Tight. She was so tight and wet.
Lost in her, he played and stroked, and she gave herself up to him. His to take as he would.
Soft cries tore from her lips, and her hips rose and fell in a primitive rhythm. Then her whole body went rigid, quivering, frozen in time as her release took her over the edge. The only sounds she made then were a soft catch in her throat, and a series of sighs that could be nothing other than his name.
His name.
He raised his head and saw she yet held fast to the bed, her fingers curled so tight her knuckles were white. He crawled up her lush body, kissing her belly, her full, round breasts, her throat, her lips. She made an inarticulate sound and tried to turn away, but he caught her chin in his fingers, a gentle grasp, and kissed her full on the mouth.
She tensed, then melted, opening to him with a sensual little moan. He supposed tha
t tasting herself on his tongue was not as horrid as she had expected. In fact, the way she tipped her head and sucked on his tongue, his lips, offering sighs of pleasure, made him certain she had forgotten whatever qualms had assailed her.
This was how he wanted her. Wet and ready and pliable. This was how he wanted their joining. Earthy and messy. Nothing forbidden. Nothing taboo.
She wore only her stockings and as he reared back and looked down at her, he was certain that even one more moment would be a moment too long. Because she was lush and beautiful and there before him, offering herself like a gift.
* * *
Her fingers bit into the wooden headboard, and Catherine stared up at Gabriel feeling sultry and sated and aroused all at once. She was fully nude. He was fully clothed. The sensation of being bare and open to him was incredibly erotic.
She had never imagined a man could kiss a woman there. She had never imagined the bliss to be found in that.
“I want—” She broke off, pressed her lips together, wondering how to ask.
“What do you want? Tell me.”
“I”—she shook her head, thrust aside her embarrassment—“I want to taste you. Suck you. Feel you hard and hot in my mouth.” She did. The thought of it put into words made her yearn all the more.
“Your wish. My command.” He moved so that his knees were on either side of her shoulders. Reaching down, he undid his trousers and the long, thick length of his cock sprang free.
Her heart raced. Her belly twisted with lust, and she opened her mouth, taking him inside, and all the while she held her hands where he had placed them, the unenforced captivity only adding an edge to her arousal. She licked the length of him, then sucked him deep. Deeper. And still she did not have the whole of him.
Hot, smooth skin over steel. He impaled her, pumping only deep enough for her comfort and no deeper. She wanted to swallow him, to fill her mouth, her throat with him, and she moaned, arching her back and lifting her head to take more.
With a shaky laugh, he pulled away. “Keep at it, love, and you’ll taste more than skin.”
Dipping his head, he kissed her, sucking on her lips, nipping them, thrusting his tongue into her mouth to dance with her own as he slid down her body. The rasp of his superfine coat against her naked nipples made her gasp and wriggle.
The heat of his erection pressed against the inside of her thigh. He was so hard, so big, the smooth head stretching her as he pushed at her opening, then withdrew, again and again, a little deeper each time. She gasped, wanting him to press in… in…
Then he did. Oh, God, he did. A quick, smooth thrust and he was inside her, filling her, joined so close and tight, his pelvis pressed against the most sensitive part of her. She thought he would pump, hard and fast, seek his own pleasure. But that was not Gabriel’s way. Instead, he rocked his hips only a little. Just a little. Not enough.
She gasped and writhed, but he whispered—“Still. Be still, Catherine”—and continued that maddening, sensual, gentle rocking that wound her tighter and took her higher. But not high enough.
There was carnality in that, in giving herself over to his will, his desires. His control.
She shuddered.
Catching the back of her knee, he bent her leg and lifted it until her ankle rested on his shoulder, then did the same with the other, dipping his head to kiss her neck, her jaw. She clenched her fists tight to the headboard, beguiled, seduced. She wanted this, wanted him. Liked the places he was taking her.
Then he began a new rhythm, a hot, slick pump and slide, fast and rough enough that it left her mindless, left her gasping. She was lost, her hands tearing free of the place she had willingly fettered them, coming to rest on his shoulders, the cloth of his coat scratchy beneath her palms as she fisted and crushed it. She cried out as he pushed deeper, then withdrew, pleasure driving her, driving him.
One arm was outstretched to take his weight, the other cupped around her buttock, kneading roughly as he moved. He was beautiful, flexing and straining above her. She splayed her hands across his buttocks, pulling him closer still.
For an instant, she wished he were naked, wished it was his warm, smooth skin beneath her palms rather than cloth. And then she lost the thought, lost everything but the sensations he evoked.
Tension wound her like a clock key. And then it broke, she broke, a thousand glittering pieces falling apart and coming together with each pulsing wave that crashed over her. She threw back her head and screamed, the pleasure so hard and tight she was certain she would not survive.
Above her, suddenly rigid, Gabriel made no sound, only pulled from her and found his own release, his seed pumping from him, his head bowed, his long, beautiful hair sliding forward to brush her breasts.
She clung to him, her skin smeared with his seed, her heart pounding.
Slowly, he lowered her legs from his shoulders, turning his head to kiss the inside of first one knee, then the other. Then he smiled at her, a satyr’s smile. She could not do other than smile in return.
Rolling to his side, he drew her close, and to her astonishment, he smeared his seed all over her belly with the tips of his fingers, then turned and kissed her on her mouth with leisurely care.
“I—” She glanced down, watching his fingers trace slow swirls, and felt the dark edge of her sadness creep into this moment of joy.
She should tell him that there was no need for him to withdraw and spill his seed outside her body. There as no need for him to fear that she would catch with child. Tears pricked her eyes.
She should tell him.
But to say it aloud… She never had before. It would make it real.
Of course it was real. She had known it for some time.
Why did she behave so foolishly now? Tell him.
“What is it, Catherine?” he asked, his voice low, laced with tension. “Do you know regret already?”
Regret? For lying with him? For experiencing what she had only imagined in the past?
“No. Never.” She drew a deep breath, feeling the pull on her lungs that warned her she could inhale no deeper, then she blew out all the air in a rush. “It is only… You need not withdraw like that.” Her voice broke then, and with it, her composure, and she bit hard on her lip to fight back the tears. Finally, she whispered, “I cannot have a child. Not ever. I cannot—”
His hand stilled. His body tensed. For a long moment, he said nothing, and then, “You cannot have another child.”
He knew. Somehow, he knew, though she had not told him.
Of course, she should have expected that, perceptive as he was. Perhaps he saw the subtle signs on her body, though she had come away from her pregnancy with few changes save slightly rounder hips and darker nipples, and two fine, silvery lines that marked the skin above her pubis.
Whatever had given her away, he had seen it and guessed the cause.
“No, I cannot.” Pain twisted her heart until she thought the organ would break or burst or tear from her breast to lie beating on the floor. Old pain. She had thought she had it caged. She swallowed, wet her lips, dizzy with the speed that her emotions had risen high as a bird, then plummeted like a stone. “How did you know?”
“I did not. Not with any certainty. Until now.”
Of course. He had tricked her into revealing all, and he had revealed nothing. Not even his body. He was yet fully clothed.
Had she been the only one to participate here? To feel the things she felt? To feel lo—
No. She would not think that, would not string the letters together to form the word. Not even in her private thoughts. Love was like sand between her fingers, or smoke. Grab hold as tightly as possible, and still it would slip away.
Resting his chin lightly on her crown, he asked, “Where is your baby, Catherine?”
“He died.” Liar. He did not die. He was killed. He was murdered. His life was stolen.
She could not share this. Could trust no one with her pain. With the horrible truths that haunted h
er. Why would she trust him with any of her secrets when he trusted her with nothing? Nothing at all.
He was her lover, not her friend.
She was mad to do this. Mad to lie here. The physicality of their joining was one thing, the deceptive promise of emotional succor quite another. She needed to get away, to flee. She needed—
“Oh, God!” she cried, and tried to leap from the bed, but Gabriel only tightened his grip and turned her so she curled against his body, his arms wrapped tightly around her as horrible, choking sobs tore free. The torrent was shocking and sudden, a brutal wrenching-away of her walls and defenses that she had not expected, certainly not wanted. But she could not seem to make it stop.
On some level, she understood that she cried and ranted, words flowing like a sea of poison, that she struggled in his embrace, that she hit him, pummeling his chest with her closed fists.
That he let her.
In ragged, agonized spurts she cursed fate and men and the brutal world that cast women as lesser beings without rights, without recourse.
And he held her and listened, not saying a word.
At length, she sniffed and scrubbed the back of her hand along her cheek, wiping away her tears, then shivered. She was naked still. Without loosing his hold on her, Gabriel shifted to draw the coverlet out from beneath him and drape it over her.
“It seems I cry more when I am around you than I have cried—” Almost did she say since my son was murdered, but in the end found she could not. “In a very long while,” she said instead, feeling drained and faintly ill.
“And I thank you for that.”
“Thank me?” She tipped her head to study his expression. It was as it had always been, calm, cool. “Why do you thank me? Because you see me at my worst?”
“You have no worst. You are who you are, every bit of you, every part of your present and past. You allow yourself to feel, to grieve when you are with me.” He stroked her hair back from her face. “Trust is a gift, Catherine. You have given me a gift.”
