Chapter Seven #3
“I am,” she protested. Oh, why did he have to be so close? She couldn’t think clearly when he was holding her, the sharp wit of her mind rendered useless by a strong grip and a domineering gaze. “I’ve just been . . . busy.”
“Too busy to eat?” A slight tug, and the distance between them disappeared. He dropped his head, his words caressing the exposed line of her neck as he murmured, “You’re working yourself too hard, Abigail.”
She started to nod, then stopped herself. Why was she agreeing with him? Because he makes me lightheaded, she thought silently. Because all I can imagine is his mouth on mine. Because when he looks at me like that, the laws of science no longer apply.
“You should rest.” His hands glided up her body, the base of his palms following the natural curves of her frame in a wandering embrace that was far more intimate than it should have been given the multiple layers of clothing she wore.
Then he leaned, his warm lips skimming the top of her ear as he whispered, “Relax, sweet.”
With a meow of pure disgust, Susan abandoned her post and ran out of the parlor.
Abigail barely noticed.
“Relax,” she repeated dazedly, and what had they been arguing about again?
“That’s right.” His fingers sank into her shoulders, massaging tension from muscles that she hadn’t even realized were sore from sleepless nights and unpacking a seemingly endless number of boxes.
How many scissors, tweezers, and scalpels could a single doctor squeeze into a tiny office?
A shocking amount. Almost as shocking as the pulse of pure pleasure that radiated down to her very core when Stephen kissed her.
All at once, she was back in the carriage with his mouth on hers. The time lost between them melted away, and in its place was an unbridled desire that would not be denied.
Rising up on her toes, she clung fast to the front of his shirt, using his hard chest for an anchor as his tongue slid sensuously between her lips to explore the soft, damp velvet within.
Tentatively, and then with a great deal more vigor when she felt more than heard his throaty groan, she returned his kiss in the same manner, the tip of her tongue tracing the seam of his lips before they parted in bold invitation, welcoming her within to where he tasted of caramel, coffee, and carnal sin.
Reaching for her spectacles, he broke the kiss to pluck them neatly off her nose and set them aside. Through a hazy mist of lust, she saw that his eyes burned a deep, burnished copper as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms and growled one brutally short question.
“Bedroom?”
Devoid of words, she could only point helplessly up the stairs and then hold onto his neck as he climbed them two at a time, his strength such that she was hardly jostled even when he kicked open the door.
“Tell me to stop whenever you’d like and I will,” he said gruffly as he lowered her onto the checkered whole-cloth quilt spread neatly across her mattress.
“But damned if I’ll want to. I’ve been waiting for this, Abigail.
Waiting for you and the wedding night that bloody ship denied us. It’s been torture.”
Torture?
Yes, as heat licked up her body in the form of short, invisible flames when he removed his waistcoat and shirt, baring his absurdly muscled torso to her wide-eyed gaze, Abigail supposed she could see the comparison.
There was a type of torture to be found in wanting something so fiercely that it made you ache.
But instead of pain, she felt only pleasure.
“Roll on your back,” he said, and when she did, her chin shyly tucking into the valley of her collarbone, he undid her dress and the layers beneath it until nothing touched her skin but air . . . and his mouth.
After that, everything blurred for a while.
Grasping her wrist, he stretched her arm above her head as he kissed her again, first on her lips, then her breasts, then lower still, until she sucked in her navel on a mewling gasp and her fingers tangled in the roots of his hair before raking across his shoulders.
Still holding her hand, he guided it to where he wanted to feel her touch, and while drawings in anatomy books had shown her what the male form entailed, nothing could have prepared her for what it felt like.
Smooth and hard, with a broad circular base and a rounded tip that pulsed when she tentatively traced her thumb around it.
On a groan, Stephen stilled her hand before reaching between her thighs with his own where she was already wet and wanting. He eased his body on top of hers, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of her hips.
Pressure.
Bold at first.
Breathtaking in its intensity.
Then more pleasure, a hurtling wave of it that towered higher and higher as he eased deeper and deeper until he buried himself to the hilt and they both cried out.
The room blurred again, color blending into sound and scent as their bodies moved in tandem.
The wave roared large, and when it crashed upon the surf Abigail crashed with it, her velvety tightness clenching around Stephen’s marble rigidity as they were both swept out to sea.