Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
“Me?” she croaked. “Start?”
Gabe smiled. “Yes, you start.” He rolled over and lay back, put his hands behind his head, and prepared to think of England. A man could die happy.
She raised herself on one elbow and stared at him, disconcerted. “But what do I do?”
“Whatever you like.” She looked so lovely, so disconcerted. She’d said she wanted more control, he was going to make sure she got it.
She sat up and looked down at him. It took every shred of self-control he had to remain still.
That nightgown was no nightgown, it was an instrument of masculine torture, revealing…
almost, and concealing…not quite. A tissue-thin draping over full, creamy breasts, a silken veil revealing berry-dark nipples tight and uplifted, pouting for his caress.
It was more erotic than total nudity. Or perhaps it was simply that the woman in the nightgown excited him more than any woman ever had.
He’d even had wild erotic fantasies about her in that enormous pink flannel tent Mrs. Barrow had lent her.
Thank God someone, some angel, had given her this silken invitation to madness, this covering that caressed her curves even as it both concealed and flaunted.
God, but she was beautiful, even with her sweet, earnest face scrunched with frustration as she stared down at him.
“But the man always starts,” she insisted.
“Not always,” he told her. “Besides, I’m tired.” He stretched, keeping his hands behind his head, his fingers locked. He didn’t trust himself not to reach out to her otherwise, and it was important she take the initiative.
She’d obviously never taken it before. And he was damned if he’d let their first time be for legal reasons. Or some sort of ridiculous sacrifice on her part.
She was deceiving herself, pretending she wasn’t as aroused as he was. She didn’t have to admit it in so many words—he understood that kind of reticence—but he wanted her to know it.
She’d started this thing, teasing him that way, long after he’d warned her. Now he was going to drive her mad with desire, the way she’d driven him mad since the night they’d first met.
Then he was going to give her—and himself—the night of their lives. Hopefully the first one of many. This was his woman. He intended to grow old with her, or die trying.
“Too tired?” She lifted the covers back and peered at his drawers where his cock was doing its damnedest to get to her. “Liar!” she exclaimed. “Stop teasing!”
“Why? You’re teasing me.”
“I am not,” she denied indignantly.
His eyes dropped to her breasts in their silken wrapping. Her hands instantly came up to hide her nakedness, and he wanted to groan, but almost at once her eyes grew thoughtful and wandered to his own naked chest.
She put out one hand and ran it across his chest, stroking lightly with her fingertips, exploring and watching his face to see his reaction.
She touched his nipple. It tightened under her touch.
She rubbed it gently, then started on both of them.
He groaned and arched under her hand, fighting for control.
She stroked his chest thoughtfully with one hand, the other scratching lightly around and around his nipple. Her gaze dropped to where a faint line of dark hair led down his stomach and into his drawers and he braced himself, but she made no move in that direction. Dammit.
“You’re like a living statue,” she murmured, running her hands appreciatively over him, caressing each swell and ripple of muscle. “I thought so when I was putting that ointment on you. Perfectly proportioned and so hard and firm, yet warm.” Her breasts brushed against him lightly as she moved.
“Very hard,” he gasped. “Very warm.” He wasn’t going to be able to take much more of this. Who was supposed to be driving whom mad? he wondered.
She glanced again at the bulge in his drawers and chewed thoughtfully on her lip. He groaned aloud. “That mouth of yours is going to kill me one day.”
“Is it?” She looked pleased and bent to kiss his mouth lightly. He seized the opportunity hungrily, his mouth claiming hers, tasting, enticing, possessing.
She drew back, her eyes, in the firelight, looking dark and smoky with desire. Her gaze wandered again to his drawers. “Would you mind if I—”
“No! Go ahead,” he ground out and braced himself as she reached for the buttons that fastened them.
She undid them one by one, then slowly, almost cautiously pulled them down, the cotton fabric dragging across the sensitive tip of his erection. He arched his back, then waited, eyes closed, fists clenched, waiting for her to touch him.
Nothing.
He opened his eyes and looked. She was looking at him, examining his manhood curiously, more like a virgin than a married woman and a mother.
“Well, go on, you’ve seen one of these before,” he grated.
“I haven’t actually,” she said. “Not on an adult, anyway. Rupert never removed his nightshirt. Not for me.” Her face dimmed fractionally as she said that, but he was too far gone to hold a conversation.
“I felt it, of course, but never with my hands. Would you mind—”
“No. Go ahead.” He didn’t want to hear about Rupert.
She touched him, tentatively at first, just stroking the length of him lightly with her fingertip. He felt the shock clear through to the soles of his feet. Then she wrapped her palm around him and squeezed gently. He almost exploded.
And that was as much as he could take of letting her take the initiative. He seized her around the waist and in two seconds he had that silk thing off her and her spread out, naked, beneath him.
“I…can’t…wait!” he managed to say, slipping his fingers between her cleft as he spoke. She was hot and slick and ready for him and he entered her blindly, surging into her without finesse.
Her sheath was tight, tighter than he’d expected.
Dimly he was aware of her clinging to him, moving against him, but he was beyond all control, his body driven by the primitive beast deep within him as he thrust with blind, possessive compulsion: his woman, his wife. Once, twice, and then he shattered.
He wasn’t sure how long it was before he came to himself again, but with the return of consciousness came guilt and self-recrimination. The more he thought about it the more mortified he was.
The plan had been to seduce her, entice her; to drive her wild with desire.
And what had he said earlier about never pouncing? Of being more sophisticated than that? He groaned.
He’d done worse than pounce on her. He hadn’t even laid a finger on her until he’d parted her, and then he hadn’t waited for any sign from her other than that she was wet. He’d ridden her blindly, selfishly to his own climax, oblivious of anything except his own need.
The best he could hope for was that she’d be furious. The worst, that she’d hate him.
He opened his eyes to find her watching him. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She didn’t reply. He couldn’t read her expression because her eyes were in shadow. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I don’t know what to say. I haven’t—I’ve never—not since I was a young man—”
Callie was still too stunned by what had happened to speak. She’d put her nightgown back on after he’d finished. Now she pulled the covers up over her. It was getting a little chilly.
So, now she knew what it was like to lie with Gabriel Renfrew. She wasn’t quite sure what she thought about it, but she knew she’d never forget it. She still felt restless and hollow and a bit cross, but also, deep within her, she was amazed.
To be desired so powerfully that a man like Gabriel, who prided himself on his self-control, had lost all sense of himself. She’d barely touched him and he’d exploded. It was amazing.
It made her feel…powerful. Not particularly satisfied, but powerful.
She, Callie, had done that to him, had caused this strong, disciplined man to fall on her with ravenous desire. He was still staring intensely at her now.
“I will make it up to you,” he said, reaching for her.
She recoiled slightly. “But it’s done. The marriage has been consummated.”
“It hasn’t,” he insisted. “You didn’t—you weren’t consumed. I was too quick. I didn’t make it good for you.” He reached for her.
She fended him off. “You want to do it again? Now?”
“Yes. It will be better, I promise you.”
“No. It’s late. I’m tired.” She lay down with the bedclothes pulled tight around her. She wanted to believe him. She needed to protect herself. She didn’t want to relive that sensation of being taken partway up a mountain and then dumped, not twice in one night.
“Trust me. This time will be for you, I promise.” He pulled the covers back.
“No!” she said crossly, pulling them up. “I know we made vows today, but if you remember I didn’t promise to obey you, and this is why.”
There was a short silence, then he said, “But I still need to fulfill my vows to you.”
“We’ve consumm—”
“Not that. I vowed to cherish you. And now I need to cherish you.” His voice was deep and sincere and his eyes compelled her to believe him.
She eyed him mistrustfully. “You ask a great deal.”
“I know,” he said softly.
Right now, she could walk away from this business, heart intact—almost intact, she amended. But she hadn’t expected this, his willingness to stay, to make it good for her—even after he’d fulfilled his own needs—as if her feelings were as important as his.
He claimed he wanted to cherish her. If he truly did…how could she resist?
She said weakly, “It’s just a paper marriage, a—a chess maneuver.”
“Then let us play chess,” he said instantly, sensing her imminent capitulation. “Black knight to white queen.” And he kissed her.
He captured her mouth with his, molding it and pushing her lips apart to gain entry. His tongue moved in a slow rhythm that her whole body responded instinctively to. Hot shivers rippled through her, pooling in the aching inner core of her.
She ran her hands over him. His body was hard and hot and she loved the feel of it, the feel of him. She tasted his skin, salty and musky, loving the male taste of him.