She was in complete agreement.
Reassured he was taking the road she’d wished to take, she dragged in a breath, and turned her attention to him. To other aspects she’d yet to explore.
Like his chest. His shirt was of the finest linen; through it she could feel his flesh, feel the muscles shifting beneath her fingers as like a cat she kneaded. But that wasn’t enough; she wanted to feel his skin. Leaning her elbows on his chest, trying not to think too much about the far too evocative play of his fingers between her thighs, she set her hands to his cravat.
Sensually captured by the tactile wonder of the hot, slick flesh his fingers caressed, Gerrard didn’t realize what she was about until she wrestled his shirt wide, and laid his chest bare.
She wrenched back from the kiss to look-one glance at her face, at the expression that lit her eyes, and he was lost. Slayed by a desire so deep, so complete, it spared no part of him, left no vestige of his self, his soul, free. From that instant, he was hers, no matter she didn’t know it. From beneath heavy lids he watched her face, enthralled by the play of emotions across it, by the directness he’d from the first seen in her, and valued for what it was.
All that it was-the most arousing element in any sexual enounter was the response of the other. With her, he would never need to wonder, not even to think-she lavished her appreciation on him, and in so doing enslaved him.
He let her play as long as he could, as long as he dared. He knew the script-she didn’t; control, his control, was vital. And with that, she wasn’t helping.
Her hands traced down; her expression plainly stated she was fascinated with his ridged abdomen. Fingers spread, she tested, explored; from beneath her lashes, she threw him a sultry glance, then returned to her avid play. His painter’s brain happily re-created the scene in his mind, titled it: Siren Exulting.
She was. The sight held him in thrall.
But when her hands eased and drifted lower, his newfound ruthlessness rose to the fore. Catching her hands, he lifted them to his shoulders, released them there; ignoring her questioning glance, he drew her back to him, back into his arms, back into a kiss expressly designed to render her witless.
To plunge her back into the sea of desire, of heady wanton passion, that had been steadily rising about them.
She went eagerly; grasping his head between her hands, she kissed him back with abandon. An abandon that only made him ache all the more, that only made it harder to do what he knew he should.
He had to break her spell, her increasingly strong grip on his senses.
Before he could change his mind-before she could further weaken his resolve-he lifted her, stood, and carried her to the window seat. She drew back from the kiss; he had to let her. From beneath her long lashes, she looked into his eyes, studied his face; he could read her thoughts easily-see the anticipation, the flare of expectation that flamed in her eyes, brilliant emerald and gold, gilded by the fires of passion.
The nursery was old, the window seat wide and liberally supplied with soft cushions; he tumbled her down onto it, and followed, trapping her half beneath him. She laughed softly, a sound of pure abandon that raked his soul, and racked his desire one notch higher. Reaching for him, she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, parted in flagrant welcome.
He sank into her mouth, for long moments simply indulged, and wallowed in her clear encouragement, in the honest passion that was so much a part of her. He wanted that-wanted to seize-but experience warned that with her, caution and care were imperative. Steeling himself, he mentally drew back, and turned his mind to executing the strategy instinct drove him to employ.
Jacqueline sensed his attention shift; his lips remained fused with hers, a potent distraction, but then his hands were on her, roaming her body, so scantily clad she might as well have been naked.
She wished she were naked-she wanted to feel his hands on her skin, ached for the greater intimacy, wanted that hurdle crossed so there’d be fewer between her and her goal. His touch had grown harder, more demanding, each caress a blatantly sexual act, an intimate claiming.
He touched her as if she was his, sculpted her flesh as he wished, explored without reserve.
Each caress stoked the fires beneath her skin until she writhed beneath him, insensibly sure she needed even more. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but he responded by running his hand from her collarbone down over her breast, squeezing, swiftly kneading, tweaking the nipple to painful erectness before sweeping down, tracing the indentation of her waist, then passing over her stomach, splaying and pressing possessively, then sweeping lower still, stroking her curls, veiled by fine silk, before gliding down the long line of one thigh-to her knee and the hem of her nightgown.
He drew it up, up to her hips, then he tugged and drew it higher still, to her waist. Cool air played over her bare skin as with one knee he nudged her thighs apart; through their kiss, she gasped-she would have pulled back, broken the kiss to drag in air and steady her giddy senses, but he didn’t permit it. He held her to the kiss as the exchange turned scorching, as he set his hand to her bare knee, then ran his palm up, over her thigh, and found her.
Cupped her, then his fingers stroked and he parted her soft flesh, and slid not one but two fingers into her.
She felt the intimate penetration to her soul, felt her body arch, not in protest but in welcome. He stroked, possessive and sure; her every sense locked on the movement. On the sensations he evoked, that he drew from her, pressed on her. She had to cling to the kiss as her world spun; he held her to it, her lips beneath his, feeding her kisses laden with passion, with a desire that burned as bright as her own. More than anything else, that desire, his blatant wanting, buoyed and reassured.
She wanted him, and he wanted her. That seemed totally right.
Gradually, he eased back from the kiss; lifting his head, he looked down at her, studied her face from beneath heavy lids, then his lips quirked in smug, wholly male satisfaction. Between her thighs, his hand worked, knowingly stroking, stoking a need that was already threatening to sweep her away. She sank her fingers into his shoulders and tried to pull him back, but he moved lower, then shifted-with his free hand caught her nightgown hem and raised it higher still, then bent his head.
His mouth, hot and wet, closed over her nipple. She almost screamed, the sound only half smothered; the sensation wasn’t new, but had grown immeasurably sharper. And only swelled more as he feasted, as he made free with all she’d willingly offered. Steadily he drew her, body and senses, into deeper waters, into the hot, surging tide of passion unrestrained.
She went willingly, aware her horizons were rapidly expanding, that she’d lost touch with the world she knew, and would have to rely on him to guide her back.
Her body was no longer hers to command. Her world had reduced to the window seat; she was acutely aware of how her body, all but naked, writhed beneath his experienced caresses, how it rose, responding to every ardent touch, how the lamplight played over the valleys and hollows-how he watched, and saw, and was pleased.
Grimly pleased. She sensed that last as he lifted his head and looked down at her breasts, firm, swollen and aching, nipples tightly furled, skin flushed with desire. He moved lower still, and let his gaze wander, down over her waist, her stomach, to the damp curls one thumb idly stroked, to the junction of her thighs, to where his hand worked, constantly caressing, probing, but never quite pressing as he had once before.