Scandalous Again: Switching Places #1

by Christina Dodd

  Her gaze flew to him and she looked vaguely guilty.

  Nothing was easy with Madeline. “Perhaps you’ve come to tell me you’re taking my advice and leaving?”

  “No! Why would I do that after you’ve been so good as to win me the queen’s tiara?”

  “So you’ll be safe when the bullets start flying?” His voice was heavy with logic, and he turned back to the mirror to avoid shaking her until she saw reason.

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise, then puckered in a frown. “Will it come to that?”

  Soaping the other side of his face, he applied the razor. “I doubt that Rumbelow is going to go meekly to prison and to court, there to be sentenced to hang by his neck until he’s dead.”

  “Then I certainly can’t leave you.”

  Why had she come? “I have the situation well in hand,” he said.

  “Then it doesn’t matter if I stay, does it?”

  Ah. She had her own brand of logic. Before he could reply sharply, he heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Swinging about, he saw her remove the key and place it on the dressing table. Astonishment held him still. “Did you just lock us in?”

  “How astute of you.” She stepped closer. “You’re shaving.”

  “Very astute of you.” Turning back, he watched her in the mirror and again wondered what she was doing here. She’d locked them in. Why would she lock them in together? There were only a few choices. She was either going to kill him, or shout at him . . . or make love to him.

  Of course, with Maddie, it could be some mad scheme his male mind couldn’t comprehend—and probably was.

  She stared with seeming fascination as he scraped his whiskers away, and when he wiped his face clean, she reached for him slowly and ran her fingertips over his now-smooth cheek.

  Blast it. He wanted her again. He wanted more than her touch on his face. He wanted her hand on his chest. Her mouth on his cock. Her body rubbing on his. . . . She’d locked the door, and if she touched him again, he’d have her flat on her back, and to hell with his principles.

  In a harsh voice, he asked, “So what did you come for?”

  “To tell you . . . to give you this.” Unhurriedly, she unbuttoned the first button of her elbow-length glove.

  Incredulous, he stood frozen, the towel clutched in his fists, and watched as each tiny white satin-covered button slipped from its hole. Did she mean . . . ? Was she serious?

  But her fingers trembled enough to make the task difficult, and her lips trembled, too. She kept glancing at him, then glancing back down, as if afraid to view his reaction too closely, and her bosom rose and fell in a wonderful, hypnotic motion.

  For one moment, he was transported back to the day four years ago when she had slowly, erotically stripped off her glove. She hadn’t been nervous then; she’d been taunting him, offering her body if he would only take advantage of her offer. She had been fresh, young, disciplined in every way—except with him. The wild desire between them had ignited as she revealed her smooth wrist and long fingers.

  Then she called him back to the present by exclaiming, “Merde!” She had wrestled so hard with a button she broke it off, and it rolled across the floor to land at his feet.

  That broke his paralysis. That made him realize what she was doing. What she meant by this.

  She had declared him a victor in their war.

  She had come to him, just as he demanded.

  Striding forward, he pushed her hand away. “Let me.”

  A few of the buttons gaped open at her wrist. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed the blue vein that pulsed there. A slow kiss that lingered and tasted . . . tasted of fear, of daring, of remembered passion and hopes for yet more. “How many more buttons shall I undo?” he murmured against her skin, then looked into her eyes.

  Her scent came off her in waves—fresh flowers and warm woman. “It depends on whether you wish to own the glove.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “Then you take it”—she lifted her chin at him—“but I’m here on your command.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve come to you.”

  He had her. He’d won her. He smiled at her, but without kindness. Without mercy. He opened the rest of the glove with ruthless efficiency. Stripping it away, he again kissed her wrist, then applied his teeth to the tender skin. “I’ve waited too long for this moment to be gentle.”

  “You don’t have to be anything.” Resting her bare palm flat on his chest, she pushed him backward. “Sit down. I’ll do it all.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Gabriel went willingly, fascinated by the strength of Madeline’s intention, the determination in her gaze.

  Sliding her arm around his waist, she pulled him to a stop in front of the armless vanity chair. Briefly, all too briefly, her breasts pressed against his chest.

  She didn’t seem to enjoy the contact as he did, for she drew away without hesitation.

  Then he saw her flutter of eyelashes, and realized she was taunting him, giving him a brief taste of future pleasures, then withdrawing.

  “Do you think I’m going to put up with this?” he asked through his teeth.

  Again those eyelashes fluttered, and he caught a series of quick, coy glances from her blue eyes. “Yes, I think you will.”

  She was correct.

  She said, “Stand right there,” and her hand wandered down his stomach to his fly. There she toyed with the buttons, or perhaps she was as nervous now as she had been when she tried to remove her glove. Whatever the case, the backs of her fingers brushed him as she loosened his trousers from his hips, and each touch, accidental though it might be, brought him an agony of delight.

  She eased his trousers open, and his cock sprang free. Her eyes, heated to the blue of the hottest part of fire, widened as she looked on him.

  When she stared like that, as if his size amazed her, he wanted to strut like a peacock—but he couldn’t move. He was as enthralled by her as she was intent on seducing him.

  And he was willing to be seduced. Stepping out of the trousers, he stood nude before her.

  “I love your”—she slid the flat of her hand along his thigh—“stomach. The ripples of the muscle fascinate me.”

  He gloried in her touch. “My stomach?”

  “And your”—she slid her hand up his hip—“shoulders. They’re so broad, I always feel protected when you’re over me.”

  “My shoulders?”

  Lifting her gaze to his, she teased him with false innocence. “And your hands.” She caught one as he reached for her, and entwined their fingers. “What else should I admire?”

  Her teasing, her admiration made him grow so hard his cock ached with the need to push inside her.

  Her gaze dropped. “Of course, there is this.”

  He watched in absolute fascination as she wrapped her fingers around his length.

  “I like this very much.” The tip of her tongue lightly touched her lower lip. “The skin feels so . . . soft, and yet underneath it’s firm and strong.”

  With grim humor, he said, “The skin ought to be callused from the use I’ve given it.”

  Startled, she tried to wrench her hand away.

  Stopping her with his grip on her wrist, he said, “But the calluses are on my hands, instead.” He showed her his palm.

  She stared in confusion at the calluses on his hand, put there more by working on the ship than by self-indulgence. As she comprehended, her eyes lit up, and she giggled.

  That was a sound he’d not heard for four years, that lighthearted, surprised merriment. That merriment gave him hope: that he could capture Rumbelow, that revenge would ease his sorrow at his brother’s death, that he and Madeline would live happily ever after.

  She gave him a last, gentle caress, then with her hands on his shoulders urged him down onto the low chair. Smiling at him, she ruffled his hair. “You’re far too handsome for my peace of mind.”

  He liked to hear that. “Have I ruined your
sleep?”

  “And my waking. For four years, all my energies have been focused on forgetting you . . . and nothing ever worked.”

  He liked that even more. “Not even kissing those other men?”

  “Especially not kissing those other men.” Running her lips over his cheek, she murmured, “I very much like the way your face feels when it’s freshly shaved.”

  “I’ll shave twice a day.”

  “But I like this, too.” She threaded her fingers through the hair on his chest. “It’s brown and curly; when you’re on top of me, it rubs my nipples. I like that.”

  Her bosom was on the level of his face and her nipples poked at the silky material. So. She was aroused. By their banter. By his body. Circling both lightly with his thumbs, he offered, “I can be on top of you, and in you, in two seconds.”

  “But then I can’t be on top of you.”

  He wasn’t yet ready to allow her to assume such a position. He still needed to be dominant, to forcefully show her his possession.

  Yet she was a strong woman. She would have the same need. He wrestled with himself, wanting to do the right thing, to allow her to indulge herself in him, if that was what she wanted. With a sigh of both anticipation and resignation, he decided he must consent to allow her the freedom of his body. Just today. Just right now.

  She went down on her knees before him, a gesture of obeisance that meant nothing, but that stimulated him yet more. He was so aroused he thought his eyes must be swollen. Certainly he could scarcely see.

  Scraping her nails lightly down his abdomen, she asked, “Wouldn’t you like me to be on top of you?”

  His breath hissed from between his teeth. “Where did you learn this? About women being on top, and on their knees and forceful?”

  Leaning over, she kissed him on the thigh. “From all my continental lovers.”

  He knew she was lying, but the fury that roared through him accepted no such wisdom. Grasping her hair, he brought her head up.

  She was smiling, a smile that mocked his alarm and enticed him yet more, and confessed, “When we were in Turkey, we were momentarily in the harem.”

  He groaned at the fear that struck in his heart.

  She paid him no heed. “The women there told us how to bring a man to ecstasy.”

  This female delivered titillation and anxiety in equal doses. “Dear God, Maddie, how did you get away?”

  “Do you really want to know . . . right now?” Her fingers trailed along his outer thigh, leading the way for her lips as she kissed her way up his thigh up . . . up . . . to the base of his cock.

  He couldn’t talk, and he dared not move for fear she would stop.

  “Do you?” She cupped his balls, weighing them in her hand, rolling them within the hairy sack until he thought he would go mad.

  He grunted rather than spoke. “Later.”

  She laughed. Air puffed over his privates, and even that light touch on the sensitive tissues was almost too much. He half rose off the stool.

  She pressed him down with her hand on his belly. “We were fascinated, Eleanor and I, by the things the women told us. They said a man very much enjoys a kiss right here.” She pressed her lips on the very cap of his penis, and drew away. Again her dark eyelashes fluttered, her blue eyes teased. “Is it true?”

  Torn between frustration and delight, he said, “I don’t know. Try again.”

  This time her lips were open just a little, and her tongue touched him. Wet, warm . . . he wanted to put his hand on her neck, to show her exactly what to do, but he also wanted her to learn, to experiment. “I like that.”

  “This?” Her mouth slipped over him, taking him all the way in her mouth. Her tongue licked at him, swirled around him. His toes curled with the effort of remaining still, of keeping control. “Mercy, Maddie. Show mercy.”

  Lifting her head, she asked, “What kind of mercy do you demand? Would you like me to suck on you like this?”

  Closing his eyes, he clutched the sides of the chair while colors of red and black swelled behind his lids.

  “Would you like me to hold you like this?” Her hands slid around to cup his buttocks. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper of pure feminine allure. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

  Opening his eyes, he stared down at her. She was flirting, and yet she was serious. When she gave herself, her whole self, she was irresistible, like a wood nymph who seduced a man to madness. “I want you,” he said, and he scarcely recognized his own voice. “I want you to take me.”

  She came to her feet in a sinuous rise that revealed her figure to him in slow increments. His heart beat in hard thuds as she clasped her skirt and lifted it up, revealing her white stocking-clad ankles, her strong calves, the plain dark garter at her knee. Then the pale flesh of her thighs. . . . She paused and sighed with delight as he slid his fingertips up the silky skin, reveling in the knowledge that she was his.

  This time, she was completely his.

  Impatient, he nudged at the hem of her skirt, seeking the place between her legs that gave him pleasure. That gave her pleasure. She gave a hum of anticipation, and the skirt resumed its journey upward. The first glimpse of dark curling hair both concealed her feminine folds and marked the juncture of her body, and his gut clenched in anticipation. Wrapping his hands around her hips, he brought her closer, knee to knee. “Put your legs around me,” he instructed.

  She hesitated. Perhaps a wisp of modesty held her in its grip. Perhaps she was teasing him again. He didn’t care. He wanted—now. He guided her, not cruelly, but she couldn’t escape him. Her buttocks flexed beneath his palm as he brought her close. He shifted her skirt out of the way, kissed her belly, her ribs. She moaned, softly, and he exulted in the proof she had aroused herself while she aroused him.

  She dropped her hold on the skirt, enveloping him in the folds. In the darkness, he reveled in this special world composed of woman, heat and desire. Her hands wrapped around his head, holding him against her in an excess of affection.

  Smoothing his hands down her belly, he threaded his fingers through the hair at her groin, remembering how sensitive she was to the lightest touch. She didn’t move, said nothing, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking her indifferent, for when he swept his finger between her legs, he found the hair damp with her desire. Again he touched delicately, letting her anticipation build, and this time she gave the slightest gasp, and a faint moan. Still caught in the darkness and the bliss, he opened her to his touch, and explored within her folds. The silky skin, the sensitive nub, and finally, the entrance to her body. With leisurely intent, he entered her with his finger, allowing her to adjust to the intrusion, sensing her relax . . . then tense as anticipation whispered through her. Within her, he felt the pulse, the warmth, the rasp of her body, and he could think of nothing but how she would feel as she clasped him inside her.

  He wanted that. He wanted it now. But still he withdrew his finger slowly, relishing in his eagerness, in the knowledge he had already brought her pleasure.

  With a final kiss on her belly, he moved her skirt away. Her face was distant, concentrated on some inner joy that called him to join her.

  “Maddie,” he called. “Come back to me.”

  Looking down on him, she smiled. Leaning forward, she kissed him, sliding her tongue between his willing lips. He caught it, sucked on it, encouraged her as her hands traveled down his body and once again clasped him. Moving in such infinitesimal motions he was agonized with the waiting, she lowered herself onto him.

  The hair between her legs teased him first, then she moved more attentively, absorbed in wonder.

  His penis skimmed along her crease, seeking entrance. Laying his head back, he watched her, torn between the delight of his body and his delight in her.

  Her eyes widened as she leaned against him. “Gabriel.” Her voice contained a catch, as if the sensation were too much.

  As it was. Yet it was not enough.

  He moved to help her,
lifting his hips to ease into her as she pressed, and pressed again.

  God. Inside she was hot and tight. He wanted to plunge upward, to pound toward satisfaction. But he wouldn’t. He would allow her her moment.

  She rewarded him with a slight upward movement, then slipped down once more, taking more of him.

  He breathed harshly, gasping for air.

  She repeated the movement, up and down, up and down, and each time the down progressed a little farther. At last, at long last, she rested on his hips. She held his shoulders, her fingers digging into the skin, and stared at him with such an expression of worship, he wanted to bask in it forever.

  But more, he wanted to move. “Ride me,” he commanded.

  “I don’t ride well,” she whispered.

  “Your technique is flawless.” With his hands cupping her thighs, he lifted her. “Ride me.”

  She did, rising and falling like a woman in the saddle. Her legs clasped his hips, her hair tickled his belly. Every time she slid down him, her pelvis pressed against his and he saw what the contact did to her. Each time her expression grew more fierce. Each time she grimaced with the onset of pleasure, and fought it away to continue.

  He wanted to prolong their lovemaking, too. He wanted this ecstasy to go on forever. But with each swivel of her pelvis, his balls drew up, his moment grew closer, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself any longer.

  And each time he did. He had to continue for her, but with movement, his orgasm gathered strength. Sweat beaded his forehead, his chest.

  Right before his eyes, her breasts bobbed up and down, silk-covered and glorious. Her head thrashed back and forth as her passion fought to peak.

  Finally, when he thought he couldn’t bear it anymore, she reached her climax.

  She pressed hard against him, squirming, crying out, her head thrown back and her long, slender neck tense with release. Inside, orgasm clutched him, taunting him, making him crave more than he’d ever craved in his life.