Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  Stupid buttons. Naked, she must be naked now too.

  Eyes hooded, he grabbed her arms and pulled her flush against his hard, muscular body. “I’ll do it.” His voice was raw, strained.

  Not dashing, pshaw.

  Heat radiated from him through her layers of clothes, and their ragged breaths filled the room. His hands stroked up her arms to her shoulders, his warm fingers traced the skin of her spine to a button, popped it free, then to the next, and the next, while he dropped gentle kisses along her shoulder and neck. She shuddered and reveled in the teasing rasp of his barely-there whiskers, the scent of him—wild, mingled with perfect gentleman.

  Rawley stepped back and eased her dress down her shoulders and over her arms, the fabric, stiff and rough from the dried salt water, grazing along her sensitized skin. It dropped to the floor in a soft whoosh.

  His breaths stuttered, and his forehead thunked onto her shoulder. She glanced down, the shadows deeper between their bodies, the flickering light illuminating oh-so-enticing stretches of male flesh. His hands hovered near her hips, his hot breaths dancing across the upper swell of her breast, teasing her flesh. She willed those fingers to move, to touch, to plunder. She swallowed hard, seeing him so naked, so vulnerable, just three inches from her semi-clothed body. She reached forward, curious. What would happen if she touched his arousal?

  Her fingers trembled, flexing in anticipation, almost there.

  He inhaled sharply, grabbed her hand, and whipped it around to rest at the small of her back. With his free hand, he brushed a finger directly above the line of her corset, the edge of his clipped nails rasping against her flushed skin. He scraped his fingers downward and gently cupped her breast. His other hand let go of her wrist and tugged the lacings. When they were a little looser, he nudged the corset down, his fingers searing her skin, and his dark head captured one of her breasts in his mouth. He groaned, the sound vibrating through the flesh of her breast, and sucked hard through the fabric of her chemise.

  She bucked, stumbled, and drew in a ragged breath. “Phillip, you’re killing me.” She grasped his shoulders and gazed up at the beam ceiling. Criminy. Her knees were going to give out.

  He chuckled and tugged on her laces until she was free of her corset. He untied first one petticoat, then the other, each joining her dress in a pool around her ankles. He knelt, and his head tilted up, eyes locking with hers, gaze dark and filled with passion.

  He palmed an ankle and lifted it, sweeping the fabric away, same with her other foot. She rested her hands on his strong shoulders again, his hot skin and muscles bunching under her palms. He untied first one boot, then the other, each time slowly stroking her instep and ankle, and sending delicious chills straight up her leg.

  “You ticklish?” he whispered, his voice low and filled with dark promise.

  “Am I? I... I...” She couldn’t think.

  He clutched her hips, dipped forward, inhaled deeply, and moaned. To her shock, a slick, wet warmth grazed her secret folds, and, Good Lord, his mouth was there, hot, moving, teasing, and her mind nearly exploded from the sheer pleasure of it all. Through the gap in her pantaloons, his lips and tongue and breath did wicked, wondrous, worshipful things.

  Eyes locked with hers, he loosened the knot in her pantaloons and slowly slid them down. Impatient to be as naked as he was, she whipped off her chemise. He pulled in a sharp breath, and his eyes darkened as they roamed her figure. The heat, the need in the blue depths joined with hers and flashed hotly within. Her knees buckled, and Rawley caught her by the hips, easing her descent.

  He held her slightly away, gaze soaking her in, one hand tracing her curves wherever he found one. She felt worshiped.

  She shivered and stroked over the muscled planes of his chest. Where were his secret, sensitive places? When she skimmed a nail across his nipple, he hissed through his teeth as if in pain. She darted her eyes to his.

  No. Not pain. Pleasure. Oh, what wicked fun!

  She trailed her hands lower, and he caught her wrists. He grabbed her waist and propelled them upward, and she tumbled back, tangled amongst the bed linens, the cool sheets caressing her heated skin. His hard body landed alongside, the mattress bouncing.

  His face stark with desire, he took her hands in one strong grip and held them above her head, her breasts jutting into the cool air. She arched her back, loving the feel of Rawley taking control in this manner. He smoothed his free hand down the side of her face, her neck, and circled a taut nipple. She thrashed her legs, eager for more, eager for that blinding bliss, eager for him.

  He gently pinched a breast, and a jolt of pleasure pulsed through her. “Oh, Rawley, please.”

  A slow smile eased across his face, and with his tongue, he flicked the tip of her breast.

  “More,” she panted.

  He taunted by laving only the peak. His dark head shifted to the other, and a puff of warm breath and flick of moisture said he meant to continue with his Torture Regimen. She pulled against his hand.

  Free, she yearned to be free so she could yank his mouth down firmly where she ached for it. He chuckled and held her wrists tighter, continuing his slow torture. She moved one leg sinuously up his, the coarse hairs on his leg tickling her calf. He growled and took her firmly in his mouth, suckling hard.

  Oh sweet Jesus, yes. She bucked and wriggled, and his hard length nudged her hip. Its heat seared, and between her legs an answering throb pulsed.

  His free hand roamed down her stomach, to her hip, to her inner thigh, where it circled lazily and feathered over and cupped her mound. She arched again, and he slipped one finger, then two inside her. “Rawley, Rawley,” she gasped.

  “What, my sweet?” His voice a throaty rumble, his breath whisking across her wet nipple.

  “Stop torturing me.”

  “What will give you relief?” he whispered.

  “You know what will.” She slid her leg up and down his again, twisted to free her hands. He let go and levered over her, his erection pointing straight toward her. Brazenly, she grabbed his arousal.

  Oh! It was...it was... She gave it a tentative squeeze. It was delightful. Against her palm, it was silky and hot and hard.

  A strangled groan escaped him.

  “Did that hurt?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed, and shook his head. Emboldened, she skimmed her hand up his length and watched his body, his face, his reactions. The muscles in his arms were tense, his mouth slightly open, his eyes clamped shut. Experimentally, she pushed the tip along her feminine folds, the wet friction making her tremble.

  His eyes flew open. “Oh, God, Adele,” he choked out and plunged into her in one swift thrust.

  Oh sweet criminy. She convulsed around him, the feel of him seated so firmly, so fully in her, spiking her desire. She locked her legs around his waist as his searing heat slid deeper, stretching her.

  After a quick brush of lips, he rested his forehead on hers, and slowly stroked out, his erection thickening inside her. And a sensual glide back in.

  She plundered his mouth, frantic as he stroked inside her.

  He broke the kiss. “Adele.” His voice, just a whisper. The word, just her name. But, oh, the way he said it—with a little hitch, a little pain, a little wonder—seemed to encompass her, like he knew her. Fully. All of her—the peculiar, the prickly, the plain—and he still liked her, reveled in her.

  The realization seared through her as his hard length seared into her, over and over, and their gazes locked. She was sure all her vulnerability, her secret wishes, her emotions were visible in her eyes. What she felt but wouldn’t, couldn’t, admit to herself. She wanted to look away, but was unable to.

  She smoothed her hands over his broad back, his muscles flexing beneath her palms as he eased in and back out. She arched on each thrust, begging him to go faster, to chase the urgency she felt building within. Chase what she felt away. Chase reality away.

  His mouth found hers again, and his arms folded up next to
her head, his fingers plunging into her hair. A cocoon. He created a cocoon comprised of his chest and the corded muscles of his arms. She felt so delicate and wonderful trapped inside his sheltering body as he pumped faster and faster inside her, his kisses matching in urgency, his need, his appetite for her seeming to echo her own to push away the world and feast on this, their passion, their celebration of life.

  Easing out, easing back into Adele, Phillip relished every sensation—the fierce grip of her feminine walls, her stroking fingers on his back, the smell of the lemon-scented sheets mixing with Adele’s unique scent and with the scent of their arousal, her mouth more urgent than his movements below as if in counterpoint—above, lust and urgency; below, lovemaking.

  It became too much. He broke the carnal kiss, lifted his head, and took in her flushed face, his hips thrusting, stroking her, his muscles tight. Her eyes snapped open, and what he saw peeking through her chocolate brown eyes almost broke his rhythm: love. He was damn sure of it. But hiding behind a layer of uncertainty and fear.

  He couldn’t voice his feelings. It would scare her he knew, so he told her with his body, stroking in an I love you. Stroking in an I worship you. Stroking in a God, Adele, you make me feel worthy.

  The fear, the uncertainty flared, but she kept her gaze locked with his, an internal battle evident in her eyes, her hips rising to meet him on every thrust.

  His control snapped. He pumped into her harder, faster, wanting to chase away her uncertainty, chase away today’s events. Chase her.

  Heat pooled in his lower back and tightened his stones, but he dredged up one last bit of control. Chase her, yes. But he must wait for her too.

  A blush rose up her chest—so beautiful—and, thank Christ, she convulsed, and her inner walls gripped him.

  “Adele!” He drove into her one final time and shot his seed in one long, aching, pleasure-searing burst. She pulsed around him again, milking him further. His mind went blank.

  Returning to consciousness collapsed atop her, he rolled off and cinched her tight against his chest, peppering kisses along her forehead, eyes, cheeks, and nose.

  As they both fought to control their breathing, he tucked her head under his chin. When hers grew regular, he shifted, careful not to wake her, so she’d be more comfortable, and he could watch her sleep. This wonderful, passionate woman who’d seen the real him.

  He’d had time to reflect on this journey, and from it emerged a truth. He’d allowed his hunger for a calm, ordered life, born out of necessity to deal with his family, define who he was, what he thought he desired.

  But it wasn’t him. Never had been. And she’d known. Passion could be indulged without becoming melodrama. Emotion could be controlled without becoming weakness. Witness the strength he’d found fighting that madman.

  And Sarah? She’d been right to cry off. He recognized now that she hadn’t inspired him passionately. He’d held back from giving himself because he thought it unnecessary. What an idiot he’d been. And so thankful for Sarah recognizing this, or he wouldn’t be here, right now, looking on the woman he knew with a surety he loved and could not imagine living without.

  A stray dark curl fell across her cheek. Her nose twitched. He brushed a finger across her skin and tucked the hairs behind her ear. A rare chance, seeing her vulnerable, and he soaked it in.

  Hell’s teeth, was she passionate. The urge to confess—what he wanted, what he wished—had been nearly overwhelming.

  But now, he had her measure. If he professed his feelings before she knew her own, he would again scare her away. For while she was honest with others, she was not so with herself.

  And tonight that honesty had shown through strongly. What he’d seen as they made love gave him hope. Now he need only wait. Wait and hope she recognized her own feelings.

  His instincts suggested that if he kept their interactions the same—intimate but without taking it the expected step further—it would give her the space to understand herself.

  He hoped.

  And he’d do what he’d vowed never to do again. But she deserved a dashing proposal. And he had only one more chance to get it right.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  In Which Epiphanies Are Had

  A slash of light hit Adele’s face, and she blinked. Sleepiness fogged her head. Where was she? She lay on her side in a strange bed. Then, the events of the previous day and last night rushed in.

  Especially the images from last night.

  A heavy weight was draped over her. She looked down. Rawley’s hand.

  She turned in his embrace and studied his sleeping face, his vulnerable pose. A wave of tenderness hit her. Worry kicked in. Would he renew his addresses, now that they’d made love again?

  Dread flooded her veins at the idea of again causing him hurt. Certainly, the first item on his agenda would be marriage.

  His breathing changed rhythm, and he opened one eye. A lazy smile suffused his face. “Morning. I must say this is a nice way to start the day.”

  She tensed, waiting.

  He dropped a light kiss on her nose, captured her mouth in a slow kiss, and her heart ached for him.

  He drew away and ran the backs of his fingers down her neck. “Why do the ladies of this area have these tattoos? I’ve always wondered.”

  She relaxed—this was a safe topic. “Each symbolizes the four families of our grandparents. It identifies possible kin so you don’t, you know, marry them.”

  She tensed again, cursing the introduction of that word and its probable reminder to him, but he only smiled and said, “Interesting.”

  His gaze roamed her face, his fingers stroking her neck. He bestowed another heart-stopping smile, eyes dancing with humor. “Well, we have a long day ahead, so I suppose we’d better get started.”

  She blinked. “Oh, yes,” she said in confusion. “I suppose we better. I wish we had a change of clothes.”

  “They should at least be clean.”

  She sat up. “What? How?

  “After you passed out from sensual bliss, I dressed and found that maid. Asked her if she could at least wash out the sand, that I’d have our clothes outside in the hall.”

  He levered out of bed. “Let me see if they’re ready.” Naked, he strolled to the door and opened it a crack. She admired the light playing off his sculpted frame. “Splendid,” he said.

  She certainly thought so.

  He swung the door wider and whisked a folded pile of clothes inside. He returned to the bed and separated their sets of clothes. Seeing hers mixed with his strangely made it somehow more intimate. So domestic. Her chest tightened, and the air thickened in her lungs.

  He dressed in efficient movements, unconcerned.

  But...she couldn’t do it, couldn’t casually dress in front of him, so she grabbed a bed sheet, wrapped it around herself, and brought her clothes behind the privacy screen. On the way, a quick glance at the settee showed poor Loki still sleeping off his adventures.

  A maid had left a bowl and pitcher of water, and Adele cleaned herself quickly and slipped on undergarments until she was faced with the problem of her corset. Drat.

  “Rawley?” she squeaked, her voice betraying her nervousness. “Can you assist me?”

  “Certainly, my dear.”

  Rawley dressed her as efficiently as he had himself, whistling the whole time. Cheery fellow in the mornings, she supposed. His happiness sliced through her, lashing her, increasing the weight of her guilt. Could she reject him again? How painful that would be, for them both, left her trembling.

  Fully dressed and ready, they went downstairs, Loki reluctantly awakened and in tow, to find out what had happened to their prisoner and to implement her plan for writing the article and getting that promotion. As they descended the stairs and he never broached marriage, she felt as if she wound tighter and tighter, so fragile, one small action would cause her to spin and fly apart.

  At the front desk, they found Chappie, and he directed them to head up their
main street a short ways to Colonel Gillespie’s house, as he was waiting for them.

  Soon, they were ushered into the colonel’s house and shown to his parlor. He strolled in a few minutes later, tying his cravat into place.

  “Ah, good morning to ye. Sleep well?”

  “We did, thank you,” Rawley answered, eyes twinkling as they snared hers. “You have a very delightful hotel.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them. “Perhaps I can show you the two-hole golf course I built several years past?”

  “You built a course here?” Rawley asked with interest.

  “I wouldna be counted a good Scotsman if I hadn’t, now would I? I pride myself it’s the first in this country.”

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Adele interjected, lest the men get distracted, “but we need to get going with our day.”

  “Ach, aye. I suppose ye be wanting to know how it went with your fellow?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Your Cuban fishermen directed us to the rascal, and he now sits tight in our jail down the street. Sent a telegram to your police in Mobile to see how they want him transported. Until we hear, we’ll hold him.”

  Rawley nodded. “Sounds like you have it well in hand, Colonel.”

  Adele stepped forward. “Colonel, I’m a reporter for the Mobile Register, and I’m writing up yesterday’s events for the paper. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? Mainly a background on yourself and the town and more detail on the apprehension of the killer?”

  “Aye, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Wonderful. Before we proceed, I need to procure supplies. Do you have a general store where I can purchase notepaper and such? I have none of my tools of the trade with me, considering.”

  Colonel Gillespie pointed them down the street to the general store, and Adele soon had the supplies she needed, purchased with Rawley’s dwindling stash of coin. An hour later, they were back at the hotel, having commandeered a public parlor for her base of operations.