Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  His hand explored under her skirt again and skimmed up her calf, and despite the layer of her pantaloons, the sensation of his strong hand, Rawley’s hand, on such an intimate part was nothing short of thrilling.

  Her skirt and petticoats foamed like a wave as his hand inched upward, tickling her flesh as it passed. With each bit of skin he claimed, anticipation mounted, swirling and joining with the excitement and desire already pooling in her belly.

  Another inch. Another. His mouth stopped suckling, his whole body stilled, except for his hand, moving up, up, up, his warm breath fanning across the moist cotton over her breast. She trembled. His eyes closed, and his hand skimmed the last inch and cupped her sex.

  “Oh, Rawley!” She bucked and pushed against his hand. Yes.

  He caught an aching nipple in his mouth again and sucked. Hard. Oh, God. She skimmed frenzied hands down his back, searching for purchase, searching for the means to drive him wild too. His clever fingers found the slit in her pantaloons and the curls hiding what she’d delightfully discovered through his talented ministrations held an entire world of pleasurable possibilities. She thrashed her legs, a restlessness overtaking her. He slipped a blunt finger between her feminine folds, the rough tip sliding easily across her swollen flesh. “You are so wet for me, Adele.”

  His finger probed deeper. She sucked in a quick little gasp and clutched his shoulders. Yes. She wanted to experience this again. Couldn’t she? Last time there’d been no consequences. She arched, letting his finger slip deeper. He pulled out and slowly eased in two, then three, stroking in and out, stretching her. A shudder started at the crown of her head and chased heat like a flash downward. Yes, but...this wasn’t quite enough. Like before, the urgent waves built. And...oh, his thumb grazed that sensitive nub, teased it, rubbed it, while his fingers stroked in and out. The tension, the heat, tightened. Then burst apart, washing her nerves in a heady rush.

  His forehead thumped to rest against hers, his breathing labored, mixing with hers. His hand gently cupped her again as he held her while her shudders faded.

  But when they did, tension still vibrated between them and through her. Tension and a nameless yearning which seemed to concentrate and pulse where he’d pleasured her. “There’s more, Rawley. I know it. I want it, I want you,” she breathed.

  He groaned and kissed her hard on the mouth, the flavor different than previous—less tender, more possessive. He pulled away, lips barely touching hers. “Do you know what you’re saying?” His voice was strained, but hopeful.

  “Yes.” At least she thought so.

  A broad grin broke across his face, the one she’d seen only once before, and knowing she’d put it there made her feel like warm maple syrup coated her veins. He kissed her tenderly on her lips, the tip of her nose, and each eyelid, his soft breath puffing against her cheeks.

  She twined her fingers in his hair and pulled him down for a more demanding kiss. “Faster, Rawley.”

  He chuckled. He complied. He slanted his mouth across hers, devouring, hungry, and the pad of his finger dragged across her swollen flesh at her core. Two more sweeps and a flick with his talented fingers and again that throbbing, exquisite tension pulsed, demanding, greedy.

  He eased his hand away, and she opened her mouth to protest, feeling his loss. But then he levered over her with his other arm. Pinning her with his eyes, he undid his trouser buttons and freed himself from his smalls.

  And then she saw him. All of him. A heady thrill burned through her, flashing along her spine, down her nerve endings. Yes, this was what she craved. She arched her hips toward him and groaned.

  His eyes flared with raw desire, and he dropped beside her, his heat searing her through their layers of clothes. He yanked her skirts out of the way and blunt fingers stroked her again, spreading her juices.

  “My God, I cannot... God, I want you so much,” his voice rasped.

  “Yes, Rawley, yes.” She rocked her pelvis against him.

  He shifted, his dinner jacket’s tight weave scuffing against the wet cotton over her breasts, and the peaks tightened farther. Now his hard body covered hers, but it didn’t feel constricting. On the contrary, the weight felt delicious and oh, so right. His hips moved, and the tip of his hardness brushed against her center. The rough fabric of his trousers, held up by leather braces, grazed her inner thighs. She trembled—the sensation—my goodness.

  Then, he caressed his full length upward, slipping between her folds, stroking against that sensitive bud. She shuddered and cinched her arms around his back. He slowly rocked, back and forth, his hardness doing the same thing his fingers had previously. Was this what was involved? She thought it went inside her, but the sensory experience was amazing, so she didn’t complain. It was hot and thick and doing fabulous, frictiony things where she ached.

  Again, the pressure built, and she thrust her hips in time with his, anticipating that shattering feeling. She could see it, feel it approaching. She thrashed, eager for it.

  But before it could hit her, he slid back, and on one stroke pushed slowly into her.

  She tensed at a sharp sting, and he stopped, only partway inside.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered near her ear. “It hurts the first time.” He kept himself still, and the sting slowly faded. She’d lost that sense of urgency, though.

  “Is that it?” How disappointing. But she liked the lead up to this.

  “No, God help me, no.” He brushed a hand across her cheek and eased forward another inch inside her. She felt herself accommodate his hot length. He stopped and shuddered and pushed again.

  So, he needed to be fully inside? That was acceptable. She relaxed and allowed him to do what needed to be done.

  Then he pushed farther, and she felt so full. So full of him. It was almost too much. She locked gazes with him. He was fully inside her!

  His pulse throbbed within her. She smoothed a hand under his jacket, the fabric teasing the back of her hand. She flattened her fingers over his heart and felt his pulse there too. The thunk-thunk-thunk of her blood pounding in her ears matched in rhythm. Sensational. The momentary discomfort she’d experienced shifted, an urgency pooling where their flesh joined.

  With his thumb, he skimmed her cheek, her lower lip, his eyes roaming her face, the muscles of his face and neck taut. “Are you all right?” he choked out.

  “Yes, God, yes.”

  A slow smile suffused his face, though contorted from the strain. He eased out.

  She tightened her grip. “Don’t stop. Don’t leave.” No way would she let it be over so soon.

  He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her body, even down there. “I don’t believe I could. Patience, my dear Adele. Wait and see.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose.

  She didn’t like waiting, dammit, but clearly, he had something in mind, and so far, he hadn’t steered her wrong.

  He kissed her gently and slid back inside. Oh.

  He eased out and stroked back in again. Oh!

  Yes...

  His tongue matched his strokes below, the feeling she’d had before growing but with more intensity. More. She arched her hips and met him stroke for stroke, taking more of him.

  He broke the kiss on a gasp, and his pace increased, his hips swiveling on each thrust, grinding against that little sensitive spot. She dragged her hands down his back and up the swell of his bottom. Through the fabric of his trousers his muscles flexed against her palms. She dug her hands under the cloth and gripped his bare flesh. So wicked! He hissed in a breath, and she squeezed, urging him faster, deeper.

  He complied, pumping in and out, his breath heating her ear, and the pressure, the sensations, the exhilarating experience coalesced into an ever-tightening ball and shattered, leaving her to float with the pieces—free, ethereal, limitless.

  He captured her mouth, arrowing her back into the moment, into him, them. His thrusts grew frenzied until he pulled back and drove inside a final time, his cry of pleasure reverberating in
her mouth, and a hot spurt radiating deep inside.

  He collapsed against her, his weight heavy, but welcome, his ragged breath hot against her neck.

  Oh, Lord, have mercy. That had been...that had been... She fought to catch her breath. Her heart thudded in her throat, her ears.

  It had been extraordinary. Far beyond expectations. Was it wicked to crave more? She tightened her arms around him and turned her head for air.

  There against the glass swam a manatee, staring inside.

  Adele laughed which caused his length to move deliciously inside her. She gasped.

  He raised his head, pulled her tighter against him. “You unman me,” his voice teasing. “What’s so amusing? You are bruising my poor ego.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Look!” She indicated with her eyes the direction.

  He chuckled. “Who knew manatees were voyeurs?”

  He pulled out, and she sucked in her breath, sorry to see him go. He extracted a handkerchief and cleaned her and himself. He shifted their bodies so he lay back on the sofa with her lying on top of him. One arm held her tight around her waist, and the other held her head against his chest.

  His breathing became too regular. “Rawley. Don’t fall asleep.”

  His eyes snapped open.

  “My aunt. She could come in any moment.”

  “Hell’s teeth!”

  He levered them both up, and he fumbled with his trousers. She jumped away to the end of the settee and smoothed her skirts. Her bodice was in place, thanks to the restricting corset.

  She stood, and a sharp pain from her ankle stabbed through her. He scurried to stand, patting his clothes. He looked around, his hand raking his hair. “I should be going. However, I will be speaking to your aunt on the morrow.”

  She frowned. “Whatever for? Surely you do not plan to tell her about this encounter?”

  “Good God, no.” He took her hand. “For permission to marry you, of course.” He moved to kiss her hand. “Although I imagine the permission from your father still stands.”

  She snatched her hand away. “Marry?”

  He straightened with a frown. “Yes, like we’d agreed. Then you won’t have to continue with this reporting business, and we can enjoy the rest of the cruise.”

  Her heart, like a creature ensnared, bam-bam-bammed against her ribcage. “I didn’t agree to marriage. What on earth are you talking about?” And like a creature ensnared, a rush of fear swamped her. Fear for what her future would shape to be. Fear she’d only disappoint. Fear she’d be bereft of options. And because fear was an emotion, she corralled it and refused to analyze it further.

  His face turned dark red, and he threw his hands in the air and paced. “Now you’re denying it? I don’t like being trifled with. You agreed to this.”

  “I’m not trifling with you. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. I never said yes to a proposal of marriage.”

  Hands on hips, he faced her. “I asked you before we proceeded too far, if you understood what this meant. Surely you don’t believe me such a cad to have let it proceed so far otherwise?”

  A blush heated her face. “I thought you...” She swallowed hard. “I thought you were simply referring to the mechanics of the thing. I had no idea I was agreeing to be saddled with you for life.”

  Right as the words flew from her mouth, she wished them back.

  His features hardened, and he stepped forward. She stepped back until the wall bumped against her. He towered over her.

  “Saddled with me, you say. Would that be so bad?” He glanced down the length of her body, and she felt his attention everywhere. Exposing her. Panic ripped through her. Being physically intimate was one thing. All right, a thrilling thing. But, but...emotional intimacy? The idea of it, of him becoming saddled with her only to be disappointed with her deficiencies... The hollowness inside, he’d eventually see it.

  “Yes,” she lashed out. “I’d be bored.” Tears choked her throat, and she pushed against his chest. “Don’t you get it?”

  He looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. In fact, he looked ill. He stepped back a few feet.

  She rushed forward. “Rawley, I didn’t—”

  He waved her away, turning his back to her. He strode for the door. “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear, madam.” His voice was low, tight. “I will take my leave now. I would not wish to bore you with my presence any longer than necessary.”

  “Rawley, please wait.”

  He didn’t break his stride or slow. She hustled toward him, but the combination of her legs feeling heavy, her interfering skirts, and her ankle, she was unable to gain on him. He wrenched the door open, slipped through, and slammed it shut.

  Phillip stood outside her cabin, back against the door, shaking. Hurt, anger, humiliation—hell, just name any awful emotion and he had it—coursing viciously through his veins.

  The strength of it, the grip it had on him, was appalling. Never had he been so wholly overwhelmed by emotions.

  And this was why he’d always strived to avoid them.

  All the times his mother or father had rejected him, when his ex-fiancée Sarah had rejected him, and when Adele had initially rejected him, all had made him loath to experience rejection again because the emotions it dredged up were so overpowering.

  But those were nothing, nothing, compared to this.

  Because she had seen, from the beginning, a peek of his true nature even he had denied. That no one else had seen. She had helped him see himself in a new light, and he’d liked it, liked what she saw. And had begun to believe...

  He lurched away from the door and gave a sharp bark of a laugh. What had he expected? His mother was right. Sarah was right. Adele was right. He was a stick in the mud. He was a cold fish. And he’d thought to attract someone so vibrant, so compelling as Adele?

  He needed his head examined.

  And God help him, her energy, her fire when he joined with her had been everything he’d dreamed of. More, actually.

  Adele collapsed in a heap of skirts on the floor. Head in her hands, tears of frustration slipped past her furious blinking. What had she done?

  She hadn’t meant to hurt him. But hurt him she had. She hated her big mouth.

  And she tried, she truly did, to stifle the torrent of emotions that whirled up from the hollow place inside. Counting didn’t work. She didn’t feel like getting up to find a distraction.

  Oh, to heck with it.

  She curled up and let the feelings swamp her, erupting from her throat in big, gusty sobs. The pressure in her head, nose, and throat stung, pressed, and the only outlet was to cry. A cry like she hadn’t had since Maman had died. Since the rejection from Father. Since Pascal.

  All of it welled up and pushed through her, and for once she didn’t suppress it.

  Finally, after who knew how long, she lay there panting. Spent. Listless.

  Slowly, limbs aching, ankle still sore, she stood and returned to the settee. What was she going to do? How could she make things right with him?

  She watched the fish, but no answers lay there, blasted things. And through the guilt she also felt a sense of betrayal—the one person she thought understood her, listened to her, helped her, thought of her career pursuit as a lark? Something she’d be expected to sacrifice once she’d settled down? Oh, that hurt.

  She blew a breath and inhaled deeply, trying to get a handle on the leftover emotions.

  Oh, Lord, what was that smell? Worried it could be evidence of their encounter, and her great-aunt, despite not catching them in the act, might see it as evidence enough to press matters, she stumbled to her room and found one of her perfume bottles.

  She returned to the sitting area and let several drops fall on the light sources, the heat immediately spreading the perfume’s scent around the room. It was a trick she’d learned from their maid, who used it to dispel any unpleasant odors created by Father’s practice and his infernal cigars.

  She’d bee
n sitting for some time longer when the door opened.

  Rawley! She jumped up, and winced—drat her ankle. Her great-aunt’s slightly stooped figure entered, and Adele’s spirits plummeted.

  Her great-aunt peered around expectantly, but when she saw only Adele, her face fell. “Hello, dear. Sorry I’m so late. I met with a fast crowd, and I won five dollars! We also went dancing. Did you see their ballroom?”

  “That’s terrific, Aunt Linny. The ballroom is a sight to see, is it not?” Surely her great-aunt noticed how fakely cheerful she sounded.

  “Indeed, dear. Indeed. Guess who is onboard? Mrs. Tuttle! And I danced twice with my new beau, Mr. Cassidy.”

  “Uh, that’s wonderful.”

  Her great-aunt filled her in on her doings, and Adele limped back to the settee.

  “—But you’re hurt,” Great-Aunt Linette interrupted herself when she noticed.

  “Just a slight sprain. There was a loose bit of decking outside our door, and I twisted it. It should be fine tomorrow.”

  “We should have Dr. Rawley look at it.” She walked to the service buzzer by the door.

  “No, I’m fine. He was with me when it happened. He helped me inside and saw to it.”

  Aunt Linette’s eyes lit. “Did he now?” She looked around avidly and scrutinized Adele’s appearance. Again she looked disappointed.

  Oh, if you only knew the true circumstances, dear Aunt Linny.

  So strange too, to have had such an exposure of herself, such a monumental misstep, and her great-aunt not be aware. Adele felt even more like a fraud in her own life.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In Which We Interrupt The Angsting Of Our Intrepid Duo With An Unwelcome Encounter

  Adele was adjusting the straw toque on her head when Great-Aunt Linette said, “Where’s Dr. Rawley? I thought he’d agreed to meet us at eight to escort us to breakfast?”