The material fluttered, and he looked up in time to see her yank it over her head, the sound of a seam tearing rending the silence.
“Oh no!” Her brow was wrinkled with concern when her head emerged from the yards of blush-colored silk. “I’ve torn it.”
“I’ll buy you another,” he growled. “Now sit.”
She flopped onto the bed as if her legs had stopped functioning.
Gabriel parted her lips with his thumbs and groaned when he saw her tiny pink pearl. He had wanted to work her slowly to a punishing climax, but he needed to taste her first.
She pushed up onto her elbows. “What are you doing?”
“I want to taste you.”
“Wh-why?”
“Did you like the way I just made you feel with my hand?”
Her skin darkened and she swallowed, her breath quickening, making her breasts rise and fall faster. She nodded.
“This will feel even better,” he promised, his thumbs exposing her to his view. “My God, you are so beautiful.” He draped one of her thighs over his shoulder, nudging her other leg. “Open for me.”
She obeyed, and he took her into his mouth.
She gave a guttural cry and fell back against the pillow. Gabriel laved her extrasensitive flesh with care, lightly flicking only her exposed pearl.
In a matter of seconds she was thrusting against his mouth, her movements desperate and demanding: she wanted more. He gently entered her with one finger while his mouth worshipped and his tongue stroked.
* * *
Her brain was stuffed with one thought: he’d purchased a negligee for her. She had come home from the evening to find a large box on her bed, a huge bloodred ribbon around it, and a brief note:
Ya amar, I saw this and thought of you today. Put it on for me and I will take it off for you. G.
Drusilla had never seen his handwriting before. The letters were shaped with a foreign flare and the powerful strokes were like his distinctive personality.
It was the first garment she had ever worn that she’d not chosen. And, oh, what a garment it was . . .
Even with him kneeling between her widespread thighs, she could think only of that. He’d chosen something especially for her—for her body. And now he was—
She threw back her head and released a sound that should have made her disappear with shame. But any embarrassment she felt was swamped by the wave of pleasure that rolled up her thighs, womb, and exploded in every part of her body.
When she thought she couldn’t take the intense, concentrated pleasure any longer, he released her, and his mouth settled on the tender skin of her inner thigh as she orgasmed: as she came.
“Drusilla,” he said into sensitive skin before sucking her hard enough to mark her.
Somewhere during her pleasure a second finger had joined the first inside her, although both were motionless now. “I can feel your climax as you contract around me,” he said, his breath hot on her sex. “I can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”
Another wave of lust slammed into her at his raw words and a shocked thought flitted through the background of her mind: what kind of woman found such talk arousing? Shouldn’t she be slapping his face instead of quivering beneath his touch?
He stood up before her, the sight of him driving all other thoughts from her head. He picked her up without any effort and moved her farther up the bed, until she was lying in the middle. Drusilla was not a small woman, but the way he handled her left her feeling delicate and desired.
His red, slick lips curled. “Put your feet flat on the bed.”
It took a moment before his words sank in. She realized, when she tried to obey, that it was impossible to place her feet on the bed without bending her knees.
“Good,” he said when she did so, his hand going to his sash. One tug and the garment fell open, exposing a broad swath of hard body. She let her eyes drop to that most masculine part of him. It was long, thick, and erect. And the ruddy tip, she noticed, glistened with moisture.
Without realizing it, she ran her tongue over her lower lip.
His body shook and he groaned. “If you do that, I’ll make a fool of myself before I even enter you.” He smiled at whatever he saw on her face and shrugged, the red silk sliding from the sculpted, taut curves of his shoulders, his biceps bulging as he plucked the robe off and tossed it across the room. His hand went to his erection—to his cock; Drusilla throbbed just thinking the word—and he stroked.
His eyes glittered beneath heavy lids. “You like it when I do this?” He demonstrated by stroking himself from root to tip, the gesture sending saliva flooding her mouth, making it impossible to talk. He jerked his chin at her bent but tightly clenched knees. “Open them.” His hand had stilled and the message was clear: closed legs, no stroking.
She parted her knees a little and he gave a half-hearted stroke.
Drusilla took a deep breath and slowly spread wider.
His chest began to move faster, as did his tightly clenched fist. Power mingled with mortification—and an addictive, impossible-to-resist urge to watch him surrender to passion. She kept opening until she lay before him, as spread open as a butterfly, her knees almost touching the bed. His hand had stopped, frozen, his lips parted, his expression taut and wanting as his eyes flickered up to hers and then quickly back down.
“My God.” He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “You are so beautiful.” He released himself and dropped to his hands between her thighs. “I need just one more taste.” His mouth covered her exposed sex, and this time instead of taking her aching peak into his mouth, he thrust his tongue inside her. She cried out and pushed toward him, her hands in his hair, pulling him tight against her body as he used his tongue, fingers, and even teeth to drive her yet again into delicious madness.
His hands on her thighs held her open, and when her crisis came, all she could do was thrust her hips into his face, her back arching and straining until she thought it would snap.
She was lost in a blur when she felt the hot, slick head of him at her opening. He entered her in one smooth thrust and then lowered himself over her, their eyes mere inches apart, his mouth open as he breathed in sharp puffs, his hips still, his body buried deeply inside hers.
“I can feel your climax—the last of it.” His nostrils flared with pride, his hips pressing her down on the bed. “Now I’m going to fuck you.”
Her body clenched tight at the sound of the wicked word—which she had only ever heard once, when she’d inadvertently overheard a stable hand and maid at her father’s house.
“Ah, God, that was exquisite—I want you to do that again. Tighten around me—squeeze me.”
She wanted it, too. But... “I—I don’t know how.”
He leaned low and whispered against her temple. “I’m going to fuck you, Drusilla.”
This time they both groaned when she tightened around him.
Gabriel laughed. “That is your secret weapon.” His expression turned from amused to hard and severe in an instant. “Now let me show you mine.”
Chapter 20
It was still dark when Gabriel woke up. His arms were full of his wife’s lush body and her head rested on his biceps, their chests against each other, his body still inside hers and beginning to harden again.
“Gabriel?”
He pulled back a little, but not enough so that he left her. Streetlamps or moonlight filtered through the gap in the drapes and cut a stark line across her features. He carefully pushed a lock of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “There, that is better. Now I can see you.”
Her face took on an expression he’d once thought of as haughty, but now realized was merely shyness. His cock, already stirring, hardened the rest of the way. Her eyes widened.
Gabriel pulsed his hips. “You keep me aroused, Drusilla.” She tightened her inner muscles and he sucked in a breath. “You are a very fast learner.” He leaned down to nuzzle and bite her exposed throat. “Do you want me? Tell
me. I want to hear you say the words; I want to hear you say my name.”
“Please, Gabriel,” she said without hesitation. “I like it.” She held his gaze captive. “I love it.”
They made slow, languorous love on their sides, staring into each other’s eyes and making the joining last and last, as if they both knew what had to come afterward.
He held her tight, buried deep inside her after he’d spent. Her body seemed to change its structure as she came back from her small death. And his soft, pliable lover slowly stiffened into a woman with something on her mind.
Gabriel pulled himself from her with reluctance and rolled onto his back. They lay in the near-darkness, their hot, sweaty bodies cooling in the night air.
“You wish to say something, Drusilla?”
He felt her nod.
His lips twitched. “But you don’t wish to start a disagreement.”
A soft sigh and then, “Yes.”
He turned onto his side and propped his head on his hand. “We need to learn how to get along with each other—and not only in bed.”
Her lips curved into a slight smile. “I want to talk about your son, Samir.”
He felt his own smile stiffen. “Yes?”
“You said he was with a nurse—surely that is not the only person he lives with?”
Gabriel worked his jaw back and forth as he considered her question.
“He is living with some friends.”
He felt her shift and turn beside him. “Friends?”
Gabriel passed his hand over his face; he’d known this day would come, but had hoped it would not come so soon. They’d only begun to get over their last misunderstanding. But he supposed now was as good a time as any.
“Yes: friends.”
Tension inserted itself between them, much like a third person in their bed.
“Is it—well, is he living with your mistress, um, mistresses?”
“Who the devil told you about that?”
Her eyes were wide, and he realized he’d raised his voice.
“I apologize, Drusilla, I should not have spoken to you that way.” He closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. Why was he even surprised that she knew? His life appeared to be an open book; the entire world knew of his amorous relations.
“Yes. He has been living with Maria and Giselle. They are both French speakers and adore children so they were glad to take him in while I considered what I should do.”
Silence met his declaration.
Gabriel inhaled deeply and slowly let his breath out before sliding both hands beneath his head and forcing himself to relax.
“Will you tell me about him?”
He knew it was a reasonable request. Still . . .
He sighed. “It is a confused and rather sordid story. I’m not sure how much you care to know.”
“I’m your wife and he is your son. I would like to know what there is to know.”
He chewed his lower lip; he was asking her to bring a child into their home. Did she not deserve a little of his background?
“His mother and I were promised to each other from a very early age and—”
“You mean, you were married?”
“No, we were not. The ceremony was to be at the beginning of our cool season. Every year my father’s subjects would make the journey to Oran to pay homage.That year there was to be an added celebration: my marriage.”
“Marriage? But you couldn’t have been more than—”
“I was sixteen.”
She lay on her side, her head propped on her hand. “So young,” she said wonderingly.
“It is not much different from here. Some girls come out at seventeen—almost all by eighteen. And here you might only talk to a prospective mate a half-dozen times before you are betrothed. Fatima and I had known each other all our lives.”
She remained quiet and Gabriel wished he knew what she was thinking.
* * *
Even in the low light Drusilla could see his expression was pensive.Asking about his past had probably not been wise.After all, it would make no difference to her feelings about Samir. She would take the boy—was in fact eager to meet Gabriel’s son—and did not need to know of his past to accept him.
Likely anything he told her would only make her yearning for him more painful. Already she wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse knowing the boy was the child of a woman who was to have been his wife, rather than one of his mistresses.
And speaking of his mistresses . . .
She swallowed her curiosity along with her jealousy and waited for him to finish. She’d started the boulder rolling and there was no stopping it now.
Drusilla let him think rather than pushing for confidences, taking advantage of the opportunity to study his body.
He’d thrust both hands behind his head, his action unconsciously displaying acres of velvety skin and chiseled muscle. Unfortunately, the blanket covered most of his abdomen and hid that intriguing V of muscle that separated torso from hips. She wished she could light a candle and then spend some time inspecting his body at her leisure, uncovering him, touching him—maybe even licking him. Would he let her do such a thing—the way he had done to her? Was that what one of his mistresses would do for him—to him? The thought was like a sharp stab to her chest. She could not bear thinking about another woman having him in a way she could not. She would ask him—tell him that she wanted to—
“There is—was—a tradition in my father’s family.”
His voice pulled her from her lustful fantasies and Drusilla was glad he was not looking at her. Instead, he was staring up at the canopy.
“When a boy turns fifteen, he is taken from his family and sent off to . . . well, to prove himself, I suppose.” He turned to her. “By the time I was fifteen, there were only three of us—three sons—left. My older brother, Assad, and my much younger brother, Malik.” His mouth creased into a frown. “Malik was a sweet boy—very loving and innocent. But he was simple. He would never offer a challenge for my father’s kingdom.” His frown turned thunderous. “Which should have stopped Assad from—” He broke off and heaved a sigh. “Never mind about that. When I was fifteen, I went to another of my father’s palaces, a smaller holding. Assad had been there for several years already, but my father brought him home.”
“Did you like your older brother?” she asked when he lapsed into thoughtful silence.
“I loved and worshipped him from the moment I could crawl after him. But then—” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Lord, Drusilla, this is a tangled web and—”
She laid a hand on his chest. “You don’t need to tell me anything you do not wish to. We don’t need to speak of this at all. I will accept and grow to love Samir no matter what I know.”
He grabbed her hand in a crushing grip and kissed her knuckles, his lips hot and almost feverish. “You could not have spoken kinder words, Drusilla. It’s been a heavy weight on my mind. Even before our marriage, I worried about his future and what I should do. I’ve long considered how I would tell my mother.”
“Your mother doesn’t know?” she blurted before she could stop herself.
He gave her a wry smile. “I know, foolish, eh? But now that you know, it will be less . . . difficult to tell her. Besides, it was not until recently that I decided that England would not be such a terrible place for him—but I have gone ahead of my story.” He replaced her hand on his chest and absently rubbed it over his skin, brushing it back and forth over his small hard nipples. She was on the brink of losing control of herself and crawling on top of him, but he resumed his tale.
“Fatima’s father was in charge of the palace where I was sent. I’d not seen her much in the prior four years. At one time she’d run freely with the children of my father’s palace. But all that changed when we turned eleven or twelve. Her family moved away, and I only saw her a few times every year.
“But after I went to her family’s home, we became closer. It was not easy to get time
away from the eyes of her many chaperones, but we were driven by desire to find ways, and the understanding that we would marry caused us to become . . . careless.” He turned toward her. “We made love. More than once.”
The words were the sharp talons of a raptor. He’d said that he’d made love to Fatima, but was that what had just happened between them? He had certainly never mentioned the word love. Had he merely fucked Drusilla? Thinking the word sent both despair and desire spiraling through her body. Would he ever come to love her or to make love with her?
“I had only been there about half a year when I received word my father was dead and my brother had seized control of the palace.”
“If he was your elder brother, why was he not your father’s heir?”
Gabriel rubbed his thumb over the thin skin on the back of her hand, which he now held over the rippled musculature of his abdomen, moving in ever-widening circles. The gesture seemed absentminded on his part, but she had begun to melt, to become liquid between her thighs. Her body’s response should have been embarrassing, but she could not bring herself to regret the sensations—no matter how much pain it would probably bring her.
“Assad’s mother had poisoned the sultan’s oldest two sons. She’d been careless and over a dozen people died.”
His words made her forget all about the pulsing sensation in her sex.
“My God. What happened?”
“To Isabella?”
“Was that Assad’s mother?”
“Mm-hmm. She was an Italian lady of good birth. She’d given the sultan six children—two of them boys. For years she reigned supreme—until my mother had me.”
“What happened to her—Isabella?”
“The sultan found out she was behind the poisoning and beheaded her.” Drusilla gasped, and he frowned. “I think it was too good for her. The poison she used was not a kind one and her victims suffered. Isabella had not been a well-liked woman. Assad’s mother was vicious to all the children except her own. None of the other wives would leave their children alone with her—especially not their sons.” He shrugged. “The sultan decided her son would not profit by her crimes, so I was raised up and Assad humiliated. It was the end of my relationship with the brother I loved so much.”
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