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.
That tension was wholly due to her—to Emily, and her appearance last night in his room. More, her performance, their activities, in his bed. He would have preferred it to be otherwise, but he couldn’t deny it—couldn’t pretend that he
didn’t feel expectation rise as he neared his door.
That anticipation didn’t leap as he closed his hand about the knob.
Already half erect, his heart already thudding that telltale touch faster, he opened the door and went in. His gaze went directly to the bed.
It was empty.
In the dimness, his eyes scanned again, just to make sure, but he hadn’t missed any alluring body.
She hadn’t come.
Closing the door, he stood and stared at the bed.
One part of his brain had already skittered off into recriminations—last night he’d done something she didn’t like, or he’d failed to do something she’d expected. Or—
The more rational part of his mind shut out the tirade of unhelpful suggestions. The part of him that was the experienced commander recalled and coolly evaluated.
Why hadn’t she come? That was the question he needed to answer.
It took some moments before he thought back far enough to recall the particular deliberation with which she’d entered his room last night. And then to connect that with the assessing glances she’d thrown his way throughout the day, and especially that evening.
Last night, she hadn’t come to his room on a whim—she’d come with a plan. As part of a plan. And that plan was…?
He swore.
Lips setting, he walked to the window, looked out at the empty street, then shook his head and started to pace.
He shouldn’t do it—he shouldn’t give in. She knew he wanted to—intended to—marry her, and that was enough. If he went to her now, tonight…that would say a little more.
Reveal more.
All of it true, but his need of her was something he would far prefer to hide, especially from her.
While on the xebec, there’d been no question of his joining her at night, and here…it had seemed wiser to keep his distance. For him to keep their future, and her, at a distance, at least until they reached England, whereupon he would have all manner of accepted practices behind which to hide.
To conceal just how deeply his feelings for her ran.
He didn’t even know how those feelings had come to be—what they were due to, or when they’d afflicted him and sunk to his marrow—but they were there now, an obvious vulnerability, at least to him.
If he kept his distance, he could cling to the fiction that he was marrying her because they were generally compatible, and he’d weakened and seduced her, ergo marrying her was the necessary outcome, one with which he was comfortable.
He shouldn’t go to her room, shouldn’t reveal even that degree of need for her.
He could excuse not going on safety grounds—safer for them all if he wasn’t distracted by having her beside him, let alone beneath him.
Then again, one very definite, insistent part of him was quick to point out that her safety would be even better assured if she spent the nights in his arms, and he would be far less distracted by thoughts of whether she was safe or not; if she were lying beside him, he would instantly know.
Given they’d be staying at inns such as this from now on…
He grimaced as his excuse evaporated.
To go, or not to go?
He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t…
Perhaps if he waited, she’d grow impatient and come to him?
Half an hour ticked by, and she didn’t appear.
And he discovered her patience was greater than his.
With a muttered curse, he stalked to the door.
Her room was further away from the stairs and around a corner. He opened the door without knocking and went in, shut the door carefully, then walked to the bed.
She was lying there, wide awake, propped up on the pillows so she could more easily watch him approach. She’d tucked the covers up over her breasts, but her shoulders were promisingly bare.
As he halted by the bed, she met his eyes, her own wide, but nowhere near innocent. Even as he watched, her lips curved lightly in a smug, cat-who’d-managed-to-tip-over-the-cream smile.
He narrowed his eyes, pointed a finger at her nose. “I know what you’re up to, and I’m not playing your game.”
Emily felt distinctly wanton as she looked into his dark eyes. Brazen, she arched her brows. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“My being here doesn’t mean what you think it does.”
“Oh?” She widened her eyes; beyond her control, her smile deepened. “What does it mean then?”
He studied her for an instant, then shrugged out of his coat. Growled, “We can talk about it later.”
Dropping the coat on a chair, he reached for his cravat.
Smiling even more smugly, feeling anticipation well and spread in a rich warm glow throughout her body, she sank deeper into the pillows and waited.
For her lover—her would-be husband—to join her.
He didn’t disappoint.
Some considerable time later, slumped, utterly wrung out and deeply sated in the depths of the bed, Emily finally managed to reassemble her wits, and discovered she was still smiling.
Her plan had worked.
More, she’d gained an unexpected additional benefit. He’d seen through her ploy and, either to repay her or to distract her from gloating over her success, he’d devoted himself to dazzling her with sheer, unmitigated pleasure.
She now knew that what had passed between them the previous night could, indeed, go much further. That she could be reduced to incoherent, mindless desperation, that she could gasp, cry out, convulse, and be utterly wracked by ecstasy called forth entirely by his wicked hands and even wickeder lips and tongue.
And what had come after that had curled her toes. She still couldn’t fully straighten them. Little tremors of delight still coursed through her, fading echoes of her second shattering climax.
She was lying on her stomach. Cracking open her lids, she studied him, slumped, as exhausted as she, beside her. He’d said they would talk later, but she suspected her sisters were right. Afterward, gentlemen didn’t talk—they fell asleep.
Not that she was complaining, not in this instance. Closing her eyes, she let satiation and an even deeper satisfaction wrap about her. Her plan had worked, he’d come to her bed—he hadn’t been able to stay away. Actions always spoke louder than words, especially with gentlemen.
His actions had spoken loudly enough for now.
Through the fringe of his lashes, Gareth watched her slide into slumber, and gave thanks. He’d been a fool to suggest they talk later—later meant now, and now…words of any sort about this and them were entirely too dangerous.
Entirely too unwise.
The possessiveness inside him lay quiet, serene, sated into oblivion; she’d given herself to him without reserve and that side of him had gorged. Lids closing, he felt satiation of a depth and weight he’d never before known drag him down. With an almost sinful sense of sinking, he surrendered. Later he would gather her into his arms, later he would settle her beside him.
Later, when she wouldn’t wake up and through the darkness look at him with eyes that saw too much.
In that last gasp of consciousness, his mind circled, free. She already knew more than he would wish, but he couldn’t turn back the clock. But as long as he didn’t admit to more, didn’t state what he felt for her aloud in words and make it real, he could cope.
He could cope with this. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps his sharing her bed every night would satisfy what he was starting to sense was her need. A need to know what he felt, to touch him and have him touch her, and so know…
It went something like that, he knew. So perhaps she was right, and his sharing her bed would satisfy her.
God knew, it satisfied him.
28th November, 1822
Early morning
Still abed, scribbling madly
Dear Diary,
My fingers are crossed, metapohorically at least. Matters appear to be progressing as I wish—my campaign to encourage Gareth to recognize and declare his f
eelings for me is under way, and with luck I have laid the groundwork for a continuing engagement. After last night, I am hopeful that he will be sufficiently motivated to join me in my bed at our various halts through France, and with luck, beyond.
It is no doubt quite wanton to be plotting like this, but needs must. I am committed to hearing his true feelings declared, and with every day that passes, I am more convinced than ever that in order for us to form the true partnership I have always believed marriage should be, then hearing his love acknowledged and declared is a necessity, for both of us.
I feel as if all I have ever dreamed of in marriage is hovering on our horizon, still out of reach, yet if we both are willing to reach and stretch, all—everything—could be ours.
Dorcas has just brought up my washing water, and I must rush as we are to leave Marseilles in just over an hour.
E.
The small yard behind the inn was a frenzy of activity. Gareth ran his eye over the loaded coaches, watched as Mooktu and Bister handed up pistols, powder, and shot to Mullins, who stowed it with the rifles he’d cleaned beneath first one, then the other, driver’s seat.
They were as ready as they would ever be.
Around him, the cobbled yard was awash with Juneaux, young and old, come to wave their two men on their way, and to wish the English and Indian party the garrulous clan had taken under their collective wing God speed.
He went to extract Emily from a knot of Juneaux. Many were female, and looked at him with bright, assessing eyes. He had little doubt what thoughts were passing through their heads, especially when one old lady whispered loudly that they made a so-handsome couple.
He pretended not to hear.
The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material Page 59