by Isobel Carr
‘Damn you, woman,’ he ground out between fits.
‘It’s just…I mean, I’m—and you’re…’ She went off again, unable to sustain her explanation.
‘I’m what?’ Gabriel demanded, suddenly perfectly serious. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at the mirth filled face of his nymph. Something was not adding up here. This afternoon she’d been a minx, and a bold one at that, and now she was anything but. Her giggles were the furthest thing possible from the husky, seductive laughter he would have been expecting.
‘You’re a rake,’ she managed to say, the fact seeming to send her over the edge again. ‘I, Miss Imogen Mowbray, divorcée, am alone in my room with a rake.’ She stifled another fit of the giggles with the heel of her hand.
‘Why yes, you are,’ Gabriel said, pitching his voice low, now fully in command of himself. They were veering from their course, but it wouldn’t be all that hard to steer them back. ‘You, Miss Imogen Mowbray, are alone with a man who’s been banned from Almack’s, escorted out of Bath, and who has every intention of collecting on the wager you so skilfully lost this afternoon.’
Imogen went suddenly still, her hand dropping away from her mouth as he leaned over her, rolling more fully onto his side, and sliding one leg over her hips, trapping her on the bed.
Gabriel leaned down farther, capturing her mouth with his, and when he felt her quiver, and not—he was positive—with desire, he pulled back and looked her right in the eye. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned sternly, before returning to the eminently enjoyable task of kissing her.
Responding, if not to the command in his voice, then to the reality of the situation, Imogen wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, tongue fencing with his, exploring his mouth as her hands explored his body.
Satisfied that she’d gotten over the bizarre humour which had possessed her, Gabriel rolled back just a bit; just enough so he could look down at her. She was wearing a simple calico dressing gown, all flowers and butterflies, over a perfectly modest white linen nightgown. No lover of his previous acquaintance had ever appeared before him in what she actually wore to bed. The ladies he’d seduced, or whom he’d allowed to seduce him, were consummate masters of the game, and they had all the trappings there of: sheer nightgowns along with dressing gowns designed to titillate and taunt, to flaunt roughed nipples and disguise nothing that would entice and arouse. And none of the young matrons of the ton he’d carried on with over the years would ever have admitted to owning something so serviceable and dowdy and that nightgown. But it suited his nymph. It was sweet, and pretty, and oddly attractive in its own way.
It was real.
He reached out and deftly untied the ribbons holding her dressing gown closed. Her nightgown had a narrow drawn-thread edging. It was so damned wholesome. This was what women wore to bed all over England. Safe, happy, comfortable women. Wives. The kind of women who didn’t have affairs with men like him. Even her hair was primly pulled back and braided.
It hit him like a bucket of ice water. She’d gotten ready for bed, not for him.
Oh, she’d known he was coming, but she hadn’t varied at all from her normal pre-bed routine. That sudden realization gave him a pang of uncertainty. He shouldn’t be here. Imogen might have been more than seven, but she really didn’t know what she was doing. He sat up and stared doggedly down at his boots for a moment, unsure what to do. He wanted her—God knew he wanted her, his erection was ready to burst the buttons right off his breeches—but he shouldn’t be here.
Imogen pushed herself up onto her elbows, suddenly confused. He’d been kissing her, he’d started to disrobe her, and then he’d just stopped.
‘Gabriel?’
‘I, ah…’
He was going to leave. He’d spent all this time convincing her, seducing her, flirting with her, and now he was going to leave. She’d done something wrong. Or at least, she hadn’t done something right. Imogen pursed her lips and thought quickly. She could just let him go, but if she did, he was unlikely to ever come back. Once he’d decided she was off-limits, she didn’t think he’d change his mind.
She pushed herself up and got off the bed, moving around to stand in front of him. Her breasts were just about eye level when he was seated, and she stood in such a way that he couldn’t miss them.
‘Gabriel,’ she said again, in a more serious tone. When he failed to look up, she reached out with one hand and forced his chin up. She caught his eyes with hers and smiled down at him, mischievously. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Stuff. The whole world thinks I’ve been doing this for years. For Christ’s sake, Gabriel, I was divorced for being an adulteress. I’ve not a shred of reputation left. And besides, I lost a wager.’
He smiled a bit sadly at that. Shaking her head at the general perversity of men, Imogen put her hand on his chest and pushed him slowly back on to the bed. She’d be damned if he left now. ‘Don’t be stupid, if I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here.’
‘But—’
‘No buts.’ She shrugged out of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.
‘Imogen,’ he growled reprovingly.
‘Gabriel,’ she mocked him in exactly the same tone, unbraiding her hair and giving her head a shake. Her curls sprang loose, cascading in spirals over her shoulders. That was better. Less prim was surely a good thing?
If he backed out now, he’d never come back. She was sure of it. And if she lost her nerve and let him leave, she’d never find it again. Not just with him, but with anyone. If he left now, she’d quite possibly be alone forever.
Gabriel sucked in an agonized breath. He hadn’t realized she had so much hair, or that she was aware of his fascination with it. But she obviously was, for that was not the manoeuvre of a woman who was unaware of her power, or unwilling to employ it to her ends. That was not the manoeuvre of a woman who didn’t know exactly what she was doing.
She climbed into the bed and curled up against him, leaning over him almost exactly the way he’d just done to her, then she kissed him, sure as any courtesan. That magnificent hair fell over them in a curtain, and he reached up to run his hand over it, careful not to catch his fingers in the curls.
There was certainly nothing seductive about accidentally yanking a lady’s hair; pulling it on purpose was an entirely different thing, however. He locked his hand in the hair at the base of her skull, and slowly tightened his grip, exactly like she’d done to him during their encounter in the garden.
His nymph gasped, excitedly, and let her neck go limp so that her head fell back, exposing the extremely elegant curve of her neck. He put his lips to the tender pulse point, opened his mouth more fully, biting her very, very softly.
She ran her hand down over his chest, fingers pulling at the layers of coat, waistcoat and shirt. She reached his breeches, and the completely evident proof of his desire. She flattened her hand over his shaft so that it was cupped between her thumb and the side of her palm, and then slid slowly down the length of him, and back up again.
Gabriel pushed himself up against her hand. He couldn’t help it. He really should get up and leave, but she wasn’t going to let him. Lucky him. He’d tried to do the right thing—something he’d certainly never even thought to attempt before—and thick linen nightgown or not, she wasn’t behaving like a wholesome little wife. Thank God. Knowing he could only allow her to push him so far before he lost all semblance of control, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her roaming hand up to his chest.
‘You can do that some more later, minx.’
Imogen giggled again, but this time it was a wholly different giggle. This giggle he knew how to interpret. With an amused but reproachful smile he thrust her off of him and sat up again. He tugged off his boots, and unbuttoned the knees of his breeches, then stood to disrobe.
Imogen just laid on the bed watching him. He peeled away his coat and waistcoat, untied his cr
avat, and then unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.
‘Don’t stop now.’ Her voice was pitched low, but the excitement and desire were unmistakable.
Gabriel raised his brows haughtily, and never taking his eyes from her, flipped open the buttons to his breeches, enjoying having her watch him. When he had the satisfaction of seeing the beginnings of her blush, he looked away long enough to strip off his breeches, along with his drawers and stockings.
She smiled tentatively and scooted up onto the bed, making room for him. Gabriel pulled the small box he’d been carrying all day in anticipation of tonight from his coat pocket and climbed into the rather small bed. He thrust the box under the pillows.
He reached down and began to slowly draw up her nightgown, continuing until he had her bare to the waist, then he sat up, straddling her thighs, and pulled it right over her head. In the dim light provided by the few candles in the room he could almost, but not quite, make out the colour of her nipples.
He’d been so looking forward to that…he sighed, and smiled wickedly down at her. Things to look forward to. He could see that they were small, dark against her pale skin, and tightly budded.
He pressed her down into the bed; kissing her hard and fast. Her tongue darted out, bold, sure. It twinned with his and then retreated. It was exciting to know that he was kissing her, he was making love to her. It was different than having a woman make love to him, though he was certain, judging by her earlier fit of aggression, that they’d get around to that…perhaps when she called in one of her vouchers.
Imogen reached up and slid her hands into Gabriel’s hair. He had wonderful hair; thick and dark with a nary a curl to it. He was lying fully atop her, weight crushing her into the mattress, kissing her hungrily. His teeth clashed with hers in his urgency, and then he suddenly abandoned her mouth and began to work his way down her neck to her breasts, where his hands were already busy, stroking and rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He replaced his hand with his mouth. She gasped and arched.
Gabriel smiled, his teeth still lightly gripping her nipple. She could feel the smile against her skin more than she could see it. His hand slid down her stomach, and curved in along her inner thigh. Imogen moved her thighs apart, too eager to be missish, and he slid his long clever fingers into her cleft, lightly stroking her until he found the exact spot he was looking for, just as he had in the garden. He slid further down the bed, so that he was resting on his stomach between her thighs, watching his hand upon her.
Imogen studied him in the dim light. The lean torso, the sculpted perfection of his back, the solid muscle of his shoulders. He really was beautiful.
You weren’t supposed to say that about a man, but he was. He was more than handsome; or something other than merely handsome. Naked, he was glorious; smooth, and golden, in a thoroughly un-English way.
When her breathing hitched he stopped sliding his thumb up and down over the ridge he’d called her throne, and instead slid one long finger into her, and then another. Her whole body went rigid and she stared down at him.
Gabriel chuckled and pushed her thighs further apart, leaning in to lick her. Imogen clapped both hands over her mouth, barely cutting off the shriek she couldn’t prevent.
Perrin had never done anything her mother had not prepared her for in the rather startling speech she’d given Imogen the night before her wedding. This had certainly not been part of that lecture.
When she’d heard her friends mention this as one of their favourite types of bed sport, she’d always been vaguely repulsed. It just didn’t sound like the sort of thing one would enjoy. Now she understood their glowing reports. What Gabriel was doing was simply amazing.
He had an indecently talented tongue.
He slid one arm under her thigh and brought it up and around her hip, his hand splayed out on her belly, lightly holding her down. She couldn’t take much more, he was simply going to have to stop.
She tried to say his name, but couldn’t catch her breath enough to do so. She tugged at his hair, she pulled one leg up and put her foot on his shoulder and shoved, all to no avail; he had her fast. She bit the heel of her hand, forcibly cutting off a shriek she simply couldn’t stifle. She’d never been loud in bed, but somehow knowing she had to be quiet made everything feel more intense…or maybe that was just Gabriel.
Gabriel was more than a little amused by Imogen’s reaction to having his mouth and hands on her in such a delightfully intimate way. She could pull his hair all she wanted, he wasn’t about to stop until he’d driven her right over the cliff.
He’d been imagining and dreaming about doing this with his nymph for at least a month now, and he wasn’t going to be denied. She was holding her breath now, only occasionally taking loud, gasping breaths. Luckily the rooms on either side of hers were occupied by men who’d likely be downstairs for hours yet. When she began to whimper and thrash he knew she was close. The leg which she had been using to try and dislodge him had stopped pushing against his shoulder, and was now trembling against him, her thigh pressed hard against his shoulder.
Gabriel tore himself away, laughing as she whimpered in protest, and dug the box out from under the pillow. He flipped it open, the scent of brandy filling his nostrils.
Imogen stared at him, confusion writ plainly on her face. He pulled the brandy-soaked sponge from the box and held it up. ‘Simple whore’s trick.’ She frowned, then jumped as he circled her engorged flesh with the cold sponge. ‘And damned effective in my experience.’
He licked the brandy from her, moving the sponge down her cleft, guiding it up inside her as he sucked. She began to tremble again, hands clutching at him, legs moving restlessly. She gave one last muffled shriek, her whole body bucking and then going rigid.
Satisfied, Gabriel stopped, raising his head to watch her face. She looked dazed. Shocked. She looked thoroughly replete.
He wiped his chin with one hand. Imogen drew several gasping breaths, letting them shudder back out. Gabriel smiled, working his way up her torso, returning to her breasts to suckle and tease her out of her lethargy.
Imogen wriggled and gasped when he bit down on her breast with a little more force than he’d used before, arching her back and pressing her breast up towards him. He slid up a few more inches and returned to kissing her, fastening his mouth to hers hungrily.
She’d just had at least a small release, but he was still in a state of almost painful anticipation. With an easy twist of his hips he positioned himself, manoeuvring so that he was lodged just inside her slick folds, poised for entry.
Imogen pressed herself towards him, as wanton as he could have ever dreamt. Acquiescing to her evident desire for him to hurry, Gabriel drove himself deep inside her in one fluid motion. She made an odd, almost purring sound—half gasp, half sigh; her breath shuddering in and out of her—and broke off their kiss, throwing her head back and angling her hips to increase the depth of his penetration.
Gabriel withdrew slightly, then slid his forearms up under her shoulders, so that his weight was on his elbows, and his hands on the bed, resting beside her head. In a much better position now, he began to move atop her, grinding himself into her with every long, hard stroke.
Her legs came up, knees pressing against his ribs, feet on his buttocks, urging him deeper. Gabriel locked his hands in her hair and pulled her head back, licking and biting her neck, trying to remember not to leave any marks. Though if he did, at least for once her damn fichus would be useful.
She began to thrash beneath him, and then with a convulsion that involved her entire body, she simply shattered; her legs locked about him, holding him fast. Her release washing over him was all he needed to find his own; he’d been resisting for several minutes now, desperate to make sure she found hers first. Pressing his face into the hollow of her neck and clenching his teeth to prevent himself from shouting he came, spilling himself into her.
When he thought he could move again, he raised his head and grinned at
her. She was still drifting, eyes soft and unfocused. He nipped her earlobe, worked his way down across her jaw and returned to kissing her. She was infinitely kissable, her mouth proving to be every bit as promising as he’d first supposed back in George’s garden.
Roused from the sleepy and rather contented state he’d put her in, Imogen was startled to feel him growing hard inside her. He hadn’t really lost his erection to start with, but the size of it had tapered off; now he was clearly fully engorged again. It had only taken minutes. She hadn’t known a man could do that. Perrin had always simply rolled over and gone to sleep.
He began to move slowly, not withdrawing and plunging in as he had earlier, more of a gentle nudging in and out, his pelvis rocking against hers. She clenched and unclenched around him, then did it again; the wave of small climaxes almost too much to bear.
Her vision flickered, everything going black for a moment as she came utterly apart beneath him. Gabriel sighed, and raising himself off her slightly, increased his pace until a moment later he too shuddered and gasped, thrusting himself into her one last time; sinking into her as deeply as possible.
With one last kiss Gabriel withdrew and slid over to lie beside her on the bed.
Imogen rolled over onto her side and he gathered her up against him. She dropped her head down onto his shoulder and slid one knee up to rest on his thigh. Gabriel dropped a kiss on the top of her head, content with the world and his current place in it.
She was his, plain and simple. And whether that meant for a month, or year, or however long it took for them to grow tired of one another, it was enough for now to simply be sure in his own head; she was his.
