So she pushed against him, tried to lean into him and wriggle a hand free; that accomplished nothing—his grip was unbreakable—but sensing his reaction to the pressure of her body, she shifted against him, sinuously weaving a fraction side to side, rubbing her silk bodice against his coat. Twisting at the waist, she managed to slide her hip into and across the solid length of his erection.
He groaned into her mouth. Pulled back enough to growl, “Do you have any idea…?” then abruptly sealed her lips again.
Of course she didn’t; that was what she was there to learn.
Before she could do anything further, he dragged her hands up, over her head, then changed his grip so he could trap both her hands in one of his.
His free hand lowered to her breast, covered it, squeezed. She gasped, and pressed the firm mound into his palm. He obliged and kneaded, then through the silk sought and found her nipple, circled it, then rolled the distended tip between finger and thumb.
Delicious shards of sensation streaked through her, sliding like fire through her veins to pool low in her belly. He continued ministering to her breasts until the heat flared into outright fire, the conflagration swelling, growing—until she rocked her hips against him.
He hesitated, still sunk in her mouth, his tongue sliding slowly along hers, then he released her breast, slid his hand down her ribs to her waist, then lower, over the curve of her hip to skim down her thigh as far as he could reach, then he caught her skirt, gathered the fine material until he could slide his hand beneath and touch her bare skin.
She gasped, quivered.
Gervase reached higher, palm and fingers tracing up her thigh, above her garter where the silken skin was hot to his touch. Despite his experience, he hadn’t expected such tactile delight; she rode daily—her thighs were firm, resilient, promising a wild ride of a different sort, the satiny texture of her skin made only more fascinating by the feminine strength beneath.
The feel of that skin beneath his hand, his to caress at will, subtly seduced, weakened his resolve, had instinct overriding intellect. He wasn’t thinking when his hand drifted higher, lost touch with rational thought when his fingers found the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs.
He brushed, caressed, slid his fingertips past, seeking the soft flesh those curls concealed.
Found it.
He stroked, caressed, urged on by her flaring response, by the fiery need that gripped her, that she sent pouring through him as she kissed him voraciously, urgent, hungry and greedy.
Impatient. That last was very clear as she shifted siren-like against him, evocatively pressing against his hand. The scalding slickness he’d drawn forth was hot enough, shocking enough, to shake some fraction of his wits into place, enough for him to read her desire clearly.
His lips still on hers, his fingers artfully circling, stroking, promising yet not delivering, he forced himself to focus, to consider as well as he could.
He might have drawn a line, knew vaguely that he had, and where it was, but he couldn’t think of any reason to deny her this—the satiation of her immediate need. She was growing desperate; he responded, pressed his fingers further into the slick haven, into her. With one finger he breached her entrance, then pushed steadily deeper, penetrated her to his full reach—even muffled by their lips, he heard her evocative gasp, felt the bite of her nails as her fingers curled and gripped his restraining hand tightly, felt her body arch, bowing against his.
He held still for an instant, letting her feel, grow accustomed to the sensation of his finger within her.
Then he stroked. Deliberately, deeply, repetitively.
Although she tried valiantly, she never caught her breath; in less than a minute she shuddered, and shattered, fractured.
He released her from their kiss. Breathing raggedly, eyes closed, she sagged back against the wall. He watched her face while, his finger buried in her tight sheath, he savored the rhythmic contractions, tracked her release; courtesy of the diffuse moonlight her features were visible, but any expression in her eyes would be impossible to discern.
For the moment, her eyes remained closed; he knew he had to act, to withdraw his hand from between her thighs, to flick her skirts down, before she regained sufficient self-possession to press him further.
But…
Ironically, the very fact that he had to fight, had to battle his baser instincts, to not just withdraw his hand but let her skirt fall and ease back from her until there was air between them—rather than comply with the primitive imperatives of the beast within, roaring and raring to push her skirts higher, lift her and have her—shocked him to full awareness.
Since when had he ever been driven by desire?
Being subject to desire, being ruled by it, was a weakness, one to which he’d never succumbed. Cool rationality had always been his watchword, even in—especially in—all sexual affairs. Yet never in his considerable experience had desire, sexual need—the beast within she seemed to directly connect with—wielded such excruciating spurs; never had he had to battle the impulse to simply let the reins fall and take. To ravish and devour.
The realization of how close he’d come to that, still stood in danger of that, shook him to the core.
She opened her eyes, and looked straight at him.
He eased his grip on her hands, then let them go, but as she lowered her arms, he couldn’t resist twining the
fingers of one hand with one of hers, retaining possession that far.
Even in the poor light, he saw the frown that formed, marring the pure arch of her brows. She moistened her lips, and with remarkable imperiousness demanded, “Well?”