Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (23 page)

He chose every tender place on her body that he could reasonably reach within the confines of their embrace, but the persistent torment was taking her far past reason. “Proper Latin, Miss Renshaw.”

“Yes, oh, yes . . . please!”

“Not a proper answer, Miss Renshaw.” He sighed against her skin, his hot breath fanning over her and sending another ripple of lust through her body. “Another penalty, I'm afraid.” He lifted her up by the waist and set her on the table, both of her breasts exposed for his hands and mouth; he wasted no time in demonstrating that just her nipples alone could send her over the edge.

“Oh, God! Rowan! Please!”

“Shh! You should be concentrating, Miss Renshaw. Here comes the final exam question.”

He gently pushed her back so that she was lying on the table with her bottom just to the edge, her legs wrapped around him for balance. With a textbook under her head for a pillow, she was quite a sight looking back at him with her breasts pushed upward and her skirts and petticoats bunching up around her thighs.

“R-Rowan? I'm—”

He bit back a jest about this being an oral exam but smiled all the same as he wickedly initiated the “penalty” she'd earned. He bared her sex, parting the seamless slit in her drawers to reveal the satin folds of skin topped with black curls that made the world fade. The sight of her, dripping with her arousal, was enough to make him abandon all attempts at clever banter.

There would be no more talking.

He ran his fingers over her flesh, parting her lips and uncovering every sensitive fold and contour for his mouth to sample. He bent over to kiss her, his mouth, his teeth, his tongue all part of the dance as he teased his way up until the engorged pearl of her clitoris could no longer be ignored. His tongue found it, a flicker of wet friction that he kept featherlight, working over the tiny core of her sex, until he knew she was completely in his power.

For the writhing stopped and his siren was as still as glass to let this magic work and find the release she craved. Rowan slid his hands up from the ripe curves of her bottom and captured her breasts, throwing new fuel on the fire to ensure that she was his. He waited until he could feel the first spasm between her hips, and then he pinched the beautiful rosy tips of her nipples just as she pushed off from the brink, sending her into a mindless climax. Her thighs tightened around him, but he deliberately moved even faster against her clit, driving her on and on until she began to sob with it.

Only then did he relinquish in speed and lower his mouth to press his tongue inside her entrance, drinking her crème and savoring the taste and smell of her pleasure on his skin. It was heaven, the salty-sweet flavor of her climax on his tongue, and Rowan ached to drown in it—to bury himself to the hilt inside her and lose himself there.

He leaned back and found the wrapped French letter he'd optimistically tucked into his coat pocket. He stood, and moving quickly, he freed his erection and encased it in the protective membrane. He wasted no time in sliding her closer to the table's edge, so that her legs were wrapped around him. The worktable was the perfect height, and he lifted her firm bottom to rake her hot pink slit against him and ensure that he had all the lubricant he needed to take her.

Her skirts were still pushed up around her waist, and Rowan took a long, slow breath to try to steady himself and revel in the sight of Miss Gayle Renshaw's perfect sex exposed to him, honey dripping from her body from her release—all at his bidding. He notched the swollen head of his penis just at her entrance, instantly coating it in her juices.

Her eyes fluttered open in shock. “You're so warm!”

“As are you, Gayle. Come see, see how I'm going to come inside of you.”

He lifted her up so that she could see his wrapped cock pressing up inside of her, the plum-size head of him stretching her and drawing her labia apart to push up against the taut little button of her clit. Slowly, he moved his hips forward, thrusting up into her inch by delicious inch, burning his way inside of her—a slow torture that made her shudder and claw at his shoulders.

“Yes . . . oh, Rowan, all of it! Please just . . . I want to feel all of you there. . . .” She gasped, shivering as he withdrew almost all the way to tease her channel, her inner muscles clenching and unclenching at the unexpected loss of him. “Rowan!”

He plunged forward, smothering her cry with his mouth, drinking in her moans of pleasure as he buried his entire length in one smooth thrust, nearly lifting her up off the table. She gripped his cock with her wet channel and tilted her hips to give him even better access—and it was Rowan's turn to moan at the sheer power of the act.

Standing, he found himself thrusting into her with all his might, lost to the sensation of his cock working up against the very entrance of her womb. Gayle fell back onto the table's surface, overwhelmed by the experience of so graphic a sight.

The sound of the wet friction of their bodies was undeniable, and it fed her lust, a fuel of the mind that made her even wetter, spasms of pleasure beginning to unfold in her mind.

Even then, Gayle's hands fisted into her petticoats as a world of want and pleasure enfolded a universe of desire and pain. He was so thick and large, a velvet sheathed battering ram that she was sure held the power to tear her apart—but it was a raw power that every fiber of her welcomed. Every thrust of his body into hers pushed her that much closer to the edge of an internal precipice.

Any thought of restraint or control vanished. She tried to meet his thrusts, instinctively matching his efforts with her own to add to his pleasure—and her own. “Rowan, more . . . please, more!”

He roughly dragged her off the table, his own breathing labored and fast as he withdrew his rock-hard penis from her to successfully get her down. Gayle started to tear up, bereft at the aching void between her legs and the denial of the release she'd been so close to attaining, but there was hardly time to ask what he intended when she found herself bent over the stool and her skirts and petticoats tossed unceremoniously over her head. The draft on her bare bottom was strangely stimulating, but then there was the searing wet heat of his body nudging her legs apart and she sighed in relief.

Again, he penetrated her in one firm stroke, but this time, there was no question of begging him to go deeper, harder, or faster. It was all she could do to grip the crossbars of the stool, balanced as she was with her breasts hanging over the edge of the seat, her feet leaving the floor as he caressed the limits of her body with the unyielding length of his cock, pounding into the hungry confines of her until she was sure she'd faint from it all.

Lightning arced down her spine, and when she heard him cry out and felt the molten tide of his release, even through the membrane of the condom, she came once more, an explosion of the senses that left no room for thought.

It took long moments for them to recover, no sound in the room but their ragged breathing from the exertion of their coupling and the all too real sounds of the sodden withdrawal of his body from hers. Rowan held out a white cloth that he retrieved from one of the drawers so that she could clean herself as he turned to do the same and put his clothing to rights.

She did what she could to recover a modicum of modesty, straightening her skirts, adjusting her corset top to cover her breasts and rebuttoning her dress. Gayle bit her bottom lip, amazed at how quickly her plans on firmly lecturing the man on the boundaries of their professional relationship had evaporated. He was simply too charming and she'd overestimated her willpower.

“Rowan. I meant what I said.” She faced him, squaring her shoulders. “Nothing has changed.”

“I never thought I'd enjoy teaching so much.” Rowan was all smiles, apparently missing the shift in her mood.

“Please, don't! Don't denigrate what I've accomplished and make it sound so . . . cheap!”

“I never intended to. It was meant to be a jest at my own expense, not yours! Even you have to admit that this . . . development . . . between us is a wonderful gift we didn't expect.” He walked back to her, his face full of a sincerity that made her feel worse, as if she were being callous.

She tried again. “Last night was glorious, and this—I'm not going to deny how much I'm enjoying this but—”

“We can't go back and undo what's been done, Gayle. It's as if you would make less of it or you'd rather we blithely ignored what's happened.”

“I'm not your mistress! I'm your apprentice. This changes nothing!”

“It could change everything, if you'd allow it.”

She was afraid. She was afraid and the words caught in her throat. She was afraid that now she would be nothing more than this—that giving in to passion meant she'd forfeited everything else. “Please . . . I need time to consider . . . all of it.”

“You have it! I've not forgotten my promise, Gayle. I'm not trying to press you. I can respect your need for discretion, and you have to trust me to keep this a secret. The last thing I want in this world is to see you sacrifice your reputation or your integrity. But”—he took a deep breath to steady his temper—“I'm not apologizing, Gayle. Not for wanting you or for . . . feeling about you as I do. I'm not going to let you pretend that I jump at every skirt that brushes my legs. This is—”

A faint bell downstairs echoed up faintly through the house, and they both looked at each other, aware that their quarrel had just been interrupted.

Rowan walked to the door to listen for a few seconds. “It seems I have a visitor.”

“You should go.”

He hesitated, but at the sight of her standing stiffly on the other side of the table, so prim and untouchable—unwilling to look at him—he marveled that he'd lost so much ground. Minutes ago, she'd been as warm and passionate a woman as he'd ever imagined, but now, her violet eyes were frosty and aloof.

She'd retreated in fear and transformed into the woman he could never have.

“We're not finished, Gayle.”

He left her there, and crossed his fingers that it would be a quick social call.

“Dr. Jessop, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

“You've not been to the Society for some time, and frankly, I'd heard a rumor that I simply had to see settled.”

Jessop continued, “Why will you not support the creation of the Clarecourt workhouse?”

The flood of relief at the news that it was an old political topic and not related to his new difficulty made Rowan take a deep breath before he could compose his thoughts to answer. “Because I don't believe that you can warehouse the poor just to ease your own consciences.”

“You'd see them sleeping on the streets, begging and falling to crime? Her Majesty was most impressed with the idea of the least of her subjects being cared and provided for! The workhouses offer them a life of productivity and the sustenance and structure they need to reform themselves.”

“Reform? Poverty isn't the fruit of wanton choice or a condition of the wicked. The workhouses are charity of the worst kind. You imprison them, and whatever Christian kindness you profess, Robert, they'll see little of it once those gates are locked.”

“It's not a prison!”

Rowan tried to take a steadying breath. “I will not support the confinement of the poor. I cannot.” Memories of the dark and cold of the raja's dungeons loomed, and his revulsion was too powerful to hide. “I will continue to tend to anyone who comes to my door and do my duty until my strength gives out. It's the only charity I comprehend, Dr. Jessop.”

“Every time your name comes up for some accolade or advancement in the Society, do you not wonder why you are then dismissed or overlooked, Dr. West?”

“I can only imagine.”

“Why must you stand apart? Why can you not support the resolutions and efforts of your fellow physicians in the Royal Society? Why, Dr. West, must you always be so rebellious against the obvious wisdom of your betters?”

Rowan walked over to the shelves next to the fireplace, reaching up to adjust one of the small wooden African figurines that had been moved during Florence's efforts to keep the family curios dusted. “I'm a West. I don't think we've ever managed to find the path to acclaim or success.” He shrugged and turned back to face Jessop. “I'm not a political man. I'm just a physician.”

Robert sighed, his shoulders relaxing as some of the stern lines in his face disappeared. “And a damned good one despite your youthful tendencies. I speak out of care for you, as a friend of your grandfather. You waste your time and efforts with your emotional approach to our profession, Dr. West.”