Ecstasy Wears Emeralds

by Renee Bernard

  She explored and played, and he allowed it, as much as he could, kissing her when she gave him the chance, but she wriggled from him, unwilling to give up her quest to learn every point and junction of his physical being. His cock jerked and jumped as she leaned over his thighs and accidentally trailed her hair across his erection.

  You’re a minx, Gayle Renshaw. God help me, I think I’m going to have a heart attack if you keep this up for long.

  She’d straddled his thighs and was close enough to his penis so that every exhale made him grit his teeth. She dipped her finger down to touch the clear bead of silken moisture coming from its tip. “Is this your essence?” she asked with innocent curiosity, and then before he could reply her tongue darted out to sample the taste of him. “Hmm . . .”

  The gesture made him forget everything. Lust swamped him at the sight of her pink tongue licking him off her finger, as if she were licking honey off after sampling a dessert.

  He’d never seen anything like her natural sensuality.

  He pulled her over, gently tossing her down against the mattress to spread her legs, unable to indulge in any more delays. He opened the small metal tin by the bedside and ignored the cold sensation of the French letter encasing his cock. Warm, soon enough, boy. Warm and buried and blind, thank God!

  He reached between her thighs to assure himself that she was still wet, the silken folds swollen and sensitive, and then positioned himself above her. There was one second to absorb the moment, teetering on the brink of ruin as surely as the sun would rise—and he felt no fear. The sight of her beneath him, her arms thrown back and her violet eyes glowing with desire, black curls nesting above the ripe pink of her flesh already slick with her release—here was a moment he would never forget. He fisted the length of his erection and dipped just the tip of his penis into her entrance, teasing it against the hot little bud of her clit until she was writhing beneath him, breathlessly begging him for more.

  He wanted it to be as pleasurable for her, but he accepted that it was going to be all too easy to forget himself—it had been far too long since he’d had any woman in his bed and he didn’t know if he could hold back.

  “This . . . might . . . hurt . . . for just . . . a bit. . . .”

  “I trust you.” She lifted her hips to urge him forward,

  “I trust you.” She lifted her hips to urge him forward, her legs parting even wider, and Rowan gave in to a primal need to take what she offered.

  He slid into her in one slow, unrelenting stroke that tore through her maidenhead and left them both gasping for air. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to lie still for a few seconds and allow her body to adjust, her muscles clenching and unclenching, her passage protesting as it stretched and burned to give him room to move.

  She kissed his shoulder, a single tear falling down her cheek. “Rowan? I think I liked the kissing better.”

  He smiled but groaned into the mattress at the delicious humor of her predicament. He lifted his head to cradle her face in his hands, to comfort her. “Wait. The worst is over and now it improves.” Even as he spoke, he slowly began to move, demonstrating what lay beyond.

  He kissed her to ease her, and as she relaxed beneath him, Rowan felt a surge of relief. He was buried deep inside of her, but as her channel grew wetter and wetter, it allowed him to withdraw and return, teaching her the rhythm of it. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and the zeal of her kisses returned to push them both into a spiral of desire. Within seconds, they were both moving against each other, pleasure replacing all pain as she arched against his chest. His cock thickened at the sensation, and he savored each thrust, amazed at the strength of her hold on him and how quickly passion had recaptured her.

  Gayle took in the paradox of conquest and submission. Her body betrayed her mind, refusing to wait for her to compose descriptions or try to understand what was happening—a new kernel of red-hot tension began to grow inside of her, and this time she knew what the culmination could be and she welcomed the fire.

  There was not an inch of her that wasn’t his, that wasn’t in contact with him or basking in the glow of his body to hers. Gayle marveled that a woman could yield so much without thought, but the reward of passion and pleasure tipped the scales.

  There was nothing elegant in the raw tangle of their limbs or the pounding of his flesh into hers, and she loved it. It wasn’t refined or measured. It wasn’t science or art. It was sex, and Gayle heard a woman moaning and realized that it was her own voice.

  She turned her head into the pillow to scream, muffling her cries as he lifted her hips up, parting her thighs even farther, and drove himself into her again and again in a merciless onslaught of sensation. And it was heaven.

  This was a transformation no book could ever have described. This was a completion that defied words, and she came again in a free fall that tore apart every illusion she’d held about what this would be—and what woman she would become.

  Rowan watched her climax, felt it as her channel seized his cock in a mind-bending hold, and his own scalding orgasm spun out from his hips, shaking his frame and forcing him to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling the house down.

  It stretched out for endless seconds, and Rowan was grateful that she appeared to be unaware of him after her own climax—it gave him a few breaths to try to collect himself and recall how to use the English language.

  Damn! Too long . . . Ashe always used to say that a man could go too long and end up a gibbering idiot, but until this moment, I never believed him. . . .

  He slid away, only long enough to remove the wreck of the condom and find a flannel for them both. As his breathing became normal again, he tended to her as best he could, drying off her thighs and clearing away the small amount of blood from the injury to her maidenhead. “There. All better.”

  A foolish enough thing to say, but he pulled the covers over them both and held her close so that he could trace the last shimmering waves of pleasure as they faded from her skin.

  Who knew a kitchen crisis would land her in my arms?

  Florence hadn’t been in real danger. After all, men could lose a hand and still not bleed out so long as pressure was possible and the flow allowed to coagulate. It was the infection that killed them, but even that threat had been diminished by her level-headed approach to the crisis.

  She’d proven herself under pressure and without guidance.

  But Rowan waited for the inevitable, when that beautiful head of hers assessed the facts. He braced himself for the worst and wondered how long it would take and if he could distract her with—

  “I just fell into bed with you over a few cut fingers.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow to gauge her mood. “Yes.”

  She bit her lower lip and then smiled. “Well, that seems a bit off, doesn’t it?”

  He kissed her cheek, the platonic gesture altered to suit him as his lips lingered to trace the delectable line of her cheekbone up to her temple. “I’m in no position to argue, unless you’re about to accuse me of bedding you over a few cut fingers.”

  She giggled, and then stopped abruptly, evidently shocked at the uncharacteristic laughter slipping past her lips. “I’m sure I should be feeling a twinge of regret. . . .”

  “Are you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “What are you feeling?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say it.”

  “Close your eyes then and let’s hear it, Miss Renshaw.” She dutifully closed her eyes, and he waited patiently, using the back of his fingers to stroke her bare shoulder and arms.

  “I’m changed by the experience.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m a wanton thing, Rowan. All I feel is a desire to try it again. Perhaps the books had it right, and once a woman is—”

  He kissed her to stop her from finishing her thought, and her eyes fluttered open, a new warmth blazing in their depths and confirming that he had her complete attention.
“All of our natures are the same, Miss Renshaw. We are physical beings and drawn to each other with a power that men have wrestled with for as long as we’ve been out of caves. But you—you are perfection and just as you should be. But this—this is extraordinary, Gayle, this connection between us, this fire. Science doesn’t apply.”

  She nestled against him, her hand splayed against his heart, innocently stoking his desire by toying with the hair on his chest. “I’m hardly perfect, Rowan.”

  “No one is.” He held her close, wishing he could freeze the moment in time where she was content in his arms. “About Charlotte’s death—”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear about that at this very moment.” She pushed against him, sitting up and covering her breasts with the coverlet. “Rowan, I . . . I’m naked and I don’t think I want to even hear her name on your lips. I realize that’s not very logical, but I promise I’ll listen attentively when I have at least three layers of clothing on and a better idea of where my shoes are.”

  “Well, there’s a new medical theory! You could prove that people’s ability to listen may be tied to their clothes.”

  She hit him with a pillow, playfully trumping the debate. “Talk, then!”

  “Well, since one topic is unwelcome, let’s try another. Every instinct I have is urging me to do the honorable thing, Gayle, and ask you to marry m—”

  “Wait!” She put her fingertips up against his lips, her eyes darkening with distress. “I need time to get used to all of this! I planned—I plan so much of my life, or at least, I try to, but this? This is nothing I’d planned. Please, Rowan. Just give me time.”

  “Time.” He lifted up one of her hands and kissed the soft well at the center of her palm. “Yes. I shall do my best to give you all that you need.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned over to reward him with a kiss.

  “Can you tell me more about yourself and your family—while you’re naked?” he teased gently. “Or does that subject also require shoes?”

  She looked away, diverted by her hands, and this time his patience wasn’t rewarded. She didn’t offer to share anything about her mother, or herself, and Rowan sensed it was better to retreat and give her more time. Even after she’d literally bared herself to him, Miss Gayle Renshaw was still a creature apart and practically unknown to him. With a sigh, he turned to a more immediate matter.

  “Very well.” He held out the package of condoms. “I know it’s an unromantic topic but a necessary one. If you would . . . here is a tin of them. I don’t want you to think that I’m assuming anything or taking for granted your consent to any future encounters, but—better that you have them, Gayle. Please, put them in your bedside drawer or anywhere you can discreetly access them without Florence or Mrs. Evans coming across them.”

  “I will.” She took the tin, shyly at first, but then lifted her chin, a woman determined to be practical. “You’re clever to think of it, and I’m grateful. You’re just being considerate of my . . . of our position.”

  “I meant what I said. I won’t see you hurt from this, Gayle.”

  “Can you . . . help me dress?”

  Without covering himself, he shifted to the edge of the bed and began retrieving her clothes for her, kneeling to gather her stockings and taking a few extra seconds to locate her missing shoes. As she watched him, Gayle was surprised to realize that she felt more awkward about him helping to put her together than she did about him taking her clothes off.

  He stood, surveying the pile on the bed, and shook his head. “I’m no ladies’ maid, but let’s just see if we can’t think in reverse and accomplish this thing.”

  “I’m . . . Perhaps I just need help with the hooks to—”

  “Nonsense! A gentleman is always on hand to help, and I’m not going to forgo this chance to assist you.” He held up a stocking, and then knelt by the bed to put it on, his hands sliding up her legs and lingering at her thigh to retie the satin ribbon that held it up.

  “Rowan! I . . . I need to dress. Can you at least put your own shirt on first?”

  He nodded and slipped his own white shirt on to partially shield his body from her appreciative looks. “And so you shall. I promise to behave.”

  She had to bite her lip to keep from protesting when that was exactly what he did. No matter how distracted she became or how delicious the light teasing touches of the backs of his fingers proved against her ribcage, legs, and breasts, Dr. Rowan West was a man of his word. Her drawers and chemise were restored, her corset rehooked, and then came the layers of petticoats and her hooped farthingale.

  The fire in his eyes smoldered as he performed an abigail’s duties. Rowan brushed out her skirt and lifted it up over her head, sliding it down, caressing her arms as he did and encircling her waist with his hands as he fastened the hooks at the back.

  “Almost done,” he said, dipping his mouth down to nuzzle her neck and kiss her there, finding the most sensitive spot above her shoulder blades at the base of her neck. His tongue laved her skin and she shivered, her skin pebbling wherever his fingers trailed.

  “Rowan . . .”

  He retrieved her shirt where he’d thrown it over a chair, helping her into the lacy white thing, its sleeves marred a bit with Florence’s blood, and reworked the carved buttons, starting at her waist.

  Finally, he placed the lace shawl over her shoulders and used it to playfully hold her captive for one more kiss.

  She pushed away from him breathlessly, the color in her cheeks betraying her passion. “This is . . . ridiculous, Rowan. I’m ridiculous.”

  “Hardly.” He smiled but stepped back to try to respectfully give her the freedom to compose herself. “But consider yourself officially in charge of the health of the house, Miss Renshaw, for I swear, the next time Theo accidentally shuts his hand in the carriage door or someone twists an ankle, I’m going to have trouble controlling myself.”

  She playfully punched him in the shoulder. “You’re a wicked thing, Dr. West!”

  The clock in the downstairs hall chimed five times and Rowan winced. “The house will be up soon. Carter comes early with coffee and a tray, Gayle.”

  “I’ll leave now. I’d rather not wait and meet him on the stairs.”

  It was time to let her go.

  I’m already in love and she won’t hear of it.

  Damn! I don’t think I’m going to survive the heartache she’s capable of handing me—but there’s no chance in hell I’m walking away now.

  I’ll just have to teach Miss Gayle Renshaw that science and love can exist side by side.

  Chapter 17

  He’d left her to her work for most of the day, but finally by midafternoon, Rowan had demonstrated all the self-control and patience a man could muster under the circumstances. He grumbled to himself as he climbed the stairs, convinced that in a more sane world he’d have gotten to spend the day in bed with the irresistible Miss Renshaw after she’d breathlessly agreed to marry him, and he wouldn’t be reduced to feeling like a man forced to nibble at the edges of happiness.

  Although, if I liken the woman to cake in this conversation, I think I’ll end up starving to death if she interprets it the wrong way.

  He opened the door to the familiar sight of Gayle perched on one of the stools sitting up to the long worktable closest to the windows. She had several texts fanned out around her as she balanced on her elbows, chewing on the tip of her pen. She was deep in thought, and Rowan’s breath caught in his throat at how lovely she was with her dark hair pulled back in a simple chignon, a few tendrils escaping to trail down her long white neck to draw the eye toward her ample cleavage. She was wearing her blue day dress in her usual effort to look professional and plain, but the effect was ruined by the dress’s fashionable tailoring, expensive jet buttons, and the unmistakable elegance of the model.

  She’d look beautiful in sack cloth and ashes.

  “I see that you are dressed, Miss Renshaw.”

  She looked up with a smile that a
lmost made him drop the offering he’d brought. “I told you that I have trouble concentrating without at least three layers!”

  “I still say it’s theory until you test it properly.”

  “Are you suggesting I attempt to study . . . without clothes?”

  The distracting turn of their conversation almost derailed him from his mission as the delightful prospect of Miss Gayle Renshaw wearing nothing but a copy of The Lancet sent his heart racing. “I’m going to keep my suggestions to myself, for the moment. But before I forget why I came up here, or change my mind—I wanted to give you something.”

  “Oh.” She pushed away from the table to stand and face him, her expression suddenly more wary and less playful. “Unless it is an assignment, Dr. West, I’m not sure it’s appropriate to—”

  “Damn it, Gayle! Let a man finish one thing without debate! Agreed?” Rowan snapped.

  “Agreed.” She crossed her arms and waited. “Well?”

  The sight of her tapping her foot was comical, and Rowan’s flash of temper evaporated. God, I’m enjoying every minute of her company—even when she’s trying to drive me to bedlam. But now let’s hope the truce holds. “Do you know how Charlotte Hamilton died?”

  Gayle nodded. “A fever, I thought. But after moving to Standish Crossing and listening to Aunt Jane, I wasn’t as sure.”

  “Here, Miss Renshaw. It’s my case study of Charlotte’s death, for you. I wanted to understand what had happened, so I created this. It’s just a few notes I made about the fever that took her life—from the facts I’d pieced together once I’d returned from India. You might see something that others have missed or just confirm the worst.” He held out the slim packet of paper. “I trust your judgment, Gayle.”

  She took it from him, slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. Rowan wasn’t sure how to feel as he walked the fragile line between personal honor and promises to the dead. It was a gamble to give her his notes. They were incomplete, because he’d broken off the work after going to Standish Crossing and learning the truth. But he hoped there was enough that she might see the inconsistencies and choose to give him the benefit of the doubt. Use that keen mind, Gayle, and figure it out—and then perhaps you can see your way clear to loving me.