His breathing starting to escalate, he tugged her sleeve past her wrist, set his lips to her shoulder, his hand rising to cup her breast, heavy and warm in his palm as his thumb searched. She wore a corset, strangely enough. Stiff and unyielding, he pondered how to go about getting it off.
"Let me help you," she whispered, and turned her head, her mouth finding his, her tongue stroking, begging for entry. She tasted of apple, sweet and ripe. Knocking his hand away, she worked the ties on her corset, jerky movements that sent her elbow into his ribs.
He harbored no denial, only concerned with the quickest way to get inside her. There would be time for finesse and kind words later, time to remove every piece of clothing and pay homage to her body. Now, he needed her surrounding him, tight and moist and hot. Needed her badly. Her moans and sighs, delicious sounds of entreaty, convinced him rapidity would work for her as well.
He tore his mouth away and rolled her beneath him. Her thighs spread, and his hips slid into place, a consummate fit. "I'm sorry," he said, his lips pressed against the side of a freed breast and moving higher. "I want you too much to wait."
She laughed, which set her nipple quivering beneath his lips. "Wait? Merciful heaven, Professor, I don't want to wait. Hurry up and get your clothes off."
"Oh, sweet. A little clothing never hurt anyone." In impatient fistfuls, he drew her skirt to her waist, dismayed to find more than one layer. Her drawers were simpler, the matter of a knotted tassel or two. Promising to buy her new ones, he snapped the ties he could not easily undo.
Cooperative and eager, she went right to the heart of the problem, loosening the buttons on his trouser fly. Their lips met, their fingers trembling and slipping over buttonholes and ribbons. She removed fabric, grasping him, hand curled. Her teeth sank into his shoulder as she roamed the length of him... and back. Delirious with desire, he closed his eyes, his weight held on his elbows as he traced the curves of her body. Had he taught her to touch him in this fashion: a firm, assertive glide from tip to juncture? He must have, but he could not recall.
Right now, he could scarcely recall his own name.
Hand pressed to the small of her back, he angled her hips. Lowering his lips to her ear, he instructed her to wrap her legs around him and hold on.
With a sweep of her thumb over the rounded tip of his arousal, a daring stroke that came close to ruining his fine purpose, she let him go. His hand drifted between her thighs, found her moist, swollen, and warm. He dipped deep, plunged, preparing her. He wanted, no, he needed to see her need match his. She tipped her head, throat muscles jumping as she swallowed. He glanced at the door, closed, but who knew how much sound would travel through it?
In a sudden movement, she raised her hips, bumping against the heel of his hand. The moan started deep, threw her eyes wide, rendering them dark, dark green. Acting quickly, he captured her groan of pleasure with his lips and entered her in one smooth stroke.
She gasped and together they found a fast, sure rhythm. Her legs tensed, then tensed again, her nails digging into his back.
"I love you," he said, his mind shutting down. Pulling her close, he thrust once more, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and uttered a hoarse cry, flooding her with everything in his heart and his body. Every muscle strained and snapped like a taut band, leaving him limp. He kissed her, weak and clumsy, not certain if she responded. Still clasping her to his chest, he rolled to his back, moisture slicking their skin, their harsh breaths filling the room.
Elle slumped across him, her arm a dead weight beneath. He stretched, found his trousers circling his knees, snarled and damp. His shirt hung off one shoulder. Rose petals matted his cheek. And, oh yes, he thought and shifted with a groan. Elle had clawed his back to ribbons.
"Juste Ciel. I'm dying," she said, her voice cracking. She plucked at her skirt. "Good heavens, I still have my clothes on."
He smiled, pressing a kiss to her brow. "Actually, I ripped your drawers off. Ruined them, I'm afraid. I'll buy you a new pair, I promise."
"Drawers? Who cares about drawers? I can't even feel my arm."
Noah laughed and lifted enough for her to pull her limb free. Not wanting to let her go, he gripped her waist, and brought her atop him. A dazed look ruled her face. Her lids slipped low as her head flopped forward. "Sleepy," she mumbled.
He tightened his hold, cherishing the secure weight of her. "It's all right. I'll be here."
"Love you," he thought he heard her whisper between a sigh and a yawn.
He checked the urge to kiss her. A stray tear he could not check streaked down his cheek. "I love you, too." Mere words did not even begin to describe what he felt. "Too much."
She hummed in response, a drowsy, sated vibration.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway; Elle tensed against him, lifted slightly. "Hush, sweet. I locked the door." He brushed his lips over her head, curls catching in his whiskers. "Besides, we're getting married. With this going on, I figure the sooner, the better."
She brought her hand to his chest, trailed her fingers through the hair she appeared to like so much. "When?"
He sank into the mattress, exhaled in relief. "How about this Saturday?"
"Saturday?"
"Preacher Ellis has been notified, the church in Pilot Isle reserved. Caroline's arriving on Friday afternoon. Christa's baking some kind of cake and throwing us a party or something. I bought our train tickets last week and—"
Elle reared, snatching a pillow from the bed and cuffing him in the face. "You planned all this, never even bothering to ask me first?"
He jerked his trousers to his waist and buttoned his fly. "Yes. I did. I told you I wasn't waiting any longer. Chrissakes, after this"—he gestured to the tangled sheets and scattered rose petals—"how can you argue? It's the only sensible option." Uh-oh. He realized after he said it that this would never be a good argument to present to Elle Beaumont.
"Why, you... oh!" She rolled to the floor and started pacing by the bed, hands fisted on her hips.
Noah rested against the rosewood headboard, beginning to enjoy this. The sight of her stomping around the room, bottom swinging beneath wrinkled satin, bosom bouncing beneath nothing at all, caused a miraculous erection to spring forth.
She glanced at him, glared actually, her gaze sliding down his body. She came to a sudden, shuddering halt. "Oh, no, Professor. Not again. Not as long as you're making all the decisions and not even asking me what I'd like to do. Stubborn, arrogant...."
He laughed and leaned over the side of the bed. Straining, he slipped his thumb inside the ribbon surrounding the box he'd hidden.
She raised her head from drawing her sleeves to her shoulders, her blouse still gaping, breasts rising on each furious breath. Her eyes widened when she saw what he had in his hands, her lashes fluttering. A flush of excitement crossed her cheeks as her fingers danced down her stomach to her waist. A rush of pleasure warmed him.
So, she'd liked his gifts.
Grinning like a lovesick fool, he nudged the tiny package toward the edge of the mattress. "This is the last one." He winked and crossed his ankles. "This week, anyway."
She took an eager step forward, a shy half step back. "You shouldn't have bought me all those gifts."
"I can return them, if you don't want them."
"No." Her cheeks reddened; her head lowered. "I mean, of course, I like them. I love them." She touched the flowing green ribbon circling the box. "It's just... I never... thank you."
"You're welcome." He shoved it beneath her hovering hand. "Go on, open it. Before I decide to pull you back into bed."
She looked at him then, dead in the eye. Her hunger caught him by surprise, and he reached for her.
Grabbing her gift, she skipped to the side. "Oh, no, you don't, Noah Garrett. Patience, you must have patience. Remember how you always used to preach the sacred value of patience?"
He flopped against the headboard, banging his shoulder on the rounded edge. "In the future, don't listen to me."
He knocked his head against the bedpost. "You're killing me."
She glanced down. A mischievous glint appeared as her gaze lifted. "Good," she said, and loosened the elegant bow. Sliding the ribbon free, she set it by her side with care. "This one is prettier than the others."
"Yes." He swallowed and struggled to breathe normally. "The store wrapped it."
She pushed the brown paper aside and stared at the silver jewelry box in silence. Wildflowers and roses embellished the casing. A touch of feminine nonsense, but he had guessed she would take pleasure from it. She outlined the ornate design, and he felt a moment's unease, a pang of uncertainty. Dammit, he wanted nothing more than to make her happy, to give her anything she desired.
She opened the box, a whisper of air slipping past her lips. "Oh, Noah."
He rocked forward, squinting to bring her expression into clear view. "Well?"
"Juste Ciel." She lifted the ring from its perch. The round emerald caught a ray of candlelight and threw a blazing spark to the coverlet. "Oh, my," she breathed, and slipped it on her finger, tilting her hand back and forth in the meager light.
"I looked and looked, searching for the perfect ring, one that felt right. But they were too fancy or too plain. Too big or too small. Too ugly." He shrugged, his cheeks heating. "Until I found this one. The stone is the exact color your eyes turned the first time we made love. After the night on Devil, it was burned into my mind. And... I knew, I thought, I mean, you would like it."
She launched herself at him with a cry of delight. "I love it. Oh, Noah. I love you." She hooked her arms around his neck, feathering kisses along his jaw. "I always have, as you and everyone else in Pilot Isle knew."
"Thank God." He tightened his hold.
She laughed, sending a rush of warm air across his face. "Did you ever doubt it?"
"Once or twice."
Her delight faded. "Do you have to go to Chicago soon? How will we... what will we—"
"Chicago? Good God, woman, what kind of marriage do you think this is going to be? I'm staying right here, in South Carolina. We'll decide where to move after you graduate. You're not getting away from me for one day. I rented a house large enough for a family of ten, just around the corner on Senate Street. Marty is thrilled beyond words to have me teach the next four terms. Coupled with a research project on population dynamics of planktonic systems and making love to you as much as I can handle, I'm going to be incredibly busy."
"Marty? A house? Planktonic systems?" Her voice lowered. "Making love?"
"Never mind that, sweet." He flipped her to her back and settled in to kiss her soundly. "Right now, I think we have more important issues to worry about. Issues on, what shall we say... the rise."
She nodded. "History thesis due in two days. Biology exam next Thursday."
Determined to win this round, he slanted his lips over hers, nibbling and licking until she moaned low in her throat. "I'm not sure I can help with the history thesis, but I am a fair science tutor."
"Are you certain, Professor?"
"Positive, ma chere fille."
And, as any good biologist would do, Noah set out to provide concrete proof.
The End
Page forward for more from Tracy Sumner
Author's Note
Readers familiar with the Outer Banks may recognize Pilot Isle as Beaufort, North Carolina. Indeed, I loosely based my setting there, thanks in large part to information provided by the kind ladies at the Beaufort Historical Society.
I incorporated artistic license in these areas, mostly calendar changes, which I hope the reader will forgive. In 1902, the second Federal fisheries laboratory in the United States was completed in Beaufort—still there to this day. Woods Hole, the first, was established in 1871, actually placing its construction before Noah's birth. But I know he would have wanted to take part, so he did. The scholarship Elle received I based on the ones given by the American Association of University Women, founded in 1882. They bestowed their first loan, much as I described it, in 1901, three years after Elle received it.
The lifesaving program is a marvelous part of the Outer Banks history and well worth further research. Also, the University of South Carolina, in 1898 called South Carolina College, did admit female students. As an alumna, I wanted Elle to be one, too!
Page forward for an excerpt from Tracy Sumner's
Tides of Passion
Excerpt from
Tides of Passion
by
Tracy Sumner
Chapter 1
Women can't have an honest exchange
in front of men without having it called a cat fight.
~Clare Boothe Luce
North Carolina, 1898
Savannah knew she was in trouble a split second before he reached her.
Perhaps she should have saved herself the embarrassment of a tussle with the town constable, a man determined to believe the worst of her.
However, running from a challenge wasn't her way.
She laughed, appalled to realize it wasn't fear that had her contemplating slipping off the rickety crate and into the budding crowd gathered outside the oyster factory.
No, her distress was due to nothing more than Constable Garrett's lack of proper clothing.
In a manner typical of the coastal community she had temporarily settled in, his shirt lay open nearly to his waist. She couldn't help but watch the ragged shirttail flick his lean stomach as he advanced on her. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, his physique belied his composed expression. Yet Savannah detected a faint edge of anger pulsing beneath the calm façade, one she wanted to deny sent her heart racing.
Wanted... but could not.
Flinging her fist into the air, she stared him down as she shouted, "Fight for your rights, women of Pilot Isle!"
The roar of the crowd, men in discord, women in glorious agreement, eclipsed her next call to action. There, she thought, pleased to see Zachariah Garrett's long-lashed gray eyes narrow, his golden skin pulling tight in a frown. Again she shook her fist, and the crowd bellowed.
One man ripped the sign Savannah had hung from the warehouse wall to pieces and fed it to the flames shooting from a nearby barrel. Another began channeling the group of protesting women away from the entrance. Many looked at her with proud smiles on their faces or raised a hand as they passed. They felt the pulse thrumming through the air, the energy.
There was no power like the power of a crowd.
Standing on a wobbly crate on a dock alongside the ocean, Savannah let the madness rush over her, sure, completely sure to the depths of her soul, that this was worth her often forlorn existence. Change was good. Change was necessary. And while she was here, she would make sure Pilot Isle saw its fair share.
"That's it for the show, Miss Connor," Zachariah Garrett said, wrapping his arm around her waist and yanking her from the crate as people swarmed past. "You've done nothing but cause trouble since you got here, and personally, I've about had it."
"I'm sorry, Constable, but that's the purpose of my profession!"
He set her on her feet none too gently and whispered in her ear, "Not in my town it isn't."
As she prepared to argue—Savannah was always prepared to argue—a violent shove forced her to her knees. Sucking in a painful gasp, she scrambled between the constable's long legs and behind a water cask. Dropping to a sit, she brushed a bead of perspiration from her brow and wondered what the inside of Pilot Isle's jail was going to look like.
Fatigue returned, along with the first flicker of doubt she had experienced in many a month. Resting her cheek on her knee, she let the sound of waves slapping the wharf calm her, the fierce breeze rolling off the sea cool her skin. Her family had lived on the coast for a summer when she was a child. It was one of the last times she remembered being truly happy.
Or loved.
Blessed God, how long ago that seemed now.
That was how Zach found her. Crouched behind a stinking fish barrel, dark hair a sodden mess hanging down her back, her dress—one that cost a pretty penny, he would bet—ripped and stained. She looked young at that moment, younger than he knew her to be. And harmless.
Which was as far from the truth as it got.
He shoved aside the sympathetic twinge, determined not to let his role as a father cloud every damned judgment he made. Due to this woman's meddling, his town folk pulsed like an angry wound behind him, the ringing of the ferry bell not doing a blessed thing to quiet a soul. All he could do was stare at the instigator huddling on a section of grimy planks and question how one uppity woman could stir people up like she'd taken a stick to their rear ends.
No wonder she was a successful social reformer up north. She was as good at causing trouble as any person he'd ever seen.
"Get up," Zach said, nudging her ankle with his boot. A slim, delicate-looking ankle.
He didn't like her, this sassy, liberating rabble-rouser, but he was a man, and he had to admit she was put together nicely.
She lifted her head, blinking, seeming to pull herself from a distant place. A halo of shiny curls brushed her jaw, and as she tilted her head up, he got his first close look at her. A fine-boned face, the expression on it soft, almost dreamy.
Boy, the softness didn't last long.
Jamming her lips together, her cheeks plumped with a frown. Oh yeah, that was the look he'd been expecting.
"Good day, Constable," she said. Just like that, as if he should be offering a cordial greeting with a small war going on behind them.
Tides of Love (Seaswept Seduction Series) Page 27