She was already his-that was beyond question-so there was no reason he shouldn’t indulge.
So he did.
Increasingly ravenously.
It gradually dawned that while she’d initiated the exchange, and had chosen the position, she didn’t know quite how to proceed.
He showed her. Urged her up so she was on her knees straddling him, reached up, stretched up, and helped her draw her nightgown off over her head.
She flung the garment to the floor. She was already heated, already breathless and panting, already aching for him to fill her. The look she flung at him-eyes blazing fire in the night-said it all.
Before she could reach for him, and make matters that much more complicated, he hauled in a breath, locked his hands about her waist, positioned her, then nudged past her slick swollen folds and eased into her.
Eyes closing, her expression one of fraught bliss, she took over and sank down. Down.
Wriggled at the last, and then, wonder of wonders, she’d enclosed him all.
He sucked in a tight breath, closed his eyes in sheer lust as experimentally, she tightened about him.
Then she settled to ride him.
By the time he’d recalled her reportedly wild and expert ride down from Poona, she’d reduced him to a state of ravening urgency almost impossible to deny.
But he wanted more.
Eyes closed tight, her entire concentration locked on where they joined, Emily felt the heat, the stoking friction, well, swell and rise, taunting and beckoning, tightening inexorably…then she felt him shift beneath her.
She cracked open her eyes as, releasing her hips, he locked both hands about her breasts.
And played until she was gasping.
Then he rose up, leaned forward, took one tightly furled nipple into his mouth-and suckled.
She only just managed to mute her shriek, but that didn’t deter him. He feasted-there was no other word for it. With lips, tongue, teeth and greedy mouth, he caressed, then blatantly possessed.
Eyes closing, she continued to rise up and slide down, increasingly intently, wanting, reaching, so tight she thought she would shatter, so hot she could feel the flames licking over her, sliding beneath her skin.
He released one breast, slid his hand down, tracing the curves of her waist, her hip, in almost languid, distinctly possessive appreciation. Then that questing hand veered inward, slid between her thighs, and touched her-there, where she was most sensitive, where suddenly her whole being seemed to reside.
With one hard fingertip he toyed, then pressed at the same time she sank fully down and he thrust in hard-and she imploded. Lost all touch with reality as searing delight and incandescant pleasure erupted and lanced through her, streaking and sparking down every nerve before melting and merging into molten streams that flowed down every vein to pool in her throbbing womb.
He held her as she savored, as if he savored, too.
Then he turned. Taking her with him, he rolled, and pinned her beneath him.
A smile on her lips, she wound her arms about his neck, then arched beneath him, head falling back on a gasp as he thrust deeply and heavily into her.
To her immense surprise he withdrew from her, pulling back onto his knees.
Before she could react beyond opening her eyes, he grasped her knees and pulled them wide.
He looked down at her, at her most private place. Even though the shadows lay heavily upon them, she blushed, but she didn’t try to close her knees, didn’t try to inhibit his view.
The blood still pounding in her veins, she waited to see what he wanted, what he would do.
He bent his head and set his lips to her there, and she very nearly screamed.
Pleasure-different, sharper, headier-streaked through her. He pressed deeper, lapping, then probed with his tongue and in desperation she whispered his name-but what she wanted she couldn’t have said. His tongue circled, then probed. She caught her breath, and clutched at his head, but her fingers, tangling in his hair, had no strength.
His exploration, his flagrant tasting of her, sent her senses soaring.
She was his-she knew it, and clearly he did, too, at least on this level.
That was undeniable as he feasted as thoroughly as he had earlier, his hot mouth a brand searing her, his experience trapping her senses, making them and her whole body-her nerves, her skin, her heart, every curve-his.
His to plunder, to savor as he wished.
Head helplessly threshing, she could barely breathe when she whispered his name, an outright plea-she couldn’t take much more of the soul-wringing pleasure.
He heard, thank God. With one long, last lap, he lifted his head, gazed at her for a moment, then unhurriedly surged over her. Fitting his erection to her entrance, he thrust in, slow and relentless, deep and sure, impressing on her every inch of his length, then he sank home, reached down and raised one of her knees, hooked that leg over his hip. Poised on his elbows above her, he looked down at her face through the darkness, his expression a mask of intent, his features locked in the grip of a passion so intense she could feel its heated wings beating against her skin. Then he withdrew, and thrust home.
Again and again, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, until she sobbed his name, then, arched beneath him, fingers locked about his upper arms, nails sinking into his skin, she felt herself literally come apart.
Gareth swooped and covered her lips with his, drank her cry, her scream of pure pleasure.
Felt everything that was male within him exult.
Felt the primitive possessive being within him purr with a satisfaction that sank bone deep as he held still for an instant and savored the evocative ripples of her release, felt her sheath contract and grip.
Felt anticipation and blind need claw…
He surrendered and took, gorged, and filled his senses.
Eyes closed, he lost himself in her.
27th November, 1822
Early evening
My room in the inn at Marseilles
Dear Diary,
My actions last night met with success. Not that I expected all that much resistance, but now I must wait and see if the lure sank deeply enough.
The day went in making our final preparations. Thanks to the Juneaux, our hosts, all is as sound and complete as might be, and everything lies in readiness for us to depart tomorrow morning on our race to Boulogne. That is the port Gareth’s instructions stipulate he should use. I must admit that while I will be happy to see it, and indeed, to look upon England’s shores once more, I view this last leg as a succession of opportunities-chances to prompt Gareth into recognizing and declaring his love.
Preferably of the enduring variety.
Preferably before we see the green fields of England.
I wait on tenterhooks to see if my ploy of last night will yield the desired outcome-the first step in my campaign.
As ever, I am hopeful.
E.
His day had been a distracting round of last minute checks and solutions. Nevertheless, as he climbed the stairs that night, Gareth felt quietly sure that they’d done all they could-that, indeed, courtesy of the Juneaux and Emily’s recruiting of them, their party was better placed to succeed in their mad dash north to the Channel than he’d dared hope they would be.
Reaching the upper corridor, he was conscious of a certain tension, familiar, almost reassuring-the tension that came on the night before a battle, when the certainty of being fully prepared warred with the inevitability of having to wait until morning to act.
He was too experienced to let it trouble him. Indeed, he embraced it.
But the other tension sliding through him, coiling beneath the first, was something else entirely.