“Go on,” he coaxed. He gestured broadly, mockingly. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
She thought of her mother, in her formal portrait, dressed in a magnificent gold gown and wearing the queen’s tiara. She thought about her own daughter, the daughter she hoped to have one day, and how the child would have nothing if Madeline didn’t take action now.
Gabriel knew what she was thinking, and mocked her. “The sacrifices one makes for family honor.”
“You’re a jackass.”
That hard, mocking smile faded from his face. “At the least.”
She could trap him in her gaze, too, and make him acknowledge what he was doing and with whom. Coquettishly, she lowered first one of her arms, then the other. The gown slipped down, caught briefly on her hips, then slithered all the way around her ankles atop of her petticoats. She didn’t wear the new pantalettes that had caused so much stir among the beau monde, so except for the stockings and garters that tied at her knees, she was bare.
She didn’t know why he was doing this. Forcing her hand. Taking his pleasure. Perhaps he sought revenge for her jilting of him. Perhaps some other, deeper reason motivated him. But right now she knew he had no thought in his head but her, and that was her revenge, for making her want him.
His face was set, strong and determined. His lips barely moved as he spoke, and his tone was guttural with demand. “Your hair.”
In a languorous upward arc, she lifted her arms, revealing all of her body to him. Slowly she slid the hairpins out of her coiffeur. She scattered them on the floor, indifferent to their fate, and when the last one was gone, she shook the long dark tresses free. They swept her shoulders. One strand fell onto her chest, the length of it circling her breast like a lover’s hand.
Gabriel rose as if he couldn’t resist her any longer. His gaze lingered on her thighs, ravished the patch of black hair over her pubic area, stroked her soft belly. He looked at her breasts with glorious appreciation, admired her shoulders, then once again looked into her eyes.
He walked to her.
Her heart beat with a drummer’s rhythm as he came near, big and naked and everything she’d ever dreamed.
Taking her hand, he pulled her toward the bed. “Sit down.” Still he looked at her, deep in her eyes, never relenting in his vigilance. His hands grasped her shoulders and pressed her down on the bed. She perched on the edge of the mattress, watching him and wondering what madness had brought her to this place. She was nude—well, almost. He was nude—completely. The candles blazed, the sheets were cool beneath her rear, and she had a debt to pay. A debt she had not yet incurred.
He rubbed her neck and smiled at her as if he sympathized with her plight, when in fact he was the cause of it.
“On your stomach,” he said.
“What?”
“I want you to lie on your stomach.”
She stared at him, her mouth unattractively askew. “But . . . I thought you were going to . . .”
“Even on your stomach, it’s possible.”
Her mind raced as she mentally tried to fit body parts together.
Picking up the bottle he’d placed beside the bed, Gabriel poured a thin stream of clear liquid into the palm of his hand.
Madeline observed with a kind of dreadful fascination, not understanding anything about him, or his plans, or the night. Worse, he seemed to understand everything about her. Where was the justice in that?
He wafted his hands under her nose. “Do you like that?”
The sweet scent of gardenia. The comforting odor of rosemary. “Very much.”
“Lie down,” he repeated. “On your stomach.”
Whether she obeyed or not made no difference . . . did it? She would do her best to separate herself from the act, to be indifferent and blasé.
But she moved carefully, trying not to show too much of her body as she stretched sideways and face down across the mattress.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice a warm bath of appreciation.
She didn’t know what to expect, but certainly not his hands gently fastening around her shoulders in a gentle grip and his fingers pressing into her muscles, easing them into relaxation. The scent of rosemary and gardenia captured in the oil on his hands. He massaged her neck. She struggled up on her elbows. “Shouldn’t we get on with it?”
His voice was rich with laughter as he said, “In such a hurry for my possession, my darling?” He pushed her down again. “This time, we’ll do it my way.”
“Humph.” All right, but she wouldn’t like it.
Yet she did. His fingers gently, then more firmly massaged her, easing the tension from her shoulders. She struggled to remain rigid, but he was in no hurry as he rubbed her arms, working his way down to her hands and there massaging her wrist, her palm, her fingers. When her hand was limp in his, he kissed each fingertip, then gently returned her arm to the mattress and went to work on the other side.
Madeline didn’t know what to think . . . or even if her brain remembered how to think. Each breath she took was deep, relaxed, redolent with the scent of herbs and flowers. He treated each delicate bone and sinew with care. He found the knot of tension under her skull; she moaned as he worked his hands in miracle motions, teaching her to forget everything but the moment and the pleasure.
He leaned over her, so close his lips brushed her ear. “Do you like that?”
“Mm.” She tried to pry her eyelids open, to be alert, but his hands kept moving on her.
Down her spine, seeking each vertebra, finding each muscle, easing each strife. When he slung his leg over the top of her, she should have been indignant, but he’d eased her into such a state of relaxation she could only sigh.
As he moved down her body, his oil-slickened hands slipped across the fine hairs on her skin. His knee slid between her legs, separating them, as his fingers encircled her waist and his thumbs worked the muscles in the small of her back.
Turning her head away from the pillows, she took a deep breath . . . and froze as his thumb slid down the crease between her buttocks. The oil eased the way, but nothing could ease the shock of being touched so intimately, so deliberately. That exquisite relaxation became a struggle to remain calm. Unthreatened.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. He cupped each buttock, then pressed them together. Once. Twice. In a slow rhythm, over and over.
She didn’t understand why or how, but the sensation made her want to press her hips forward, to rub against something . . . against him. Her lips opened; she heard herself panting as her excitement blossomed and grew.
With one hand, he kept the rhythm going. With the other hand, he found the opening to her body, and circled it with one finger.
Her eyes opened wide and with an incoherent cry, she rose off the bed.
He pressed her back down again. Again he circled the small opening, teasing the nerve endings, creating desire in every corner of her body. Desire where she’d never thought desire could thrive.
Just when she was gathering herself, quivering, reaching for climax . . . his hands slid away, and massaged the muscles in her thighs.
She could scarcely breathe, couldn’t move. The frustration was so acute, she was almost in pain. Yet what could she say? Pride wouldn’t allow her to admit how close he’d brought her to the edge. He probably knew . . . well, of course he knew. But if she demanded he bring her to completion, it would be a victory for him.
Never. Never.
Meanwhile, his hands rubbed the muscles of her thighs. He stripped off her stockings and massaged her calves. Despite the trick he’d played on her, she once again relaxed. Foolishly, for the room blazed with light, and in some corner of her mind she realized he could see between her legs. She ought to be more modest. She ought to be . . . but he had grasped her foot and he manipulated it between his hands. At first it tickled, but slowly he eased the weariness of the long walk from her bones, and by the time he finished the second foot, she was completely indifferent to modesty.
He said again, “Beautiful.”
She experienced a glow from the warmth of his tone . . . and from his touch.
He massaged the muscles of her legs with the same amount of exquisite detail to attention.
But although the relaxation permeated her body, she experienced an additional sensation as he worked his way up her body.
Anticipation.
He’d touched her between the legs before. Would he do it again? She shouldn’t want it, of course. She would complain vociferously if he tried to give her the same pleasure, then withdrew.
But she couldn’t. That would be a betrayal of self.
She peeked from under her eyelids and watched him as he again filled his palm with oil.
Never had he looked so handsome to her—the light catching in his dark brown hair, his eyes intent as he warmed the oil with his heat. He knelt with a knee on each side of her body, all sculpted muscle bathed in the golden glow of the candles.
When she looked at him, she didn’t see the threat and the danger. She saw only the promise of pleasure. How foolish, much like looking at a wolf and seeing not the shiny teeth or the sharp claws, but only the sleek, glorious hunter—and imagining she could tame him.
She was in so much trouble.
He glanced up.
Immediately, she shut her eyes and pretended she hadn’t been looking.
Reaching for her hips, he smoothed the oil over her belly, her waist.
She quivered with mingled relief and damning disappointment.
Then his palm slid nearer to the place she wanted him to touch.
Her heart beat faster.
His fingers combed through the triangular patch of curly hair.
Eagerness sizzled along her nerves.
Tenderly, he opened the cleft and stroked down the edges with two fingers.
She clutched at the sheets and tried not to beg. To plead for him to . . . to move more quickly. To touch her more intimately.
To leave her alone.
Dear heavens, not that. She tried to erase the thought from her mind, fearing he would somehow sense it and obey.
But he didn’t—sense it, or obey. Instead he did as he’d done before, circling the entrance to her body as if preparing to enter.
Deep inside, in her womb, she could feel a pooling, a tension, as her body prepared to yield. Yet she wanted more, wanted something different. She struggled with herself, willing herself not to show him exactly where to touch . . . and then he touched the right place.
She moaned, a sharp, plaintive sound that divulged so much. Her hips rose and fell. She wanted . . . my God, how she wanted!
And he gave her what she wanted . . . almost. He stroked her in long, slow motion, smoothing the skin but not touching her feminine tip. Not yet.
She twisted on the sheets, trying to get away . . . trying to get closer. Yet he rested on one of her thighs and controlled her movements with his weight. With his hand.
All her resentments bubbled to the surface, and she reached for his cock, jutting out from the thatch of brown hair at his groin. “Blast you. Let me . . .”
“No. Let me.” Catching her hands, he placed them beside her head and leaned over her. His nose was only inches from hers. His eyes gazed right into her eyes. “This is for me, remember? We’re doing what I want. You’re only doing this to pay for my winning back the tiara.”
The fog of pleasure skittered away. Her skin prickled, her breath caught.
She heard what he said, and knew what he meant. She hated him. Hated him. Hated those green eyes, now gray and intent. Hated the way he used his body, stretched over hers, to intimidate her. Hated the strength that held her motionless when she would stand and leave, face the thugs and guns rather than this man.
He had been seducing her. Even when they’d been engaged, he hadn’t seduced her. Their passion had been frantic—and mutual.
Now Gabriel concentrated on getting her to admit she wanted him. And she did. Desperately.
But she had her pride. She would not give herself to a gambler.
She knew the pain that would follow.
Eyes locked with his, she stated emphatically, “I’m doing this for the tiara.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gabriel commanded, “Then lie still and let me do what I want.”
Madeline inhaled, trying to get enough oxygen into her lungs to agree. She couldn’t. So she nodded abruptly.
He nodded back, and lifted his hands away from her body.
She wouldn’t shut her eyes again. She wouldn’t relax again. She would not aid in her own seduction . . . again.
The faintest smile curved his lips as he looked at her, spread beneath him like a pagan offering. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, but her body tightened as he gazed at her breasts with open appreciation. He reached for one. His hand hovered over her nipple.
She noted his hands, square and solid, with long, blunt fingers and flat, clean nails cut short. She noted his arms and his chest, the muscles long and heavy, sculpted by the light. She wanted to be furious with him.
She wanted him to touch her, so badly.
Why was it so difficult to be furious?
He shook his head. He reached for the bottle of oil and filled his palm once more. Lifting his hand, he let a thin stream fall into the other hand. Again and again he repeated the motion, and finally she realized he was building her anticipation.
Slowly, torturously, he spilled the oil up the center of her body and between her breasts. His heat had warmed the oil. As it trickled in both directions, she waited for him to catch it.
Instead he watched it, that enigmatic smile making her feel as if she’d challenged the wrong opponent.
But she hadn’t challenged him. At least . . . not recently. But Gabriel never forgot, and this was revenge. It had to be revenge.
At last, just when it seemed the oil would trickle onto the sheets, he placed his palms flat on her hips and scooped it up . . . and slid his hands toward her breasts, catching each drip, smearing oil all over her, forcing pleasure on her.
He wasn’t doing anything, really, just touching her lightly, firmly, pressing his hands into her muscles over her rib cage, smoothing the skin over her belly, caressing . . . caressing the underside of her breasts.
She pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the throbbing between them, but that didn’t help. She thought it made it worse, but perhaps what tried her patience was simply the stroke of his oil-softened fingers around and around her nipple. Her breasts were swelling into his hand, telling him the truth when she’d rather he knew nothing.
But a woman, stretched on a bed sans clothing, could hide little of her body’s reactions. Only her defiance mattered—or so Madeline told herself.
Taking her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, Gabriel rolled it lightly, sending a thrill through her that made her wish he’d spent more time between her legs, touching her there.
But no. She’d insisted on making a scene, and he’d insisted on confronting her—and winning. If she’d kept her mouth shut, she might now be lolling here in a glaze of satisfaction. Or perhaps she’d be thrashing beneath him. And right now, either sounded better than . . . “Dear heavens.” Lifting an arm, she tucked it behind her head and gazed off the bed toward the corner of the room.
That didn’t help. Not seeing him didn’t diminish the effect of his fingers stroking her nipples, nor the weight and heat of him atop her, nor the knowledge that soon he would be inside her.
His touch on her changed, became firm, sweeping strokes. “You have a lovely body, and it’s the body I love, but it’s just a body. It’s your mind that fascinates me, my darling. Your thoughts, your feelings . . . your soul.”
She didn’t want to fascinate him . . . in any way. But certainly not with her soul.
His hands swept up her chest, up he
r neck and grasped her chin. He brought her head back so she had to look at him.
Never taking his gaze from hers, he leaned close, rubbing his chest across hers, his skin sliding on the oil. His chest hair created a delightful friction that brought her nipples to full attention. She whimpered as he moved in a circle. Lowering his belly onto hers, he did the same thing. But this . . . this was better. More intimate. Closer to the place where she wanted him to be.
His cock was so hard she winced from the thought of the discomfort she would suffer, and longed to be impaled. He was hot, like a stove aglow with fire, and he brought a fire to her. She wanted to wrap her leg around his leg, to rub herself against him until she found the satisfaction he denied her.
She didn’t. She had her pride. She clung to her pride.
With his mouth close to her ear, he asked, “Are you ready to pay the price?”
She hated the question, the way he reduced this act of passion to a bargain.
But he didn’t wait for the answer. Instead, he positioned himself. She felt the hot probe between her legs.
She watched him.
He watched her.
Slowly he entered her, the oil easing his way. But not enough. Four years ago, she’d been a virgin. Each inch he pressed into her made her aware of her inexperience, and her abstinence. She trembled as the intrusion became almost a pain, not quite a pleasure. The sensation was rich, intimate. She wanted to weep, but he observed her with an intensity that challenged and frightened her. Instead she stared up at him, and in his face she saw vibrancy, pleasure, possession. Her hands clutched his arms as if holding on to him would help her—when he was the cause of her discomfort.
The silence between them was profound, a moment when acrimony vanished and all that existed in the world was Gabriel and Madeline. At last he filled her completely, and the taking became a joining. She slid one foot up the sheets, lifting her knee, trying to find ease. She tilted her hips; he moved deeper, when she had thought there was no deeper.
With a brilliant slash of a smile, he withdrew a few inches. Then slid back in. Her flesh pulled and burned, but only a little, and she didn’t really notice that. She did notice the way he made her feel as he looked at her, as he wrapped her in his arms. As if he loved her. The movements between them became coordinated, a dance to music only they could hear. She lifted her hips to meet each of his thrusts. She wrapped one foot around his hips. The other she rested on the sheet.
Scandalous Again Page 17