The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Enthrallment. She sensed, all but saw him fall under the spell—her spell, the fascination her body, it seemed, held for him.

  She stood unmoving, watching him examine her; a feminine power unlike anything she’d known slowly welled within her.

  A true sign, surely, that this was right. That this, here and now, was the way forward for her.

  The joy swelling inside her assured her it was so.

  He bent his head and pressed a hot kiss to the upper curve of one breast, and any thought of retreating, of doing anything other than going forward with abandon, slid from her mind. His lips trailed over her now aching and swollen flesh, then he took one tightly furled nipple into his mouth, and lightly suckled.

  Then he feasted.

  She gasped, let her head fall back. Eyes closed, she clutched his shoulders, then eased her fingers and slid them to his nape, then into the silky wonder of his hair, gripping tight as he pleasured her, thankful that his hard hand pressed to the small of her back held her to him, and kept her upright.

  Her senses started to spin; a kaleidoscope of sensations buffeted her mind. There was an emotion in his touch that went far beyond wonder, that was more intense, more ruthless than simple desire, a driven passion that, innocent though she was, she recognized as possessiveness.

  Gerrard was far beyond thinking, far beyond disguising his feelings or his intentions in any way. She’d come to him; that was all the agreement he needed, all the encouragement his demons required to slip their leashes and devour.

  The only thing holding him back from summarily stripping her, laying her across the bed and sheathing himself in her softness, claiming her, branding her in the most primitive way, was a strange and novel merging of the two halves of himself. The demons of his maleness, driven by passion and rampant possessiveness, were, with her, being directed, not overridden but working in concert with the more subtle demands of his aesthetic mind.

  She and only she had ever called to both.

  While his demons still slavered, turning his every touch demanding, making every action a command, a seizing, no request, he was conscious of a greater fascination, of a need to go slowly, to fully explore and experience every shred of passion, of desire, that her surrendering herself to him evoked.

  To wallow in the physical, to gorge on the sensual.

  He was more educated than most in both.

  When he finally drew his lips from her breasts, she was heated, urgent, driven beyond innocence to make demands of her own. He acquiesced to her tugs, shrugging out of his coat, first one arm, then the other, letting the garment fall unheeded to the floor. His waistcoat followed.

  Her hands spread across his chest and he caught his breath, not so much from the touch itself as the urgency behind it. At the feminine desire he glimpsed in her eyes as she reached for his cravat, at the focus in her face as with unsteady hands she unraveled the folds, then drew the long linen strip away.

  She dropped it, and stepped closer, eliminating the last inches between them as she boldly tugged his shirt from his waistband and slid her hands, small palms to bare skin, beneath. She touched, then spread her fingers and ran her hands up his chest. Leaning in, she lifted her face; he lowered his head and their lips met. Melded.

  For long moments, he savored the taste of her escalating passion, sweet, hot, and exquisitely female. An evocative blend of the innocent and sultry, of untried promise.

  His. All his.

  His to educate, to awaken.

  To possess.

  Closing his arms around her, he slid one hand down, over her back, down over the curve of her hips, pushing the stiff silk lower, then down.

  The gown fell to the floor, sinking about her feet, taking her chemise with it. He closed one hand over her bottom, drew her fully to him, and settled to explore. To arouse her still further. Tracing, fondling, he felt the dew of desire rise to his touch as he caressed the sweet curves, felt her initial shock drown beneath a wave of heated yearning.

  Of increasingly urgent desire.

  He held her to their kiss, plundered her mouth as he wished, ravaged her senses, and filled his with her surrender. A surrender even more explicit as she sank against him, and let him have his way.

  Naked in his arms, held against a body whose very hardness embodied a potent promise, Jacqueline gave up trying to steady her giddy senses and let them whirl. Swirl. They danced to his touch, to the increasingly intimate caresses he pressed on her, to his flagrant exploration, to the rapacious need that, held back, was still evident in every driven touch.

  A threat, but not one of pain. Of possession, yes, but she now longed for that.

  Ached for it, with an urgency that only grew more desperate, that had her sinking her nails into his sides to urge him on.

  The wash of night air over her bare skin left her acutely aware of her naked state; she should have felt unsteady, uncertain—in reality, she didn’t care; she reveled in the shocking intimacy. Reservation, shyness, modesty, all were fading at the edges of her mind, overwhelmed by a need more physical than she’d foreseen, and more powerful. She wanted it all—she wanted him naked, too, wanted to feel his skin against hers, needed that degree of physical closeness, needed him entwined with her.

  Now.

  Sinking against him, blatantly offering her mouth, yielding to his every demand, she ran her hands, splayed until then across the wide muscles of his chest, down. Over the hot, flickering skin of his abdomen, over the shifting muscles, down to the waistband of his trousers. And further. Briefly, boldly, she traced his erection.

  And felt his breath hitch. Sensed the sudden hiatus in his concentration. Pressing her palm to him, she stroked, lingeringly, then reached for the buttons at his waist.

  Gerrard dragged in a breath and caught her hands. Shackled them with his, drew them away, to her sides, then released them, broke their kiss and swept her into his arms. He would have preferred to go more slowly, but she’d already rushed ahead.

  He carried her the few paces to the bed, knelt and laid her across it. Pausing, he looked down at her, his mind almost blank as he drank in the sight of her naked and heated, flushed with desire and wanting him so blatantly, then he grabbed his shirt, drew it over his head and tossed it away, then stepped back and swiftly dealt with the buttons at his waist.

  Toeing off his shoes, he stripped off his trousers and stockings; naked, he joined her, coming down beside her propped on one elbow the better to view her. Intent, she reached for him; again he caught her hands. Once again shackled them, this time in one of his; shifting, he drew her hands up and anchored them over her head.

  She was breathing rapidly. She frowned, opened her lips—

  “Don’t speak.” Briefly, he met her eyes, noted how wide they were. “I know what you need.”

  And what I need.

  He looked down, let his gaze roam her body, laid out beside him, a delectable gift. The truth crashed through him. Just taking would be so much less than either of them needed, or deserved.

  Her breasts remained swollen, firm and tight, the ruched peaks begging for his attention. Her skin, pearly white, almost glowed, satin soft, tinted with desire, an elementally evocative sight. The indentation of her waist, the teardrop-shaped hollow of her navel, tempted him to taste. Below her taut belly, tawny curls covered her mons, veiling the delicate flesh between her thighs.

  His gaze swept her thighs, sweetly curving to her knees, followed the subtle swell of her calf to where it tapered to narrow ankles and finely boned feet. To him that long line held the essence of femininity; he reached out and with his palm sculpted. Caressed.

  She shivered.

  Returning his gaze to her face, he watched her response as he ran his hand slowly upward, from her calf to her knee, up her thigh and over the swell of her hip, sliding through the curve at her waist to glide over her breast to her shoulder, and on, up the exposed inner face of her arm to her fingers. Then he reversed direction, sweeping his fingers around her face, then
spreading his palm, now tingling and hot, below her throat, then running it more heavily, more possessively, down, over the center of her body, fingers trailing over her breasts, over her navel to splay over her taut stomach.

  He pressed gently, watched her eyes darken. Watched her moisten her lower lip, lush and swollen from his kisses. He shifted over her, leaning down to take her lips, her mouth, again, while his hand slid lower, fingers spearing slowly through her curls to the slick, swollen flesh beyond.

  Her body lifted; her thighs parted, wordlessly inviting. He slid one knee between hers, cupped her fully, evocatively stroked, then slowly pressed two fingers deep, into the lush haven of her body.

  She moaned, the sound trapped between their lips. He filled her welcoming mouth with his tongue while between her thighs he pressed her on.

  Until she writhed beneath him. Until, heated and desperate, she tugged against his hold, but still he held her hands. He shuddered when, denied them, she used her body, all womanly curves and sweet, flushed skin, to caress his, and tempt him.

  He held against her for long moments, then released her hands and moved over her. She spread her hands over his shoulders, his chest, greedily grasping. Inciting.

  Yet still he held back. Spreading her thighs, he settled between, yet he wanted, and knew he could have, even more from her.

  She broke from the kiss, pressing her head back, panting, gasping. Before she could catch her wits, he lowered his mouth to her breast.

  Jacqueline jerked; the voracious contact sent sensation lancing through her, sharp, passion sweet. She closed her eyes and almost sobbed. The wet heat of his mouth expertly applied to the excruciatingly sensitive peaks of her breasts was both pleasure and punishment. She wanted more, so much more—she knew exactly what.

  She could feel the heavy weight of his erection riding against her inner thigh. She wanted that inside her, wanted him to take her.

  Wanted to be conscious when he did.

  His hand hard about one breast, he suckled more powerfully, simultaneously probed deeply between her thighs.

  “Gerrard!” She arched against him, her fingers sinking into his shoulders, the hardness of his body, the crisp, crinkly hairs adorning it, meeting her softer, smoother skin, evocatively abrading it.

  Poised above her, his weight, the inherent power in his naked, muscled frame, the ruthlessly intimate touch of his hands and mouth, sent realization of her vulnerability crashing through her. Dragging in a breath, she cracked open her lids. Caught the gleam of his eyes beneath his lashes as he lifted his head.

  “Now—please! Take me now.”

  The plea fell from her lips on a breathless gasp.

  His face was an angular mask, graven with desire; he searched her eyes, then his gaze lowered. He bent his head once more, shifting back to place a hot, openmouthed kiss on her navel.

  She sobbed, clutching desperately at his shoulders, thinking he meant to caress her as he had before.

  Instead, he rose above her, adjusting his hips between her widespread thighs; bracing his weight on his arms, he nudged into her.

  She caught her breath, felt her eyes grow wide as the broad head of his erection pressed into her. Stretching her.

  She blinked. For one instant wondered how…

  He flexed his spine and thrust in. Inexorably. Hard, deep.

  Pain lanced through her—she gasped, closed her eyes. Her breath tangled in her throat; her lungs seized.

  He held still, embedded within her, impossibly large, impossibly heavy. Totally alien.

  So male.

  Amazingly welcome…

  The sharp sting was already fading; her body eased beneath his. She straightened her fingers from where they’d curled about his biceps, nails biting in in instinctive reaction.

  He bent his head, found her lips, breathed over them, “There’s no rush,” then covered them.

  But he was wrong. She returned his kiss with all the hunger she possessed. Sliding her hands around his body, she clung; the instant he started to move within her, she knew what she wanted, what she needed. Now.

  He thrust deep, and she was with him, rising beneath him, urging him on. Wanting more. Wanting all; if she had to give him that, she wanted the same in return.

  And she got it.

  He groaned and surrendered, and all control evaporated. They broke from the kiss, gasping, breaths mingling. The dance caught them, trapped them. Heat poured through them, rushed down their veins, pulsed between them. His body moved over hers, into hers, repetitively stroking inside and out; hers seemed to know the rhythm—she moved with him, against him, without conscious thought.

  The tempo steadily escalated, a pagan crescendo of motion and searing heat. A constant striving to a fiery climax that for long desperate moments seemed out of reach.

  And then they were there.

  In the eye of desire’s storm, surrounded by passion’s whirlwind, by flames that left them gasping, nerves coiling, tightening as sensation spiraled and coalesced.

  From beneath heavy lids, their gazes met, locked; every nerve she possessed was alive, exquisitely abraded as he drove deeply, powerfully into her, as he moved against her and her body responded, ardent and abandoned.

  Beneath him, she rode each thrust, each forceful penetration. Desperately clinging.

  Then she broke apart.

  She cried out, felt perception shatter as her nerves unraveled and her body melted. In one clear instant, she saw him above her, his expression blank as passion claimed him, too, as with her body she claimed his, as with his he’d claimed hers.

  Then completion swept her, caught her, buoyed her on, into a golden sea. Satiation swamped her; she felt warmth deep within her as with a groan he joined her, then collapsed across her. She drifted on the waves, his weight surrounding her, holding her, securing her.

  In the last instant before she sank into pleasured oblivion, she turned her head and brushed her lips to his temple. “Thank you.”

  Into those simple words she let all she felt flow, then surrendered to the tide and let ecstasy claim her.

  Thank you.

  Her words and the emotions carried in them echoed through Gerrard’s brain; he returned to the living slowly, savoring them, feeling them sink to his soul, the headiest, most contentment-making balm he’d ever known.

  His strategy had worked; the waiting had been worth it. She’d come to him, and now she was his.

  Disengaging, he lifted from her, then slumped beside her. He studied her face; he couldn’t truly see but she seemed sunk in bliss. After a moment, he lay back, and gently, carefully, eased her over, into his arms. She came, not quite awake, turning to him, one arm sliding across his waist, her head pillowed on his chest.

  He was accustomed to the moment, to the warmth of a boneless female draped over him, yet this time was different, acutely so. He was more aware of her, of her skin, her limbs, of the soft cloud of her hair, the gentle huff of her breathing. Of her weight, her warmth—of all she meant to him—as if through the act of joining they’d created a linkage that ran deeper, and was more tightly meshed, than the norm.

  Closing his eyes, he considered that. Wondered if perhaps that was what happened when a man found his mate.

  His lips lazily, openly arrogantly, curved. He replayed her words again…

  He stilled; his lips straightened. Thank you?

  He kept his eyes closed, but his mind raced. Why had she thanked him? It was she who’d given herself to him, not the other way around. She who’d accepted him as her lover and husband-elect—shouldn’t he be thanking her?

  Abruptly he recalled his earlier errors in assuming how she would think or react. If she’d had the temerity, and the audacity, to judge his ability as a portraitist, there was no telling what tack her mind might take.

  He replayed her “thank you” again; a disquieting thought took hold. Surely she knew he intended marrying her—that he saw her coming to his bed as agreeing to their marriage?

  Ev
en as his mind posed the question, he knew the answer—it was perfectly possible she didn’t.

  His direction was crystal clear to him. He couldn’t recall when he’d decided, but he’d embraced the path to marriage with absolute commitment regardless of his until recently deeply entrenched antipathy.

  Nothing about him had changed; he’d simply seen an undeniable light. His reservations over engaging with love still existed, but were of insufficient weight to turn him from his path, to diminish in any way the compulsion that now drove him.

  However, his conversion to the ranks of the matrimonially minded hadn’t come about through any action of Jacqueline’s. His antennae were well honed, well educated in detecting husband-hunting young ladies; he’d detected no sign of such intent in her. Her fascination with him, and with what had grown between them, was innocent and true, free of any calculation.

  That was one of the reasons she’d captured him.

  Well and good, yet although she was twenty-three, even by the standards of a county backwater she was socially inexperienced. Thanks to Thomas’s and her mother’s deaths, she hadn’t been exposed to wider society, much less the circles in which he moved. She didn’t appreciate how, in such circles, things were done, how matters were arranged.

  She didn’t know the ways.

  And with her only close contemporary being Eleanor Fritham…

  His lips set. Hardly surprising if Jacqueline hadn’t, yet, understood his tack.

  The pleasure thrumming through his veins was slowly fading; sleep beckoned, but his mind ranged on—to what now loomed as his next step.

  If she wasn’t yet thinking of marriage, then it clearly behooved him to steer her mind in that direction before he specifically stated his objective. He knew women, at least in general; they preferred to think they made their own decisions in such matters. Jacqueline, he felt sure, would have the same prejudice, so he’d introduce the subject and let her decide—let her see the light as he had—before uttering the formal words and offering for her hand.