A Secret Love

Chapter 8

The countess was waiting, no longer behind the door but seated on the end of the bed. A dark shadow, she rose as he neared.

"Do you really think there are mining claims in those places-Kafia, Fangak, and Lodwar?"

"I'd be greatly surprised if there's anything there at all. Towns or villages, maybe, but no mining. We'll check." He couldn't see her other than as a denser figure in the gloom; the already dark room had darkened even further with the dimming of the light from the sitting room. So he had to rely on his other senses-they told him she was still absorbed with Crowley's revelations. "He gave us more than enough facts, not only names and places but also figures and projections. I've got it all down. To get the company's notes declared invalid all we need do is prove some of those claims false, not all of them."

"Still"-he heard the frown in her voice-"it won't be easy to prove what really is happening in deepest Africa. Did you recognize any of the places he mentioned?"

"No, but there must be someone in London who will."

"He also stated that they were close to commencing the next stage of development-surely that's his way of saying that they plan to call in the promissory notes soon."

"He's not at that stage yet. Unless something triggers the call, he'll wait to see how many more gullible gentlemen up from the shires for the Season he can lure into his net."

Silence ensued. Her gnawing anxiety reached him clearly. He stepped closer. "It's a significant victory to have got that much detail from him."

"Oh, indeed!" She looked up. "Mr. Debbington was quite splendid."

"And what about the eminence grise behind the scenes?"

He knew precisely when she realized-realized she was alone with him in a very dark bedchamber with a very large bed a mere foot away. Her spine straightened, her chin tilted higher; a fine tension gripped her.

"You've been very… inventive."

He slid one arm about her waist. "I intend being a great deal more inventive yet."

He drew her against him. After only the slightest resistance, she permitted it, settling breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, as if she belonged there.

"You've been very successful." Her tone was slightly breathless.

His lips curved. "I've been brilliant." He found the edge of her veil. Slowly, he lifted it. All the way up. She caught her breath, one hand rising, hovering… but she allowed it. The room was so dark he couldn't possibly distinguish her features. Then he bent his head and set his lips-to the lips that were waiting for him.

Waiting, yearning, ready to pay his price-he knew she had no idea how precious, how heady, he found her lack of guile, her open generosity, the way she yielded her mouth at his demand, the way she sank against him, into him. The way she gave without restraint.

There was power in her giving. As before, it caught him, captured him, and held him in thrall. He had to have more-know more-of her. His fingers found the ties of her cloak; a minute later, it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet. A curved clip across the crown of her head anchored her veil; he slid one hand under the veil, past her throat, and encountered the heavy weight of her hair, coiled at her nape. Soft as silk, it caressed the backs of his fingers; without conscious direction, they searched. Her pins pattered on the floor; her hair spilled over his hands, both the one at her throat and the one at her waist. Her hair was long and so soft; he caught strands between his fingers and played, enthralled by the texture.

He sensed the hitch in her breathing. Closing his fist in her hair, he drew her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Blind in the dense darkness, he slid his lips from hers to trace the supple line and find the spot where her pulse beat hotly. He laved it, then sucked-her breath hitched again. Her fingers had speared through his hair; they spread over his skull as he shifted his hold and closed his hands over her breasts.

Already firm, they swelled and filled his palms, heated flesh begging for his attention. Straightening, dragging in a swift breath, he caught her lips again. She kissed him back-avidly, greedily, as ravenous as he. When he rotated his thumbs about her already ruched nipples, she gasped. Without thought, he backed her until she came up against the wall. Inwardly, he tried to shake his head to clear it of the miasma of lust fogging it. He'd just moved her away from the bed, a patently silly move. Now he'd have to move her back again.

Later.

Trapping her lips with his, he pinned her to the wall and set his fingers to her laces.

He couldn't think-he hadn't planned, although he'd tried to. He rarely embarked on a seduction these days, especially not one he was particularly intent on, without some idea of what would work best, what possibilities were most likely, what avenues held most promise of fulfillment. In thinking of how he would have the countess, he hadn't been able to get past the need to touch her, to know her.

A surprisingly simple need for such an experienced lover as he, and one surprisingly compelling.

He had her laces free, her gown loose, in the space of a heated minute. Using his weight to immobilize her, he reached up and dislodged her hands from his hair. Drawing her hands and arms down, he leaned into their kiss-she drew him deep, then played havoc with his senses. For one definable instant, he lost his will entirely and simply existed, utterly in thrall, then the hot pressure of her breasts against his chest recalled him to his urgent need.

He had to touch her, caress her-feel her. If she wouldn't allow him to see her, he would have to learn her by touch, by having her against him, skin to bare skin, heat to heat.

Without any veils, any cloaks, any barriers between them.

He needed to know her.

Releasing her hands, he reached for her shoulders and swiftly drew her gown down, pushing the sleeves down her arms, deftly freeing her breasts. He sensed her hesitation, the tremor of uncertainty that shook her; capturing her lips, her attention, in a searing kiss, he left her gown in folds about her hips and cupped her breasts, now covered only by the thin silk of her chemise.

Her hesitation evaporated. She gripped his face with both hands and kissed him back, every bit as urgent as he. Through the silk, her skin burned; the ripe swells tipped by nipples hard as pebbles beckoned. Her chemise was fastened by a row of tiny buttons. He ravaged her mouth as he swiftly undid them. He was already aching, rigid with need, but more than anything he wanted to savor each moment, each revelation. Each bit of her as he uncovered it.

Her breasts were a delight. Firm and full, they filled his hands, generous, hot and heavy. Pushing the open halves of her chemise wide, he kneaded and heard her moan. The evocative sound sent another, unnecessary rush of blood to his loins. Dragging his lips from hers, he ducked his head, trailing open-mouthed kisses over her throat, her collarbone, to where her flesh mounded in his hands.

Then he feasted.

She moaned, and panted, and even sighed his name as he tasted, licked, and suckled. He had to be marking her; although he couldn't see, the thought sent a surge of sheer possessiveness through him. He drew one peak deep into his mouth; she cried out. Her knees buckled. He leaned into her, holding her up, his erection hard against her lower belly, his balls cradled between her thighs.

Her softness flowed around him as she slid her arms about his shoulders and clung; her perfume, evocative as sin, wrapped about them.

He lifted his head and found her lips again, swollen and hot and needy. She drew him in, tongue tangling with his, boldly inciting. He slid his hands down to her hips, then further, tracing the smooth lines of her flanks. Her nipples, hard and tight, were twin points of flame surrounded by the fire of her breasts, crushed against his chest as he pressed her to the wall. Her hips tilted into his.

He wasn't even thinking when he grasped the folds of her gown in both hands and pushed them from her hips. His senses didn't register the sibilant "swoosh" as he shifted and the silk slithered to the floor. His senses had seized.

She was like hot, supple silk, alive, enchanted, all his. Her limbs, all but naked, shifted sensuously against him, not to push him away but to enclose him more sweetly. If he'd ever dreamed of a houri, then she was here, in his arms, nubile, nearly naked, ready to fulfill his every want, ready to kill him with pleasure. He couldn't catch his breath, mentally or physically; lust closed like a fist about his gut and shut off his brain. His hands dove beneath the hem of her chemise to close possessively about the globes of her bottom.

Her kiss only grew hotter, sweeter, headier. She tasted like the elixir of the gods.

She levered herself up, tightening her arms about his shoulders. His legs had been outside hers, trapping hers; now he supported her and shifted, pressing one long thigh between hers. She murmured, an incoherent sound lost between their lips. He set her down; she balanced on her toes, held high by her hold on him and pinned by his chest. Shifting, he released her luscious derriere and slid both hands forward, caressing the sweet indentation where hip met thigh before moving on to the front of her naked thighs. With his thumbs, he found the crease at the top of each thigh; pressing lightly, he slid both thumbs slowly inward.

Her breathing fragmented; their kiss turned desperate as his thumbs tangled in her silky curls. He played, teasing, being tantalized, then, skillfully plundering her mouth, he sent one hand upward, fingers splaying over the delicate skin of her stomach, caressing, then kneading evocatively. In almost the same breath, he let the fingers of his other hand drift down, gently pressing in, searching through her heated softness to find her.

If he hadn't been kissing her, he sensed she would have gasped. She was slick, swollen, and so hot. Her breasts strained against his chest; he held her steady and gently probed, then stroked, soothed, only to take further liberties.

The intimacy was new to her-he knew that in his bones. Her late husband must have been a clod. Yet she was flowering sweetly for him; her nectar burned his fingers as he circled her entrance, then drew back to caress the nubbin of flesh now tight and throbbing with need.

She quivered, her fingers digging into his upper arms as she arched her head away. He allowed her to break the kiss and catch a shattered breath, then he deliberately reached deeper and circled her entrance again…

She shivered. He was asking and she understood-after a fractional hesitation, she bent one knee, sliding her slender calf around his leg. Opening herself for him.

The only thing he managed to remember after that was that she hadn't been pleasured like this before. So he penetrated her slowly, letting her feel every tiny increment as he slid one finger into her sheath. She was scalding hot; he wasn't surprised to discover she was tight as well. Her experience of intimacy appeared miniscule. She clamped firmly about his finger, her breath shivering in his ear. He turned his head, found her lips, and soothed her with a long, slow kiss. As he withdrew his finger, her hips instinctively tilted, her body begging for more. He gave it to her, clinging to the reins of his impulses, howling to have her, urgent and ravenous. He was too experienced a lover not to know what would be best for her; with his lips on hers, reassuring, distracting, and inciting in turn, he set himself to show her what could be.

And when her fingers bit deep and she pulled back from their kiss as her body shattered in glory, he felt like a conqueror, victorious, triumphant, with the spoils of his conquest in his arms. Her released passion washed over him in waves, surge after surge of heat and fierce delight. The soft moan that escaped her, one of fulfillment laced with residual need, the waft of her ragged breaths against his cheek, the thundering of her heart pressed close to his, the evocative muskiness that rose from where his fingers filled her to combine with her perfume and drive him mad-all urged him on.

She was ready, so gloriously tall, and he was desperate.

It was the work of seconds to release his straining staff, to lift the leg she'd crooked about his knee to his hip. To draw his fingers from her hot wetness and set the head of his erection to her entrance. Gripping her hips, he caught her lips and plunged into her mouth, and into her heat.

She screamed.

The sound, trapped between their lips, reverberated through his head. Then she tensed, like a vise, about him.

He gasped, breaking their kiss, grimly fighting for control. It couldn't be-yet it was. Had been. The shock shook at least a few of his wits into place. After a fraught second in which he tettered on the brink of madness, he managed to block out the physical long enough to ask, "How?"

He had barely enough air in his lungs to form the word, but with her face close by his, she heard.

"I…"

Her voice quavered; she was, it seemed, as shocked as he, if not for the same reason. That, he could understand. If this was her first time… he was buried to the hilt inside her.

She gulped in air. Her words came in a shaky whisper by his ear. "I was a child bride. My husband… he was much older. And ill. He wasn't able to…" She released her grip on his arm to gesture. The movement caused her to shift upon him-she caught her breath on a fractured gasp.

"Shh. Gently." He found her lips and soothed her with a kiss while he struggled to take it in. A child bride left virginal by her aging husband? No doubt it did happen, although it had never before happened to him. Her unexpected innocence, however, raised a most pertinent question. Had she known he would…?

It took all his effort, and the last shreds of his will, to force himself to ask, "Do you want me to stop?"

Hardly elegant phrasing, but it was all he could manage with her clamped, the tightest, hottest, wettest dream he'd ever had, about him.

Her answer was a long time coming. His teeth were gritted, every muscle straining against the driving need to have her. With what little wit he still possessed he fought to ignore the warmth of the lush body in his arms, the constantly fluctuating pressure against his chest as she breathed rapidly, raggedly. He was so aware of her breathing, he knew when she reached her decision and drew in a deeper breath to deliver it.

He steeled himself to accept it-and prayed.

She shook her head. "No."

He exhaled. "Thank God."

"What-?"

He kissed her deeply, reassuringly, then lifted his head. "Don't think, just do as I say." He hesitated, wishing for the hundredth time that he could see, then added, "It'll feel a lot better very soon." He could only guess what she was feeling-he couldn't remember the last virgin he'd had. But she was still very tense; every muscle below her waist was locked tight. She was certainly not comfortable; she might even be in pain.

Withdrawing from her and repairing to the bed would have been the simple option. Unfortunately, with her tensed as she was, withdrawing from her would probably cause her more pain. But the bed was a must. "Raise your other leg-wrap it about my waist. I'll hold you." When she hesitated, he brushed her lips with his. "Trust me. I'll carry you to the bed."

She drew in a breath, and lifted her other leg, moving more confidently when she felt his hands shift and he took her weight. Locking her legs about him, sliding her arms about his shoulders for balance, she levered herself up a little, easing herself from him.

He gripped her hips. "That's enough." Grimly denying the impulse to surge back into her, he turned and carried her the few feet to the bed. Carefully, he laid her down with her hips close to the edge. As he'd expected, she relaxed just a little on finding the bed beneath her. Just enough for him to ease out of her a fraction more as he straightened, not fully but so he leaned over her, his weight on his locked arms.

Keeping his hips still, he found her face and brushed back the strands of gossamer soft hair that had fallen across her cheek. Her veil was still in place, still brushed back-he left it as it was. That, one day, she would remove for him, when she was ready to trust him with her name. Tonight, she was trusting him with her body-for tonight, that was enough.

Framing her jaw, he leaned forward and kissed her. For a moment, she lay passive, then responded. Once she was kissing him back freely, he flexed his hips and pressed into her again, filling her, stretching her even more than before. She sucked in a breath and tensed, but then eased. He drew back and pressed in again, then repeated the movement, his action steady and even. He kept the tempo slow until her muscles relaxed, until her legs were loose about his hips, her hands lax, fingers trailing on his sleeves, her body open and accepting and starting to stir, starting to lift and surge with his rhythm.

Mildly triumphant, he drew back. "Don't move. Just wait." Then he straightened completely. Reaching around, he felt for her shoes, and removed them. Tracing her long legs upward until he encountered her garters, he stripped them and her stockings off. Her chemise was the merest wisp of fine silk-he decided to ignore it for the moment. Shrugging out of his coat, he heard the crackle of the promissory note and their lists; he tossed the coat toward where he'd seen a chair. His waistcoat and shirt followed in short order, then he toed off his shoes and stripped off his trousers.

The lamps in the sitting room had gone out; the darkness was intense. He couldn't see her-only feel her, hear her, sense her. And she couldn't see him.

"What…?"

He reached for her, sliding his hands along her flanks, up over her sides. "Just trust me." He joined her on the bed, rolling and lifting her as he did, moving them back so their long legs weren't hanging over the edge.

She gasped as he rose over her again, her hands clutching wildly as, palms flat on either side of her, he braced his arms and held himself above her. Wedging his hips between her widespread thighs, he surged and filled her until she was full. Then he lowered his head, searching for her lips. Her fluttering hands found his face, then her lips joined with his. She offered them, and her mouth, willingly, lovingly. He took both as he rocked her, rocked into her, until she was once again easy, accepting the smooth slide of his staff into her sheath with gratifying eagerness.

Pulling back from the kiss, he held himself above her and changed the tenor of their joining. He kept the rhythm slow, but rolled his hips as he entered her, encouraging her to spread her thighs wider, raise her knees higher.

Then her fingertips hesitantly touched his chest, another of her butterfly caresses. He bit his lip and concentrated on keeping to his slow beat. His muscles flickered and twitched as her fingers delicately traced over his chest, his waist, his flanks. Stifling a gasp, he thrust deeper. "Wrap your legs around me like before."

She obeyed instantly, locking her legs about his hips. "Now what?"

She couldn't see his smile. "Now we ride."

They did. Together.

He'd purposely darkened the room to ease her fear of revealing herself, her identity, to him. In doing so, he'd unwittingly created a sensual situation beyond even his ken. Making love in total darkness emphasized the tactile sensations and amplified the soft, intensely sensual sounds. It was a new and very different experience, loving a woman blind.

He was aware of every square inch where they touched, aware of the screening quality of her silk chemise, nowhere near as fine as the skin beneath it. He heard every little hitch in her breathing, every soft sound she made; he was attuned to every moan, every gasped, incoherent entreaty. He knew her perfume, but it was another scent that wreathed his brain, that of her and her alone. In his arms, in the dark, she became the epitome of woman, in truth the houri he'd labelled her. She was the essence of joy and the essence of madness; she was the ultimate challenge.

His senses were full of her, focused most completely on where they joined. The heightened sensations left him reeling.

He'd never before had a woman to equal her. That was borne in on him as they rode on, through their sensual landscape, scaling higher and ever higher peaks. She matched him-not just physically, although that was wonder enough; she clung, gasped, shattered, then rose again to ride on. But she was there, with him, urging him on, daring and challenging, joyously inviting him to dive into the sensual whirlpool her body had become. A whirlpool of giving.

He demanded and she gave-not just generously but with a wild abandon that shattered his control. He couldn't get enough of her; he drank greedily, yet her well was never dry.

She gave him joy and delight and pleasure unimaginable, and in the giving received the same. When the end finally came and their ride ended in soul-shattering glory, he was, for the first time in his life, utterly beyond this world.

One thought drifted past: He'd been the first to have her.

A second later, that deeply buried part of him he rarely let loose growled a correction: The only one to have her.

Holding her close, feeling her soften beneath him, he shut his eyes and drifted into pleasured bliss.

She woke slowly, her senses gradually returning, her scattered wits reassembling in fits and starts. The first thing she was aware of was that there were tears in her eyes. They weren't tears of regret but of joy-a joy too deep, too intense to find expression in word or thought.

So that was what lay between a woman and a man. The thought brought a surge of giddy delight, followed immediately by a rush of gratitude-to him who had demonstrated so well.

Her lips kicked up at the ends. She'd heard for years that he was an expert in that sphere-she could now attest to the fact. He'd been gentle and tender, at least once he'd realized she was a novice, but later… she didn't think he'd held back.

She was glad-glad of the experience, glad it had happened. Especially glad it had happened with him. That last made her frown.

Even though it was dark and had been throughout, so that he'd been no more than a phantom, kissing her, caressing her, she'd always known it was he.

Him. Her senses focused on the heavy body lying upon her, the heaviness within her, filling her, stretching her…

The realization jolted her fully awake.

Her immediate thought was that this wasn't she-or not the same she. She had a naked man in her arms and they were joined; she was changed forever physically. And emotionally; she couldn't forget how she'd writhed beneath him, wanton and wanting. She was incontrovertibly altered-she could never go back to who she'd been.

She waited for the recriminations to start, the dire prophecies, the hysterical outpourings. Nothing came. Instead, she remained at peace, filled with a warm glow she'd never known, never even imagined existed. And she couldn't regret it.

It had been no one's fault; she hadn't imagined it could happen against a wall, not with them both upright. Her feet had been firmly on the floor. Her head, of course, had been wholly in the clouds, her wits swept away on a tide of pure desire.

The thought brought the experience back to her-the burgeoning excitement, the scintillating thrill, the pure, unadulterated joy. This, here, with him, would be the only chance she'd ever have of experiencing it-the true magnificence of being a woman, a woman joined with a man. There was no one she was hurting; no one in her life to care. No one who would ever know. She'd been condemned by circumstance to die an old maid; what harm could there be in this, her one taste of glory? It would have to last her the rest of her life.

Although he'd been inside her before she'd realized his intention, she'd known precisely what she was doing when she'd told him not to stop. She'd had plenty of experience in making decisions; she knew how it felt when she'd decided right. It felt like this.

In the same way she'd never looked back, never regretted turning her back on London and her Season all those years ago, she would not regret this. No matter what complications arose, she'd experienced and enjoyed-and lusted.

A gurgle of inner laughter welled up inside her. Sternly quelling it, she tried to shift, only to find it impossible. The movement once more focused her senses on the hard male body pressing hers into the bed. He was heavy, yet oddly, she rather liked the feeling of his weighted limbs pressing her into the mattress. She wasn't uncomfortable, indeed, quite the opposite, strange though that seemed. Her legs had relaxed from about his waist but were still tangled with his. One of her arms was draped over his shoulder; her other hand lay against his side.

Him. She couldn't take it in; her mind kept shying from the thought, from allowing his image to form. In the dark, he'd simply been a magnificent male, one she trusted so deeply the thought that he might physically hurt her had simply not occurred. She'd given herself to him and he'd taken her, swept her up in his arms and introduced her to delights she could still only barely comprehend.

Yet she knew who he was.

Didn't she?

Frowning, she slipped her hand from his side and, very gently, touched his shoulder. When his breathing continued deep and even, she let her fingers wander, tracing the wide bone, the sleek muscle bands. Spreading her fingers, she explored the side of his chest, then his back, sensing the power in the steely muscles beneath the smooth skin.

She'd seen his naked chest years before; even then, it had fascinated her, although she'd told herself she was merely curious. Now she could indulge; letting her hands wander, she filled her senses with him.

Her skin came alive, all over. The sudden rush of sensation made her breath hitch; he was so warm, so male, so vibrantly real. A tide of heady feeling welled and surged through her. The wave reared and crashed-and rocked her, tore her from her moorings and tossed her into a turbulent swell. She caught her breath, quivering, helplessly adrift on an emotional sea whipped by sudden turmoil.

Rupert?

No-Gabriel.

The reality struck to her bones. He was deeply familiar in so many ways, yet in truth he was a man she'd only recently met. She could feel his hands on her, still holding her even in sleep. Those strong, clever hands had loved her, caressed her, brought her untold joy and delight. Their touch was burned into her memory, as was the empty ache that had swept her, the ache only he evoked and only he could ease.

Shifting her head, she peered at his face, but the darkness defeated her. All she knew was his warm weight, the touch of his hands, and the stream of feeling that welled and poured through her, from her, leaving her shaking inside.

It took a minute to catch her breath, to steady herself, to reground herself in reality and let the fantasy-and that exultation that left her so vulnerable-fade away.

He'd be horrified if he knew, if he realized it was she. So why was every instinct she possessed screaming that this was right, so right, when she knew, logically, it was all wrong?

As she stared into darkness, confusion reigning in her mind, he stirred.

Then he shifted; she realized he was turning toward her, then the pressure on her chest eased. His warmth was still close, her lower body still pressed heavily into the bed. It took her a moment to realize that he was resting his weight on his elbows.

She remembered her veil. Propelled by sudden panic, she started to reach… then realized he was as blind as she. The darkness was so intense, even though she knew his face was mere inches from hers, she couldn't see it.

"That was quite a ride, countess."

The lazy, gravelly words drifted down; his breath wafted across her cheek. His lips followed, searching and finding hers, then settling for a long, slow, exceedingly thorough kiss. When he finally brought it to an end and released her lips, she could tell his were curved.

"How do you feel?"

Stretched. Still full of him. "Alive." How true. Her skin was heating again. How could that be?

As if he could read her thoughts, his lips returned to hers, and he was smiling even more definitely. Another lengthy kiss left her close to conflagration; ending it, he murmured, "Are you game for another gallop?"

He pressed inward, and she realized that he definitely was. Her hips tilted, inviting him deeper; she concluded she must be, too. She tightened her arms about him, wordlessly urging him closer. He settled upon her, settled his lips on hers, and sank deeply into her-into her mouth, into her body.

This time, he was in no hurry. Before, he'd been reined, restrained; this time, he savored her, rocking her deeply, pleasuring her well. The heat inside her grew until her bones melted. She drew back from their kiss to drag in a breath. His lips slid down her throat, then, to her surprise, she felt him shift, pull back. He withdrew from her, leaving her suddenly, achingly empty. Sliding lower, he fastened his mouth leisurely over one nipple.

The scalding heat was a shock; she gasped, then relaxed, then tensed again as he artfully played. The sound she made when he rasped her nipple with his tongue reminded her of a cat; when he grazed the tortured bud with his teeth, she nearly died.

"Gently."

The word was a soothing sigh feathering over her heated flesh as he turned his attention to her other breast, to the neglected peak that was already aching for his touch. When it came, she arched like a puppet whose strings were in his hands. His warm chuckle rewarded her.

"How old are you?"

His lips drifted lower, skating over her midriff.

"Umm… late twenties."

"Hmm." He slid lower, his lips trailing a hot path to her navel. "You've got a lot of catching up to do."

"I have?"

He reached one hand up to fondle her breasts; the other slid down and around, stroking over her bottom and along the backs of her thighs. "Oh, yes."

He sounded very sure.

"You may as well start now."

She didn't argue. She was sensing him, seeing him anew-and it was a fascinating insight. This tenderly passionate seducer set a completely new dimension to this male she'd never, it now seemed, completely known. She'd never met him as the sensual adult male-in that guise, he was an enticing creature, cloaked in darkness, maybe, but oh so tempting.

The world slid away; reality faded as his hands wove their magic.

"What should I do?"

He lifted his head from where he was nibbling his way across her stomach, the skin taut and flickering. Her nerves were similarly afflicted.

"Just lie back." She could hear a certain male smugness in his voice. "Lie back, relax, and let the pleasure take you."

She had no strength, no motivation to do otherwise, so she did. If she'd had any inkling of what he had in mind, she would have summoned strength from somewhere. But she didn't. So she indulged her senses, and indulged herself with the indescribable pleasure of indulging him.

The warm, vibrant body arching beneath him held Gabriel's attention more completely, more effectively, than any woman before. Than anything in his life before.

Nothing had ever been this compelling. Never before had he experienced such total and abject surrender to the moment, to the worship of shared pleasure. There was something more here, something deeper, more powerful, more fascinating. The connoisseur was enthralled; the man was captivated.

Whatever new caress, whatever outrageous delight he pressed on her, she accepted-eagerly, gratefully-and, in return, she ravished him with her body, lavished upon him an unrestricted, unrestrained invitation to take, to plunder, to enjoy.

To search, to plumb, to discover-to know. Completely, absolutely, without barriers or guile. There was no part of her she hid from him, no part of her she denied him. He only had to reach, to wordlessly ask, to be invited to take, to touch, to sate his hunger in her.

Her generosity was not limited to the physical. He sensed no reticence, no emotional distance, no private core of feeling she kept screened. Even as he steered her toward the culminating climax, he could sense the vulnerability she didn't try to hide.

It was that that ensnared him, focused his attention so completely. He'd opened sensual doors for her; in return, she'd opened a door he'd never imagined existed, a door into a realm of deeper intimacy, far more explicit, more dangerous, more exciting. An abject innocent, she'd shown him how much more there could be in this sphere-a sphere in which he'd thought he'd known it all.

He'd never known this-this all-consuming passion. She was open, honest, and soul-shatteringly courageous in her giving. Without conditions, she offered the ultimate satiation-something deep inside him shook as, driven, he reached to claim it.

And then it was his, and they were caught in the tide, buffeted by the glory. The intense release swelled, rose, then washed through them, and he was drowning in the bottomless well of her giving, in the ultimate ecstasy.

His last thought as he slid beneath the wave was that she was his. Tonight-and forever.

He woke in the depths of the night. For one instant, he savored the fluid stillness that held them, then reluctantly he disengaged, lifting from her and untangling their limbs, then sinking down beside her and gathering her to him. He would have liked to simply lie there, sharing the contentment, the aftermath of pleasure still warm in their veins, but she woke, too, and turned skittish. Not with any false modesty but with anxiety.

"I must go." A reluctance to match his resonated in her words, colored her determination. That last, however, was strong.

She pushed away and he let her go, shaken by the spike of need that drove him to pull her back. He'd never been possessive; it was, he told himself, simply that he'd enjoyed her so well, that the experience of her was so new to him.

He listened as she slipped from the bed, tracking her by sound as she rounded the bed to grope by the wall for her gown.

Rising, he found his trousers, pulled them on, then padded into the sitting room. He returned a moment later, having relighted both lamps. She was in her gown, her veil already down; she was struggling to redo her laces.

"Here." Strolling up, he caught her about the waist and turned her. "Let me."

Expertly, he did them up, noting the fine tension that had gripped her the instant he'd touched her. He left her drawing on her stockings in the semi-darkness, and quickly finished dressing. By the time he shrugged into his coat, she was fully cloaked and veiled. He wasn't surprised by her sudden bolt back into secrecy, but he was very tired of that veil.

She glanced at him. "I'll see myself out." The words were slightly breathless.

"No." Strolling forward, he stopped by her side. "I'll see you to your carriage."

She considered arguing; he could sense it in her stance. But then she acquiesced with an inclination of her head. Not haughty, but careful.

Without another word, he escorted her from the room, down the stairs, and through the foyer. The sleepy doorman let them out with barely a glance, too busy stifling a yawn.

Her black carriage was waiting just along the street. He handed her in, then she turned back to him. He felt her gaze search his face, lit by a nearby street flare, then she inclined her head again.

"Thank you."

The soft words feathered his senses, leaving him very sure that it was not his efforts regarding the company for which she was thanking him.

She settled into the dark of the carriage; he shut the door and nodded at her coachman. "Drive on."

The coach rattled away. Filling his chest with a slow, deep breath, he watched it turn the corner, then he exhaled and headed home. The sense of achievement that suffused him was profound and intensely satisfying. Intensely gratifying.

Everything-everything-was going very well.