Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “Sounds like he’d be the perfect person to confide in and talk to. Do that and see where it leads.”

  She blinked at him and gave a watery, half-hearted smile. “Okay, I’ll try.”

  “You might be surprised at what happens.”

  She now graced him with a full, genuine smile. “Thank you for listening.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  She looked at him, and the silence stretched. He became aware of their situation’s impropriety. All her delightful curves were pressed against his side, his hand on the back of her neck, his body turned toward her.

  Desire pounded through him. It was madness. Pure madness. And his mind cursed his body for its wretched reaction while she was so vulnerable. Their breaths intermingled, and her eyes dipped, locked on his mouth. Her scent worked its wicked magic.

  Wretched. He was wretched. But he was under the drugging influence of her, and blood heated and coursed through him, retreading the paths they’d raced earlier when she’d first entered the room.

  Enthralled, he leaned forward. Her pupils dilated and her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. His gaze snagged on her luscious mouth, and he fell slowly, oh so slowly, sure his mind would catch up and yank him to his senses.

  The instant her lips brushed his, the heat in his veins turned to fire. He cradled her head, angling her for better access. Madness. But such sweet madness.

  She opened to him. At the salty taste of her tears, a fierce tide of possessiveness swamped him. Mine. He wanted to be the one to protect. He wanted to be the one to console. He wanted to be the one to comfort. The only one.

  Her arms whipped around his waist, her luscious bosom flattening against his chest. He groaned and dragged her into his lap, deepening the kiss.

  He broke away and peered at her lovely face. Passion and promise blazed in her eyes, those beautiful eyes. “Miss de la Pointe.”

  “Adele,” she whispered.

  “Adele.” He traced a finger down her smooth cheek and brought his face closer, her sweet breath bathing his lips. He barely brushed them against hers. And again. Tasting, exploring. To the edge of her delectable mouth. Down to her chin. He nudged it upward and trailed his mouth along her exquisite throat, inhaling her magnetic scent, delighting in the soft sweep of her creamy skin against his mouth.

  Her breaths puffed faster, and when he kissed the tender skin behind her ear, she shivered. In his arms. His arms. This maddening, delightful, fascinating ball of energy was in his arms, reacting to him.

  His control snapped. He yanked her closer and crushed her mouth with his, drinking in her energy, her passion, as a desperate need to connect with her roared through him, his arousal straining against his trousers. He trailed a hand under her skirts, exploring, the ruffles of her pantaloons riding up with his hand, the coarse netting of her underskirts grazing the back of his knuckles. High-top boots. A dip, and his fingers brushed against her silk stockings. What color were they? No boring white, he’d guess. He gripped her shapely calf and kneaded.

  She moaned in his mouth, the vibration heightening his senses. Her velvety tongue—oh—it stroked his. So her, bold and unfettered. A tiny part of him knew—screamed and thrashed in his mind—he only fed his addiction by succumbing, but at this point, he couldn’t stop himself. Only she had that power.

  He shuddered and skimmed his hand higher, reaching her knee. Just above, her silk stocking ended, and his fingers grazed springy lace—her garter. Then—blood roaring—bare skin. Her skin. His fingertips traced up her inner thigh’s plush curve, and she trembled again. Or was that him? He’d certainly lost all sense of anything else beyond Adele, her loveliness in his lap, responding to him so passionately, so honestly.

  Her hand pushed beneath his frock coat and smoothed across his chest, his waistcoat and shirt a barrier. Regardless, wherever she ventured she set his skin aflame.

  Emboldened, he trailed his fingers higher. At the slit in her pantaloons and her feminine core’s delicate curls, he paused and dragged his mouth to her ear, his heart beating madly. He pressed his lips behind her lobe, and she shivered. Eyes closed, mouth open, he moved his finger—brushed, brushed again—then slid inward, gently parting her womanly flesh. She jerked.

  But she didn’t push him away.

  Push me away, damn it.

  He stroked a little farther and groaned. “Adele, you are so wet for me already.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her sweet naivety slammed another hook into him. “No, that’s a good thing,” he choked out. He stroked, spreading her juices, the scent of her arousal twining through him, hardening him impossibly further. He found her sensitive nub and grazed it, teased it, stroked it in tight circles.

  She moaned, and her mouth pressed into his neck, her hot breath feathering across his skin, further inflaming him. He slipped a finger inside. So tight, so warm. He squeezed his eyes shut—his whole awareness narrowed to his cheek pressed to her ear, her lips moving deliciously on his neck, and her sleek, constricting channel gripping his finger. Slowly he eased out, and she whimpered. He penetrated again, now with two fingers. Her kisses grew frantic against his neck, and her delicate hands were everywhere, touching, exploring.

  “Rawley,” she breathed against his collarbone, sending fresh chills over his skin. “I want...I...oh.”

  Her voice, her honesty, slayed him. He shuddered and dug deep into himself, desperate to clasp any sliver of control within. He slipped his fingers in and out, slowly, stretching her. He swirled a thumb against her swollen nub again, teasing, while he stroked and held her quivering body.

  He found and latched onto a scrap of control, but it was killing him. He was as hard as he’d ever been, his erection straining against the fabric of his trousers.

  Oh, but wasn’t she exquisite. He captured her mouth again in a bruising kiss, teeth bumping teeth, and she responded, stroke for stroke.

  Desperate, he increased his pace, alternating rhythms until he discovered which drove her wild. Sensing she was close, and his new-found control was fast disintegrating, he tore his mouth away and gloried at seeing her passion-flushed face, eyes closed, swollen lips pink and slightly parted. Her eyes slowly opened. When their gazes locked, her eyes widened in wonder, and the muscles gripping his fingers contracted and convulsed. She shuddered in his arms, and he crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her cry of release, drinking in her passion, her energy.

  He continued stroking her, squeezing out every drop of her pleasure.

  Oh, yes, she was like a drug. And like a drug, he again wanted to experience her passion. When her trembles faded, he pulled her tightly against him and fought for control. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and he tucked his chin over her shoulder. Need thundered through him, and he screwed his eyes shut. Test tubes, microscopes, boils, pestilence...

  Slowly, his heart beat less urgently.

  She eased back slightly and raised her face to his. She looked deliciously satisfied. Another wave of possessiveness smacked him. Mine.

  A sense of wonder and awe suffused her beautiful features. “Oh, my. That was... That was...”

  He smiled, seeing her abnormally at a loss for words. He brushed her cheek, ran a finger down her nose to her lips. “Shh.” His fragile calm was just that, fragile. If she voiced anything about what just transpired, the words going past those luscious lips swollen from their kisses, his control would shatter.

  She ran shaky fingers down his face. She glanced around the room and snapped her gaze back to his, pupils dilated, excitement flushing her face. “That was deliciously wicked. Anyone could have walked in on us. Doing that.”

  At these words, instead of increasing his lustful feelings, reality crashed back in. The door. Was wide. Open.

  “Hell’s teeth.” He jumped up, breaths coming fast and short. “You have the right of it. What was I thinking? This is your house. Your father could have come in.” Blood skittered through him, pound-pound-pounding in his ears. “What came over
me?” And wasn’t that the cure for his ardor as his cock-stand wilted.

  He shut the door and leaned against it, attempting to restore calm to his panicked heart. A heart which pounded, contemplating all the what-ifs they’d just narrowly escaped.

  She gave a soft laugh. “Come now. We are alone. There’s no need to pretend at this outrage.”

  He stared. What the devil was she talking about?

  Deducing he needed more explanation, she continued, “We both know you are a man of daring. You are the most exciting man I’ve ever met. There’s no need to pretend otherwise with me. I won’t tell Father.”

  She winked. Winked! But an incomprehensible surge of pride flared within that she thought him exciting, the most exciting man she’d ever met. From her, that meant something.

  But she was so wrong. It pained him to set her to rights about his nature, but it had to be done. He couldn’t bear having her marry him under a false impression. “You’ve said things of this nature before, and I must admit to being completely baffled. I am not this man you describe.”

  Her forehead knitted. “You most certainly are. At every turn, you’ve done remarkable things.”

  “Like what?”

  She crossed her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who needs puffing up. You seriously wish me to enumerate them?”

  He nodded and gripped the doorknob.

  “First, your decision to emigrate to a new country. Then, your dashing entrance into my backyard in a hot air balloon, landing precisely in the center, with nary a bump or lurch. You nailed that landing. I admit your antics of distress added amusement, but that was my first clue to your nature of pretending ignorance in order to seem to have accomplished something impossible.”

  What? “But I really didn’t know how to fly that confounded thing.”

  She went right on. “And rescuing the lady on her panicked horse.”

  He groaned. That hadn’t been heroic.

  “And your late-night attempt to save that poor prostitute, and you so new to town.”

  Her eyes grew unfocused. “That kiss by the river. You were quite worked up. I do believe you were ready to tear that captain to pieces.”

  He had been ready to.

  “And finally, your delicious seduction of myself, right under my father’s nose!”

  Hearing how she pictured him, his body grew more alert, his spine straightened.

  Ridiculous. He shook his head. The regret was more acute to dispel her of such notions. She needed to be clear on this point, especially considering her position as his future spouse.

  “Adele. I assure you, I am not the man you perceive me to be.”

  She scoffed and slapped her hands onto the settee.

  He steeled himself. “My immigration was borne of necessity, and the balloon arrival was exactly as I presented it to be. I had no notion what I was doing, I was desperate for help, and on top of that, I found I have a fear of heights. You will never see me in one of those things again.”

  Doubt crossed her pretty face. He hated he had to do this.

  “The horse incident was no more than any country-bred lad would have done in my place. No heroics, no daring there.”

  She crossed her arms again, eyes narrowing.

  Here he stopped. How to explain the loss of control on the other points she made? His reactions there were completely out of character. He couldn’t explain them either.

  “And the kisses?” Her little boot tapped on the floor.

  He looked away and scratched the nape of his neck. “I assure you, that was completely uncharacteristic. I believe any man of decency would have been ready to trounce anyone who dared harm you, so I dismiss that reaction. The...the kisses, I cannot explain.”

  Triumph flared in her eyes. No! That wasn’t the direction he needed her thoughts to take.

  He strode to the other side of the room. Away from her. “I think it must be this new climate. The humidity. It’s making me act more hot-blooded than my usual self. That must be it.” He held her gaze. “I do not normally behave in such an ungentlemanly fashion. I have no other explanation. All I can say is it will not happen again. You need not worry on that score.”

  “Worry? Believe me, I’m not worried. Rather, I’m anxious.”

  “Same thing.” He waved. “You need not worry.”

  “No, you misunderstand. I’m anxious for it to happen again.” And she broke into a huge grin.

  His member twitched, just witnessing her frank admission.

  He covered his face with his hands and hunched forward. “How can I convince you?”

  “You cannot. I quite have your measure, Dr. Rawley. If you’re not lying to me, then you’re lying to yourself.”

  “Please, call me Phillip, under the circumstances.”

  She smiled. “Phillip.”

  His name had never sounded more delightful than hearing her vocalize it, with her rounded vowels peculiar to this area of the country.

  She would be the death of him, he was sure. But he was well and truly fixed on his course of action, and didn’t think he’d want it otherwise. He just needed her aware of his true nature, so she could adapt accordingly as his wife. And more importantly, would not cry off once she got to know him. For he’d since learned more about her failed engagement—she’d been the one to call it off. He could not have her do this again. With him.

  “I know what you think, but I must say in the strongest terms, I am not this daring man you perceive. I am just a physician who does his job. Honestly, leaving my country and crossing the Atlantic was the most brazen act I’ve ever dared do in my life. It is not this grand adventure you’ve made it out to be. I was sea-sick for the first third of the journey, miserable for the rest. My actions in regards to you are a result of a momentary loss of control, which I will not repeat. You need to get this through your head.”

  Her eyes flashed. “No, I think you need to get it through your head, you are not the man you believe yourself to be.”

  With that, she stood, grabbed the plans, her skirts swishing around her hips, swept from the room, and slammed the door.

  What had he gotten himself into? She turned him upside down. And no way could he distance himself, now that the murderer could have her in his sights.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In Which Matters Turn Deadly

  Adele leaned back against the door of Dr. Living in Denial. Best to leave him to contemplate his recent revelations about his true nature alone.

  Gah—she needed to think, too. She grabbed Loki’s ball and the monkey himself and headed to the backyard to play with him. He’d enjoy the exercise, and the activity would help calm her troubled thoughts.

  Curse Dr. Rawley...Phillip. She whacked the ball against the banister rail as she descended. Deluded man. Convinced he was some milksop of a doctor, when he quite magnificently was not.

  Loki loped along in front and waited by the garden door, furry foot tapping away. She opened the screen door and strolled to their favorite part of the yard.

  And what he’d done. Criminy. That had been such a rush. And so much more so because it had taken her completely by surprise. She’d had no idea such pleasure awaited. When could she learn more? Her mouth went dry, and her blood flared hot.

  However, despite the lassitude that had enveloped her afterward, she’d felt like she was missing something. She had a pretty good idea what it was, too. Being a physician’s daughter, she was not unfamiliar with the mechanics of sexual relations. But the pleasure had been a revelation. That was something she definitely wanted to experience. Again and again. With Phillip. The dolt.

  He could deny it all he wanted, but passion lurked deep within him, though he was unfamiliar with it. Maybe that explained his denials—passion threw him off balance.

  She smiled. To see him off balance! She tapped her lip and tilted her head to the side. Yes, she should persist and make him finally admit his true nature. Peel away more of this false shell he insisted on cloaking himsel
f with. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold. Just contemplating it made her shiver.

  She’d rescue that passionate man from the dispassionate life he insisted on.

  She snorted. The humidity.

  His denials were so absurd. She saw his true nature in the way he stood a little straighter, exuded confidence, whenever he acted in a dashing manner.

  Whatever his assertions, she felt exhilarated at the idea of sharing more such pleasures with him—and it was all so perfectly safe! She didn’t suit him as wife material, after all, so she was in no danger on that front.

  She shivered with glee—ooh—she felt like such a modern woman. This was what liberated women did. And if her heart harbored a little regret they wouldn’t progress further than tantalizing explorations, then she’d ignore it.

  This development also gave her the freedom to relax and not feel like she was being pushed or judged or held to a level of expectation in their social interactions she knew she couldn’t meet. She could be herself.

  Her face heated, thinking about how much of herself she’d shown him—her shame in her brother’s state. And he hadn’t turned away. He’d listened.

  Dr. Denial was right. She needed to talk to Rex. Her muscles tightened, and her breaths became shallow, exactly the symptoms she had allowed to be a deterrent in the past. If she didn’t go to Rex, she escaped experiencing those...feelings. And escaping—she’d become adept at that. Whenever she saw his hand, the memories, the guilt, flooded her and she shut it off.

  With an unladylike grunt, she threw the ball for Loki again. She was unused to facing her pain, her fears.

  Another throw.

  Blast it, Rawley was right.

  Another throw.

  Okay, okay, she was delaying; she’d seek out Rex.

  She found her brother in his study, knee deep in dusty tomes and inscrutable artifacts. What he saw in the lumps of rocks and shards of pottery, she’d never know, but they obviously enthralled him.

  Loki leaped onto a nearby shelf by the door and picked at his toes.