by Unknown
He rose above her then, the muscles in his chest and arms glistening, trembling with the restraint he'd placed upon himself, bulging with the strain of holding himself above her, as he insinuated his thighs between hers. Reaching down, he aligned their bodies, man's flesh to woman's, probing gently, teasingly, almost tauntingly as he bent his head and took her lips once more.
He lifted his head, staring down at her. "Say it," he commanded, his voice harsh with the need he held in check.
She gazed up at him dazedly, uncomprehendingly, for several moments, and finally reached up to touch his face. "I love you, only you."
He came into her upon her words, thrusting deeply, and she cried out, lifting up to meet him. He paused, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, sucking his breath in through clenched teeth as he fought the loss of control that threatened. Slowly, he lowered himself, gathering her tightly to him, kissing her deeply, almost savagely. In a moment, he tore his mouth from hers, breathing raggedly as he buried his face against her neck. "Ah, sweet Christ, love," he groaned after only a moment. "I've waited too long, wanted you too long. I can wait no more."
He began to move then, in uncontrolled rhythm, with speed and desperation rather than slow finesse. But that desperation, that very lack of control, sent her spiraling upwards, over the top where bliss exploded around her, and she cried out again, evoking his name in her pleasure. He came with her to that place, shuddering his release with her, groaning the agony of his pleasure even as she cried out, collapsing atop her in the end with a boneless weakness that molded them together as two halves of a whole.
Minutes passed while he waited for his heart to regain a more normal rhythm, to catch his breath, to gather his senses to him and the will to move. Finally, he rolled to his side, taking her with him and tucking her lightly against his length. Finally, his heart ceased to pound in his ears. His breath ceased to scour his lungs, and he leaned forward to kiss Danielle on her damp forehead, the tip of her nose, and her lips in a lover's salute. She gave him the words he wanted to hear then, without prompting, and he kissed her again, more lingeringly before he fell back on the bed in drowsy contentment, allowing his thoughts to wander at will. After a moment, he chuckled ruefully. "I devoutly pray your hostess is deaf as a post. This is, without a doubt, the most damnably complaining bed it has ever been my misfortune to make love to a woman in."
"Be easy. She is, but I hadn't thought to appreciate the fact. You have no idea what I go through only to carry on a conversation with the woman."
He tipped her face up, dropping a light kiss on her lips. "Ignore that last, asinine remark, if you please," he said wryly. "I seem to have lost my eloquence somewhere. That did not come out as I meant it to."
Danielle forced an off-handed shrug. "I never thought you was a saint. In fact, I knew you wasn't."
He tapped her nose playfully. "No? But you love me, regardless," he said, with just a touch of smugness.
She nipped at his finger, chuckling. "Don't have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?" she asked, reverting deliberately to the accent she'd long since dropped.
"You'll admit I have a right to, surely? After all, despite my unseemly haste, I didn't fail in my . . . ah . . . duty."
"You're certain of that, are you?" she asked teasingly, tugging at his chest hairs playfully.
He admonished her for trying to remove the badge of his manhood from his chest, whereupon she, greatly daring, walked her fingers downward in search of the pride of his manhood. "Either that or someone just strangled a cat outside the window," he added teasingly.
She gave him a playful thump, bending her head at the same time and nicking him with her teeth.
"Ouch!" he responded dutifully, removing that endangered part of his anatomy from harm's way and rubbing his chest. "What did you do that for?" he asked, his voice shaky with laughter.
"I did not sound like a cat being strangled!"
He rolled on top of her and pinned her to the bed. "No?" he said, laughing openly now.
She glared at him, pouting. "No."
He nuzzled her neck. "You're quite, quite certain?"
"Quite!"
He sighed, mock mournful. "Well, I shall just have to try again then. I made certain. But if you say no." He nibbled at her lips, her chin, jaw, cheek, and finally reached her ear.
"What are you doing?" Danielle asked weakly.
"Making love to you, sweetheart," he responded with a husky laugh.
"After you insulted me?" she demanded half-heartedly, for really it was difficult to concentrate.
"Did I insult you?" he asked, all surprise.
"Didn't you?" Danielle countered suspiciously.
He brought his lips back to hers, brushing them lightly. "The cat thing?" he asked absently.
His lips sought hers and lingered. "If you had any notion of what it does to me, my dearest, darling Danielle, when you make those delightful little sounds when I make love to you."
Curiosity brought her swimming upwards from the delicious haze that had begun to cloud her mind. "What?"
His eyes glinted, with triumph, with laughter, with passion and some other, indefinable emotion. "Would you care to experience it for yourself?"
She nodded, and he rolled way from her abruptly and onto his back. "I'm all yours," he said, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his arms behind his head.
She looked at him blankly for several moments before comprehension dawned. She came up on her elbow then, intrigued, but feeling an uncomfortable surge of shyness also as she reached out a tentative hand and touched him lightly just below the breast bone. The muscles of his abdomen tensed as she traced a line from there to his navel, explored it briefly, and slid her palm upwards once more and over the hard mound of a male breast. His nipple stood erect at her touch, and she teased it and its mate, and finally leaned forward and teased them with her tongue. He pulled in a sharp, hissing breath at her fist touch, and she looked up at him, her eyes narrowed with satisfaction.
All traces of shyness vanished then, and confidence took its place. She moved over him, placing a knee carefully on either side of his waist and sitting back for a moment to study him before she leaned forward, skimming her hands lightly over the hard, rippling muscles of his chest before she reached up to examine the taut, bulging muscles of his arms. All mine, she thought, and a faint, secretive smile curled her lips as she braced her hands on the mattress and leaned forward only enough to touch her tongue to his lips.
She surprised him. She could tell that by the sudden tension in him. He dragged in a deep, shuddering breath as she slowly traced the outline of his lips and the sensitive line where they parted. His rising chest brushed the tips of her breasts, the faintly abrasive texture of his chest hair bringing the peeks of her breasts to throbbing life. She came down onto her elbows to maintain the contact as she furthered her exploration of his mouth, delving inside finally where she examined the taste and texture of him in leisurely fashion. Her heart quickened as the pace of his breathing picked up, and finally she abandoned all pretext of a coy mating, kissing him as he'd kissed her before, with a rhythmic penetration and retreat that sent a shudder through him. In a moment, he seized the initiative, and he reached up, threading his fingers through her coppery curls as he turned the tables on her, mating with her mouth now in that rhythmic thrust and retreat that sent pleasurable heat to the pulse points of her body.
She reveled in it, in the fire that sang to life once more in her veins, closing her mouth finally upon him and suckling. A groan rumbled from his chest, and he slid his hands down to her hips, guiding her back until that swollen, throbbing part of him was nestled against her woman's flesh. Pressing down on her hips, he lifted up to meet her, matching now the rhythm of his tongue with his hips.
She broke off when he sought penetration, reaching back to grasp his arms and lifting them until she pressed them back against the bed, lacing her fingers through his. He studied her frowning
ly, his gray eyes turbulent with passion. She smiled faintly, leaning forward to graze his chin with her teeth. "Not yet, love. I've only just started."
He subsided, smiling wryly now. "You mean to make me regret those careless words, I see."
She moved to his ear, tracing the convoluted shell with her tongue. "No, love," she whispered. "I mean to make you glad of them."
She proceeded to do so, though it wasn't until afterwards that he was very certain he was very glad Danielle considered turn about fair play. For it was as much torment as pleasure to have her do unto him as he'd done to her, seeking out each pleasure zone and caressing it with tongue and teeth and lips until he thought he would explode, even before she came to that most sensitive place. He sucked in his breath sharply then, afraid that she would touch him, afraid that she wouldn't, afraid that, if she did, he would lose control entirely. She slid her fingers over it, testing it, probing it. He gritted his teeth, feeling sweat pop from his brow. "Don't," he said harshly.
She lifted her head fractionally and studied him for a long moment. Slowly, keeping her eyes locked with his, she leaned forward and ran her tongue lightly over his heated flesh. A ragged groan scraped from his throat, harsh and grating in his own ears. He waited, breath suspended, for the touch to come again. It came, setting his heart to such pounding it felt like it would beat its way out of his chest. He reached for her, knowing he could stand no more of her devastatingly inquisitive caresses, but at that moment he felt her mouth close upon his flesh with moist adhesion, and he lost all touch with reason. He gripped her shoulder, lacking the will now to stop her, knowing he would die if she stopped, die if she didn't.
He was going to die. He was going to explode into a million pieces. He dragged her up, locking his mouth with hers, thrusting inside her in frantic haste, an agonized growl grating in his throat as he reached his peak immediately, explosively, devastatingly. He clung to her tightly, crushingly, feeling the after-shocks of pleasure slowly fade.
When finally he caught his breath, he nuzzled her neck, kissing her in appreciation, in apology. "Precious, my precious girl," he said when he could talk. "Give me a moment. I'll make it good for you." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I've never done that before," he admitted, chagrined.
"Mmm?" Danielle asked dazedly. "What?"
A dark flush mounted his cheeks. "Took my own pleasure first, ran off and left my partner unsatisfied."
Danielle blinked at him. "Ran off? Jiminey! You couldn't run fast enough to outrun me. I was way ahead of you, love."
He stared at her a long moment and fell back against the bed, laughing weakly.
Danielle frowned at him a moment. "What's so funny?"
He choked and laughed harder, jerking her to him when she swatted his shoulder and rolling so that he lay atop her. "You are, love," he said finally, laughing down at her, ducking when she swung at him again and finally capturing her hands and pinning them to the bed. She glared at him, but hurt flashed in her eyes as well, and his amusement vanished immediately. He rolled off her, pulling her against him. "Don't, sweetheart. I was only teasing you and laughing at myself, or, perhaps, with relief."
She gave an injured sniff of disbelief.
He brushed the coppery curls from her cheek. "I thought I'd failed you, and I was wondering, a little frantically I might add, if I had the stamina to make it up to you. You can well imagine my relief when I discovered it wouldn't be necessary, particularly when I was very doubtful I could."
That surprised a chuckle out of her, but her look was doubtful. "You didn't."
He smiled faintly, his gaze tender as he smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "Do you doubt my word, infant? Or, are you questioning my doubts?"
She frowned faintly, looking away. "Maybe I doubt me."
He tucked his finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him once more. "Don't, precious. Don't."
She gazed at him a long moment and finally smiled tentatively and dropped her head to his shoulder, sighing contentedly.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Adrian stared at the land mass they were approaching without really seeing it, his troubled thoughts settling for a moment on the good fortune that had brought them here.
The ship he and Danielle sailed upon had been providential in many ways. It had aided Oglethorpe in his endeavor, without ever firing a shot, without any intention of giving aid. Governor Bull had sent the ship, and its two sister ships, southward to determine whether Fort Frederica had fallen into Spanish hands. They were not to engage with the enemy. They were only to observe and report.
Their timing had been providential, however. The Spanish, after the Battle of Bloody Marsh, as the battle he'd participated in was being called, had retired to Fort St. Simons to bicker. Oglethorpe, deciding to take advantage of their dissension, had marched his forces out and surrounded the Spanish position with the intention of mounting a surprise attack that would, hopefully, drive the Spanish from the island. He was defeated in this intention by a Frenchman, who'd deserted his position and given the 'surprise' away. That plan having failed before it was implemented, he'd hatched another.
Deciding to take what advantage he could of his deserter, Oglethorpe penned a letter, in French, to the Frenchman, advising him to encourage the Spanish to attack at once by telling them that Frederica was in a defenseless state. If he could not persuade them to attack at once, he must at least persuade them to remain three days longer where they were. The British ships Governor Bull were sending with two thousand troops would have arrived by that time, and they would be able to crush the Spanish between their land and sea forces.
It had seemed doubtful that the ruse would work. Nevertheless, they'd freed a Spanish soldier and paid him to deliver the 'message' to the Frenchman, hoping it would fall into Spanish hands. Evidently, it had. Just as evidently, the Spanish had been skeptical. However, when Governor Bull's ships had sailed into sight the Spanish had assumed them to be the vanguard of a hugh fleet and had abandoned St. Simons in most unseemly haste and fled southward to Spanish Florida. The timing of Governor Bull's scout ships couldn't have been more fortuitous.
On a more personal level, it had been fortuitous for Adrian as well. For it gave him a means of removing Danielle from Frederica and the potential risk of scandal once her story became freely known. It was kind upon his pocketbook, which was almost non-existent at the moment. And it removed him from temptation.
He knew himself to be on very shaky ground where Danielle was concerned. He entertained the notion, which he sincerely hoped wouldn't prove a false one, that, once he reached his destination, his purpose would be steadied by his impending nuptials. He rather thought he should proceed with them without delay, since they were unavoidable. He'd learned long ago that disagreeable tasks were best done with dispatch, and his betrothal, if it had not quite reached the highest peak of disagreeableness yet, was rapidly approaching that pinnacle.
There was they saying, of course, marry in haste, repent in leisure, but that hardly applied to him. He regretted the necessity vastly already. He could hardly regret it more.
Regardless, he'd made his choice long since, and couldn't now go back on his given word. Reckless as he'd always been, it was unthinkable for a gentleman with any claims whatsoever to that title to break faith once he had become betrothed.
It wasn't only his own reputation that was at stake. If it had been, he might have counted it well lost. Quite possibly would have, for there had been moments of insanity when he'd considered how he might feel if it were Danielle who'd been chosen for him rather than the woman who had, when he had considered forsaking his family, everyone and everything he'd ever known, only to be with her. But it had been insanity, proof positive that he could no longer think rationally where Danielle was concerned.
Otherwise, he wouldn't entertain such thoughts even for a moment. He didn't particularly give a damn about his own reputation, never had. He didn't particularly car
e about stirring up yet another scandal that his father would have to weather. He'd weathered so many already that one more could hardly matter. He wasn't even particularly disturbed by the possibility of being disowned. He'd never been close to his father and couldn't think that he-or his mother-would suffer unduly if they never laid eyes on him again.
There was one party involved, however, that he couldn't in good conscience injure: his betrothed. It didn't matter that he didn't know her. She was innocent of anything whatsoever save that of not being the woman he wished to wed. He couldn't shred her reputation for the sake of some insane whim of his own.
His sense of purpose wasn't such, however, that he cared to test it to any great degree. Thus, he was anxious to proceed with a wedding he had no real desire for, and anxious to see that Danielle was comfortably settled, when he would rather have done anything in the world but that.
He could accomplish the first part easily enough. All had been arranged before he'd even left England. He had only to present himself, acquaint himself with his bride, formally request her hand in marriage, and the deed would be done. In all likelihood, her trousseau was long since packed and ready for her wedding trip.
Arrangements must still be made for Danielle. He didn't like arriving with his ward without warning, but he saw no alternative. He would have to enlist the aid of his betrothed’s family on Danielle's behalf in presenting her to local society.
He thought it might be best to see her settled first. He rather thought, or hoped, that once Danielle was settled and well and truly lost to him, he would be able to reconcile himself to his own fate. Moreover, he would be better able to oversee the selection of a spouse for her.
He had no qualms about elevating her social status. She belonged to the sphere he would introduce her to, whether she'd been born to it or not. It wasn't merely his fondness for her that blinded him to her true background. Quality was a thing of the blood, inbred. Oglethorpe had recognized it in her the moment he laid eyes upon her, just as he had. One had only to look at her to know she was of excellent stock.
