by Wendy Vella
“I ... Well ... ” Sarah struggled with how to answer. The earl was a guest in her inn! She dared not offend the man! But he was, by all accounts, a very poor kisser. Not that Sarah had much experience in the matter, for she did not. But from what she’d been led to believe, kissing was supposed to be a pleasant experience.
“I asked for an honest assessment,” Gabriel stated firmly, wanting Sarah to understand he was aware of the gossip that suggested he was a horrible kisser.
“You are a horrible kisser,” she agreed with a nod and her most sympathetic expression. “A bit too much ... moisture and ...noise ... although, I certainly appreciated your enthusiasm. But not the licking ...” She shook her head. “Wrong place, wrong time,” she finished, closing her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to witness the earl’s wrath. “Although, it would have been appreciated somewhere else,” she added suddenly, opening one eye, as if she was peeking.
Gabriel Wellingham stared at his hostess, finding her antics rather entertaining, even though they were at his expense. And, although her words did sting a bit, he found he rather liked how she was so forthcoming with her critique. “I want you to teach me how to kiss,” he said before taking a long draught of his ale.
Sarah stared at Gabriel, so surprised by his request that she didn’t have an answer for him.
At least, not right away.
She took a draught of her own ale, which left a bit of a foam mustache on her upper lip. She licked it away before saying, “And, what makes you think I am accomplished enough in the art of kissing to ... to teach it?” she wondered in a quiet voice. She forced herself to begin eating, thinking it would be good to get some nourishment if she was to spend the rest of the day kissing the earl.
Gabriel gave her response a good deal of thought before he finally shook his head. “I don’t know. But I remember enjoying your kisses when I was last here, so I think you are more skilled at it than I am,” he answered with a firm nod before taking a bite of his pie.
Setting down her ale, more because she was afraid she might down the rest of the pint in a single gulp than because she suddenly wasn’t thirsty, Sarah regarded the earl in surprise. “How much time do I have?” she asked, thinking that if they started now, she might be able to teach him given a week or more. She ate a sliced strawberry, barely noticing the cream topping.
“Tonight,” Gabriel answered with a shrug. “I was hoping to return to Bilston on the morrow. The crops are about to be planted,” he added, as if that was enough to explain his hurry.
“Oh,” Sarah responded, realizing she sounded rather breathless just then. Breathless and wondering what crops he referred to with his comment. “Then I accept your challenge, my lord,” she said with a nod.
“Gabriel,” he stated suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?” Sarah replied, not sure why the earl had said his given name.
“Gabriel. You’re to call me ‘Gabriel’ for the remainder of the evening,” he ordered. “Since we’ll be ... kissing ... a great deal, I think it more appropriate we call each other by our given names,” he explained, his head bobbing up and down.
Sarah could swear the earl’s breathing had increased in frequency, probably due to his anticipation of being kissed. Her breaths were certainly coming faster than they had been a moment ago. “Gabriel,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She had to put out of her mind that Gabriel was the name of her son, the baby she had borne because of this man. The baby who sported the same blond curls and blue, blue eyes this man displayed all the time. Blue eyes I could drown in, she thought just then. Did drown in.
Sarah hadn’t realized she was standing—she couldn’t remember having stood up from her chair—but she was suddenly in front of the earl, her head tilted up and her mouth slightly open. “Touch your lips to mine, but do nothing else,” she ordered quietly.
Gabriel took a breath and then lowered his mouth to hers. Sarah pressed her lips against the warm, soft lips of the earl and suckled them lightly as one of her hands went to the side of his face.
When Gabriel tried to press harder, Sarah pulled away. “I said nothing else,” she warned, before leaning in so that her lips touched his again.
This time, Gabriel complied, allowing Sarah to take the lead in the kiss. She angled her head to her right while guiding Gabriel’s to tilt to his right by pressing her hand against his cheek. When she started the slight suckling, Gabriel followed suit. A moment later, she reached up with her other hand to place it against the side of his neck.
Unsure of what he was supposed to do, Gabriel placed one of his hands at the back of her waist and was about to pull her against the front of his body when he sensed her suddenly tense. He relaxed his hold, moving his hand to the side of her waist.
Sarah smiled against his lips. “The next time you do that, I will allow it,” she murmured, recapturing his lips with hers and angling her head in the other direction. This time, Gabriel followed easily, wondering at how their lips seemed to suit so well, how they fit together as if they had been molded to do so. When he felt the tip of her tongue on his teeth, he opened his mouth wider, allowing Sarah to explore his mouth with her tongue. His own tongue tangled with hers, but he was careful to allow her the lead. She tasted of the strawberries and cream from their luncheon, sweet and tart and rich. And then, quite suddenly, she pulled her tongue away while her arms wrapped around his neck.
Gabriel was quite sure he’d heard a moan emanate from her, but he thought perhaps it might have been him making the sound. He found he was enjoying the kissing far more than he imagined he would. Why hadn’t his mistresses taught him how to do this? And why had Missy Litchfield licked him on the cheek after his first kiss in her father’s barn? Sarah hadn’t licked him, and from what she’d said earlier, he rather doubted she would.
Wondering if he should try with Sarah what she had just done to him, Gabriel slowly touched the tip of his tongue against the bottom of Sarah’s front teeth, sliding it sideways. Although he felt her body tense, it was only a moment before he felt her body nearly fall against the front of his. Realizing he had missed his cue, Gabriel moved his hand to the back of her waist and pulled her forward. This time, she did not protest, and he could swear she made that moaning sound again. But he had to breathe.
Sliding his lips off of hers but quickly moving them back to rest against the corner of her mouth, he said, “You have left me breathless, my lady,” he panted, saying the words so that every one forced his lips to make contact with hers.
“As have you,” Sarah whispered, her lips moving to his jaw line to leave kisses there. Not sure what to do, Gabriel let Sarah continue her moves, amazed at the sensations her lips could leave on him as they supped and suckled his skin from his jaw line to his neck and, finally, to his ear lobe. When her tongue pulled it so it rested between her teeth, Gabriel allowed a groan to escape. Did the woman realize what her simple nibbling was doing to him? Did she realize his manhood had swelled and was right this very moment trapped behind the fall of his breeches? Which was pressed rather hard into her soft belly?
Aroused more than he ever remembered being—from my ears to my cock!—Gabriel ran one hand up Sarah’s side until his thumb brushed against the side of her breast. When she inhaled sharply, Gabriel took her mouth in his, plunging his tongue in deep to taste the flavor of strawberries that still lingered there.
He wanted to be doing this with his cock inside the warm, wet cocoon he knew lay between her legs. Those long, luscious legs that led to a round rump he remembered molding with his splayed hands. A round bottom he remembered pounding against the front of his thighs the second time his cock was deep inside the woman he now held tight against his body. His manhood was remembering very well the last time it had been in that haven, that sweet, tight and very wet haven where he had spilt his seed in a glorious orgasm that left him feeling satisfied and drained and energized all at the same time. Whoever claimed sexual intercourse was a religious experience had likely worshipped at the a
ltar that was Sarah Cumberbatch.
None of his mistresses had ever made him desire them like Sarah did. Never had he felt such a need to bury himself into a woman, bury himself and claim her as his own, so that no other man could enjoy her favors, no other man could enjoy her kisses as he was enjoying hers this very moment. And he was about to say so when he was suddenly aware of the fall of his breeches coming loose, of his cock springing forth into Sarah’s waiting hand, of her fingers wrapping around his shaft and sliding down the length so that the end of her fingers could cup his sac before sliding back up to the wet tip and squeezing it so it was even more wet.
At some point, he knew not when, his lips and tongue had given up their claim on her mouth, for her lips were down there, this very moment suckling his cock and sliding down his shaft in a way that made it almost impossible for him to place his hands on either side of her face and lift her away from him.
“If I am to take my pleasure, my dear, dear Sarah, I shall do it in a place and time where I can be assured of your ecstasy, and not one moment before,” he managed to get out, or maybe just a moment before, his breathing so labored and his cockstand so hard he was sure it would disown him for his words, no matter that they were honorable.
Or perhaps because they were.
Sarah straightened and stared at the earl, stunned at his words. When had a man ever stopped her from doing that? she wondered, her mouth opened more from her surprise than from what she’d been doing with it only a moment before. “My lord?” she whispered.
Perhaps she hadn’t heard him correctly.
“Gabriel,” he managed to get out between pants for air. “I wish to ... bed you now, if you’ll allow it,” he said in a hoarse whisper. For the rest of my life, a voice said in the back of his head. And before Sarah could give him an answer, he pressed his lips against hers in a kiss that was so sweet and soft—not the frantic, slurping, sucking kind she was expecting from him just then—Sarah nearly whimpered.
“Gabriel,” she breathed, her hands clutching his arms. Gabriel wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her hard against his body before his fingers went to work on the fastenings down the back of her gown. The serviceable dress was opened and off her shoulders in a moment, revealing her smooth, white shoulders and a corset that barely contained her breasts. His lips took purchase on one of those even before he managed to get the ties undone, marveling at their size—none of his three mistresses had such charms, and none smelled like hers.
His hands tugged the corset down her body, along with the chemise she wore beneath it. When he had divested her of everything but her stockings and garters, he regarded her with an appreciative look. “I know I said I just wanted to talk, but ...”
Sarah smiled, a brilliant smile that said she wanted this even more than the earl. It had been over a year, after all, and he had been her last experience with a man, as awkward and satisfying and memorable as it had been.
If Gabriel really had required her tutelage to learn how to kiss, then he had been a quick study. Even now, her lips were remembering how very firm and soft and possessive and generous they had been. She wanted those lips on her breasts, down her belly, between her thighs, and around her womanhood. She wanted his tongue laving across that engorged nub, teasing it and tasting it and taking her to that place where nothing else existed but the two of them. And she wanted his manhood deep inside her sweet, wet haven, the space that, at this very moment, throbbed with a need she had never felt before. “Take me, Gabriel,” she breathed, her lips covering his before he could offer a reply.
Gabriel wasn’t sure if a woman had ever said such welcome words to him, but at that moment, they were his favorite words. And coming from Sarah Cumberbatch made them all the more welcome.
Chapter Twelve
Dancing with a Dance Master is a Disaster
The dance master began his count, accentuating each number with a quick flick of his wrist. From the tone of his voice, Alistair figured the man had to be bored out of his skull. If Alistair didn’t have Lady Julia’s hand in his and her body less than a foot in front of his, he might have been as well. He couldn’t recall dance lessons being so tedious. In fact, he couldn’t remember learning the contradances by way of lessons and wondered if he had just learned by watching them being performed during the various soirées his mother had forced him to attend. His sister had helped a bit, he just then recalled. She’d been at least a head taller than him at the time and quite vocal about his two left feet. Well, he had outgrown those feet years ago and thought he did just fine when he last attended a ball during the Season two years prior.
Or was that three years ago?
Unfortunately, his momentary lapse in concentration resulted in a missed step—a step he had done a thousand times before—and Julia was forced to take two in order to catch up, breaking the rhythm and drawing the unwanted attention of Monsieur Girard.
“No, no, no!” he shouted suddenly, his knuckles rapping on the dais to this left.
Julia rolled her eyes and glanced in his direction. “I apologize, Monsieur. I lost count,” she lied, hoping the dance master would allow them to continue from where he stopped them. They had executed this same maneuver four times and couldn’t seem to get through the entire sequence.
“Pardon, my lady, but it was entirely my fault,” Alistair countered, still keeping his hold on her. “Might we continue?” he called out. He returned his attention to Julia and gave her a smirk. “I can think of ten things I’d rather be doing right now,” he said sotto voce, one eyebrow quirking in a suggestive manner.
Julia had to suppress a gasp and wondered if the groom was thinking of including her in any of those ten things. She hadn’t realized until the beginning of the lesson just how handsome Alistair could be, especially in the setting of her mother’s ballroom. He was handsome out of doors, she knew, for from the first time she and Samantha had watched him from her bedchamber window, she thought his dark hair and bronzed skin made him look like a pirate she had seen in a painting. His wide shoulders, not at all in the style of a typical gentleman, would require custom tailoring for the topcoat she planned to order for his debut. She wondered about the color, deciding just then that he would wear black. No need to call too much attention to him as would happen if she chose a blue or green satin suit.
Although only one ring of candles was lit above them, sunshine spilled in from the bank of windows on the garden side, bathing the wood floor in yellow and gold light. Dust particles danced in the beams, seemingly keeping time with Monsieur Girard’s count and slowing their movements when the dancers were standing still, as they were now.
“You must concentrate, Mr. Comber,” the Frenchman announced. “Your partner should not take the blame for your mistake,” he added before clearing his throat. “From the top!”
Julia gave Alistair an apologetic glance and resumed her perfect pose. The dance master began his count. Alistair willed himself to concentrate, willed himself not to allow his gaze to fall too low, to take in the rise and fall of Julia’s bosom as she breathed, for he knew if he did, he would not only miss a step or two, but so would she. And they would be facing one another again and again for who knew how long until they mastered the blasted dance.
Although, the thought of facing Julia over and over again shouldn’t cause him such stress, he considered. She was pleasant to look upon—more than pleasant, in fact—and her demeanor seemed agreeable. She could have accused him of causing her to miss a step or two, but she instead took the blame on his behalf. When had a chit ever done that before?
So it was with a bit more enthusiasm that Alistair resumed the dance. And perhaps it was that very enthusiasm that caused him to get ahead of the beat of the metronome within moments. He stepped out of the dance and shook his head. “I apologize,” he said as he held up a hand to stave off any comments from the dance master. He reached out and captured Julia’s hand, kissing the back of it before he continued where he left off.
Stu
nned by his move, Julia missed his cue and had to take a couple of extra steps to match him in the dance. She knew the dance master was about to berate her and held up her own hand much like Alistair had done. Aware of Monsieur Girard’s frown, she concentrated on her partner and blocked out any thought of the dance master. In a moment, she and Alistair were dancing in sync and in time to the metronome. Unfortunately, the metronome’s beat seemed to slow down with each bob of its pendulum until the thing suddenly stopped. Even as Alistair continued the count verbally, it was Julia who finally looked over toward the dance master to discover he had fallen asleep—standing up!
“Shh!” she said as she brought a finger up to her lips.
Concentrating on how her lips looked just then, with her slender finger poised in front and nearly touching their plumpness, Alistair missed the sudden jerk of her head in Monsieur Girard’s direction. He raised an eyebrow in question.
Julia jerked her head again and Alistair turned to where the dance master stood. “Oh,” he mouthed, nodding his head. “Should we ... continue?” he wondered, willing to create his own beat, if necessary.
Shaking her head, Julia rolled her eyes. “This is ... this is a disaster,” she whispered to no one in particular.
Alarmed, Alistair furrowed his brows. “Now see here, we’re doing fine,” he tried to assure her.
“We’ll never get through all the dances you’ll need to know at this rate,” she countered, obviously upset.
Alistair glanced around, wanting to ensure there was no one within earshot. “Perhaps we’re going about this a bit ... wrong,” he suggested. “When you say ‘all the dances’, which dances do I really need to know how to do?” he wondered. “It’s not as if I’ll be dancing every single dance at the ball.” Good grief, he hoped not. He usually spent more time in conversation than on the dance floor, making sure he was only committed to a few before the supper dance.