Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (20 page)

But she didn't want to push him away.

She wanted to experience all that there was between a man and a woman. A lifetime of constraints and requirements that had always appeared like a steel cage around her, now yielded like cobwebs at the first brush of her hand.

She did more than give in to his advances. She matched every move that he made, hungry for the thrill of Rowan's touch. He gently pulled her lower lip into his mouth to suckle the sensitive flesh, tasting her and inviting her to taste him.

One kiss flowed into another, and Gayle threw herself wholeheartedly into the lesson.

He lifted her up to place her on the next riser up, equalizing their height and fitting her more closely against him. His mouth shifted over to capture an earlobe, and she gasped in surprise at the unorthodox shimmer of sensation that snaked down her spine, but held completely still to savor the unexpected pleasure of his teeth latching onto her earlobe. He pulled back only to encircle the outer shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue, and her fingers clutched at his shoulders as each exhale he made demonstrated a new application for fire and ice.

Buttons on her blouse, the ivory ribbon at her throat, he stopped to undo them, his eyes never leaving hers, and she wondered how the absence of a man's kisses could be as potent as their presence. The dark forest green and browns of his eyes glittered with excitement as he unwrapped her like a gift, but he wasn't rushing. The unspoken question was very clear.

She waited for an inner voice that might have conveyed a twinge of reluctance or dismay at what was unfolding, but there was only the drumming of her heart in her ears and the slow, delicious heat building between her thighs, dampening her curls there and fueling her growing anticipation.

He lowered his head again, this time to taste the ivory column of her throat. Gayle closed her eyes and prayed that her heart wouldn't stop from the sweet agony of this torment. Her blood was already on fire, and she suspected that it didn't bode well since he'd hardly bared more than a few inches of her body—and there was nothing she didn't want him to touch with his mouth or view with his eyes. There was nothing she wanted to hold back from Rowan's touch.

Her collarbone and the pulse there must have drawn his attention, and they took another step up toward the second floor, her desire refusing to wait as several more buttons on her shirt gave way to allow him to explore as he wished the hollows and rises of her neck and shoulder. One of his hands reached up to touch her breast, and even through the layers of her clothes, the heat of his palm and the warm pressure of his fingers threatened to make her knees give way. Her nipples hardened against the friction, and she arched her back, moving against his hand and wishing that there was nothing between them.

Rowan's head lowered to kiss the initial swell of her breasts, nibbling up against the edge of her corset in a courteous exploration that nearly undid her. They moved up another step, and Gayle was forced to cling to him to stay upright.

His hands both pressed up to cup her breasts, his thumbs passing over their peaks, sending sparks of pure lust through her and hinting at what was to come. His mouth returned to hers, and suddenly she was molded to him, drinking in his heady kisses that bruised and healed her at the same time. She no longer wanted to draw out their play on the stairs. She just wanted to be alone, where anything that was encumbering him from taking her virginity could be removed.

Rowan did everything he could to keep himself in check, but she was magic in his arms. Her hands roamed across his chest, encircling his back, and the play of her fingernails through his shirt was beyond tantalizing. All he could do was picture her fingernails raking across his bare back and his flesh thickened even more.

A faint crash from the kitchens made them both lift their heads and freeze into position, but the sound faded and there was no other indication that their tryst was about to be discovered. Still, for Rowan, it was a reminder that making love to Gayle Renshaw on the stairs probably wasn't the stealthiest of choices.

“Gayle,” he whispered, hating the raw need that made his voice so rough. “I won't be able to stop. . . .” He intended to slow things down so that she could comprehend where they were going, but words failed him. Rowan caught her hand where she was clutching at the lapel of his coat and guided it down to his hardened cock, pressing her fingers over its length through his pants with the intention of shocking her into reason. But instead, her palm naturally smoothed down the ridge of his flesh, her lips parting at the discovery of his arousal, and Rowan was a man lost to the power of her touch.

She was a fearless thing and looked up at him with eyes wide and hungry. “Please, Rowan.”

It was all he needed to hear. He lifted her up easily, one arm behind her knees and the other at her back, and carried her up the last three steps, down the hall, and into his bedroom to kick the door shut behind him.

He set her down near the bed, and they both eagerly began to address the matter of her being overdressed for the occasion. Her shirt was already unbuttoned and off her shoulders, so it was easy to dispense with it altogether. As he kissed the white column of her exposed neck, he unhooked the waist of her voluminous skirt and pulled it up over her head, both of them laughing as they were enveloped momentarily by a makeshift tent of heavy silk flounces.

“Wait.” Rowan threw her skirt across a chair by the bed.

“I don't want to wait, Rowan.”

“We have to use our heads for just a few seconds, here.”

“I don't want to think. If I stop to think, it might end somehow, and I don't want it to stop.”

He groaned at the wicked effect of her words on his body, a whiplash of lust cascading down his spine to tighten his body to the point where he feared he'd spill himself at the first touch of her flesh to his. “Damn it, let a man . . . manage this, Gayle.”

She kissed his chin, her pearl white teeth nipping at his jaw, and Rowan conceded slightly, tossing her onto the bed. He wasted no time in locating the tin of French letters in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, and Gayle watched him with open curiosity.

“Condoms. We can't be too reckless.... I won't see you hurt from this, Gayle.”

“Then don't hurt me, but please, Rowan, don't stop.”

Rowan put them within reach on the table by the bed and decided there'd been enough conversation for one evening. “Let us see about getting you out of that remarkable construction, Gayle.”

He had to help her unfasten the tabs on her modestly hooped petticoat, the flannel hem weighted for winter, and then remove all her additional petticoats for volume and warmth, her corset with its whalebone stays, and at last a nearly sheer muslin chemise and pantalets, taking care not to tear the last in his zeal to reveal all of her. Unlike an ordinary abigail, Rowan found himself kissing her throughout, reveling in the process that revealed a little more of her with each pass of their hands.

Finally, there were no more layers and even her stockings had joined the mound of her clothing next to the bed. She was as naked as the day of her birth, and he stepped back to survey the bounty before him, savoring the sight of her. “You are perfection.”

When he'd first seen her, he'd likened her to a cameo, a beautiful thing but hard and heartless. But this was no carving. The beauty in his bed was as fiery and elemental as a nymph, and the more of her he'd revealed, the more he felt like she was his own Galatea brought to life before him. She made no effort to hide herself but knelt on the bed to face him holding on to the bed curtains for balance. She was ivory and smooth, but the pink flush of her cheeks and the movement of her breathing made sure there was no mistaking her for a marble carving.

With her black hair tumbling down behind her in a lustrous cascade of silk curls and her arching black eyebrows like raven's wings, she was a presentation of delicious contrasts—even the dark triangle on her mons drew the eye and made her thighs look even more sumptuous.

She bit her lower lip, unknowingly plumping it and adding to its raspberry color. “Rowan, you're staring.”

“Shhh. I'm worshipping you with my eyes. There's a difference.” Rowan pulled off his boots as he spoke, grateful to keep his balance. He put one knee on the bed and slipped one of his arms around her waist to pull her against his chest. “And now I'm going to pay homage with my body.”

He climbed up onto the feather mattress, deliberately leaving one side of the bed curtains open so that the firelight wouldn't be shut out. He didn't want to be denied the sight of her. Her breasts were just the way he liked them, firm and heavy, naturally fitting into the palms of his hands. Her nipples jutting out defiantly in dusky rose pink that invited a man's mouth, and at the first touch of his hands, she shivered and purred in response and he knew he'd met his match.

She was pure innocence and pure passion—the duality of perception and reality collided and a new lesson was initiated, but Rowan knew that he was likely the student.

Gayle leaned into his hands; the strength of his touch left scalding trails of pleasure wherever he moved them, fanning his fingers up her ribcage to hold her breasts, squeezing them just to the point of eliciting a gasp only to pinch and smooth their peaks and make her knees melt away in response. It seemed sinful to accept the pleasure he gave her without return, but for the first few minutes, it was all she could do just to stay upright.

He kissed her, and she feasted on his kisses while her soul discovered the remarkable power of a man's hands caressing the bare skin of her back and shoulders, her arms, and her stomach. He nestled her even more tightly against him, and then there was little he couldn't reach. Her breasts grew heavier and her nipples even tighter at the warm friction of his shirt front against them.

“Rowan . . . am I to be the only one undressed . . . in this . . . process?”

He smiled and it was the grin of a gentle rogue who was in no hurry to explain the rules. “Wait.”

He pulled back the coverlet to nestle her down into the bed but kept the bedding from interfering with his line of sight. “I would have you warm and naked, Miss Renshaw, and spread across this bed just for me.”

“How is this, then?” She stretched out her arms and legs, playfully obliging him, unaware of the incredible havoc she was wreaking on Rowan's plans to take things slowly and gently.

Gayle expected him to make a jest, but instead his eyes darkened, and then he was hovering over her, his mouth replacing his hands, stoking her desires in a hundred ways she'd never expected. Here was a gentle assault that she didn't want to defend against. She clung to him, spurring him on and writhing up from the mattress to offer him more of her body for his wicked tongue and silken lips. Her fingers entangled in his hair, and she closed her eyes at the bliss of Rowan's kisses between her breasts or in the indent of her belly button.

He tormented her by deliberately avoiding the obvious points of her need, nibbling around the ivory globes and running his tongue at the crease underneath her breasts, but never even grazing the nipples that now burned and ached with neglect.

“Rowan . . .”

His lips latched onto one tip, and he drew her into his mouth to lave and suckle her puckered flesh until she was mindless from the sensation. Her fingers tightened their grip but then slid down to his shoulders to ride the rippling build of need that began to grow inside of her. A river of subtle electricity began to flow between her breasts and down her belly to pool between her legs.

It was an impossible thought, formed before she could think of a thousand reasons why such things weren't done. But Rowan's hand slid over the soft curve of her belly, through her wet curls, and touched the source of her quandary.

His fingers were hard and warm against her tender skin, dipping into the folds of her body and finding the wetness there. For a fleeting second, she felt ashamed of it—unsure of what he would think of her or her body—but the shame didn't last.

“Ambrosia.” He sighed. “Your body is ambrosia.”

His finger was slick with her even before he penetrated her with it, and she bucked at the sensation of this intrusion, her muscles clenching to hold him in place—but whether to forbid it or to beg him to stay, she wasn't sure. And then there was a friction against the swollen bud of her clit that made her shudder and try to hold as still as she could—for this was nothing but heaven on earth.

Back and forth, his fingers swirled around and over it until she completely surrendered to the flood of fire beginning to rage through her body. The pressure of his touch never changed, but the speed of the circling dance grew tighter and tighter until there was nothing in the world but her core and his hand against her. Gayle clung to him, unable to voice her feelings as she began to lose control of her body, unable to do anything to stop it.

She opened her eyes and accepted it all.

Chapter
16