Linda Castle (15 page)

She felt as if she were expecting something…the way she felt when she looked at packages under the Christmas tree, or when her favorite mare was in foal.

Anticipation.

It sizzled through her veins and heated her body and mind to a fever pitch.

“Will you join me in a nightcap?” he asked as he slid her wrap from her shoulders.

“A nightcap?” she repeated, feeling more awkward than she could ever remember. The delicate gown of taffeta was poor armor against his devastating charm.

“Uh-huh. A nightcap—a drink to relax you for sleep.” His eyes roamed over her face and across her cleavage in a way that was possessive and downright sinful.

“Yes, I’ll have a nightcap with you, if you’d like,” she murmured.

He trailed his fingers along her neck. “Good. I think we should talk, Marisa, about our future.”

“Future?” Marisa shivered, suddenly wishing she had the wrap back.

“Yes. But first I’ll light a fire. You seem a little cold.” Brooks grinned at her before he moved to the hearth. He took a spill from the container on the mantle and busied himself. In seconds vermillion and ebony curls of fire
licked the seasoned logs. A warm glow filled the room along with the faint attar of smoke and the silvery moonlight.

The masculine, wood-paneled study was Donovan’s favorite hideaway, but there were signs of Patricia’s feminine influence in all the right places. Overstuffed, comfortable furniture was strategically placed. A soft, inviting sofa done up in Wedgwood blue and cream was directly in front of the fireplace, just far enough away to be safe from flying embers. And a thick cut and sculpted wool rug covered the polished wood floor.

“Sit down, I’ll pour you a drink.” Brooks gestured toward the sofa with one hand.

He poured sherry into two stemmed crystal glasses and gave one to her. She thought he would sit down with her, but instead he circled the sofa and positioned himself directly behind her.

She was staring out between the heavy velvet curtains at the moon, trying to think of something to say, but he began tracing the line of her jaw and neck with the tip of his finger, taking away all thought.

“Marisa.” Brooks’s voice caressed her. “I want you tonight.”

She sipped the sherry. The fiery liquid slid down her throat. The flames were consuming the log now, a little like his lust was engulfing her. The smell of gardenias wafted through the warm room.

She cleared her throat and shifted slightly beneath his hands. “Show me,” she whispered. “Show me how to love you.”

“I will show you things and make you feel things you cannot imagine, my love.”

While he was standing behind her with the sofa between them, he put both his palms on her bare collarbones.
He began to knead the muscles of her shoulders and neck. Within minutes he felt some of the tension leave her body. “But right now, drink your sherry. We have plenty of time—all night and all of our lives.”

After she had drained her glass, he took it from her, noticing her hand trembled a bit when their fingers touched. He gently tilted her head back on the stuffed cushion and rubbed his fingertips against her temples.

“That feels so good,” she murmured.

“I intend to make you feel good all over.” Brooks pulled the long hairpins from her heavy hair. The strands uncoiled, falling like a dark cascade over the back of the sofa, down to the floor. He finger-combed it, feeling the weight of each precious strand slide through his fingers like a skein of silk.

Marisa was a conflict of emotions. One part of her had never felt more alive, more feminine. Strange things were happening to her, and Brooks was the cause of them all.

Brooks shed his tuxedo coat, tie and boots. Then he came to the front of the sofa and knelt before Marisa. She met his eyes.

Brooks picked up one of Marisa’s slippered feet. He slid off the satin shoe, then positioned her instep on his thigh. Warmth from her foot telegraphed up his leg to his loins. While he studied her face, his fingers expertly kneaded the ball of her foot. He caressed her toes, massaged her arch and lovingly worked his hands along the delicate symmetry of her small ankle.

“Do you like this?”

“Um-hmm.” She licked her lips and drew in a shallow breath. Her lashes dipped down for a moment as if she might doze off, but then they lifted, and her gaze locked onto his own with a vibrant intensity that made his gut contract.

He wanted her with every fiber of his being.

An image of her body, smooth and unclothed, flashed before his eyes, but he pushed it aside and quelled the smoldering heat in his blood. Brooks was determined to make each sensual activity an execution in pleasure, to taunt and tease Marisa until she was mad with wanting him.

With deliberate slowness his fingers invaded the tender spots between each toe. When he reached her smallest toe, a moan of delight escaped her lips. She shuddered.

He drew his finger up the length of her sole toward her angle.

She jerked.

“Aha, you are ticklish. I am learning more about you every day.” He kissed her arch and slowly released her foot. Then he picked up the other one. With infinite care he administered the same attention, delighting in the way she relaxed and drifted unconsciously toward him, chuckling when he found a particularly sensitive and ticklish spot that made her squirm. When he had stroked, rubbed and cosseted both her feet, he slid his hand upward and grasped one calf.

He stilled his hand upon her silken skin. “Do you want me to stop?” He counted three ticks of the clock pendulum while he waited for her answer.

“No.”

“Good, because I want to show you what I feel for you. I want to worship you with my body.”

H
is sure fingers sought out the garter on her thigh. He could’ve flipped up her taffeta skirt, to see where his hands were resting, but that was not what he wanted. Brooks wanted his exploration of her to be mysterious and slow, not hurried or shocking to her in any way. He wanted to touch her skin, feel her flinch beneath his palm as he scouted and memorized every inch of virgin territory. Each new section of her body was a tantalizing exploration as his hands blazed a path to Marisa’s heart and soul.

Halfway up her supple thigh his searching hand encountered stiff lace and ruffled satin. With gentle yet deliberate movements he pulled the elastic garter downward. Then he slipped it off her delicate foot. Brooks rubbed the material, still warm from her flesh, against his cheek. It carried a faint odor of gardenias and womanly musk. He stared into her eyes.

She shivered.

“I want you to remember each minute, every individual touch of this night.” Brooks’s voice was like the purr of a cat.

The fire added a magical glow to the room. Marisa felt
as if she were moving through a dream. The entire night felt unreal. First there had been Brooks’s stunning declaration of love and the startling revelation that Violet was not his intended. Then, when her body had felt charged with the electricity of it all, he had given her the sherry, which brought on a calming lethargy. Now there was the sizzling sexual awareness he awakened with each touch of his fingers, glance of his eyes and word from his lips. It was the culmination of all she had hoped for—and all she had feared—since the day she’d met him.

Sitting there, watching and feeling his unceasing advance up her body, was both the hardest and easiest thing she had ever done. Hard, because it went against her very being to submit to his will, but easy because it felt so right. She wanted to be dominated by him in some primal way she didn’t fully understand. She must’ve shuddered because he stopped what he was doing and sat back.

“Are you frightened of what is going to happen between us, Marisa?” His voice was gentle and strong.

“Yes. No. That is, I imagine what goes on between a man and a woman is not much different than horses.”

The rich, throaty sound of his laughter sent shivers down her spine. “I’d like to think I am a bit more romantic than that,” he teased.

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“Shh…no more teasing, not now.” He slid his hand beneath her skirt and leaned toward her again. Slowly, so slowly that she thought her heart might stop beating from the anticipation of it, he starting rolling her stocking down toward her toes.

A lump formed in the back of her throat. It was as if he had become a part of her in some strange way. She watched his hands appear from under the folds of her gown.

She glanced up and their eyes met in a hot liquid gaze. She licked her lips and swallowed.

He smiled as if to reassure her.

There was a tightening of her middle and a deep gnawing need suddenly uncoiled inside her. It sprang up unbidden, without warning, from a secret place she never knew existed.

“Brooks?”

“I know, Marisa. It feels like all the air has gone out of the room, doesn’t it?”

She nodded in agreement.

“You can feel every drop of your blood being pumped through your heart?”

She nodded again.

“And you think you will die if you don’t have…
something?
”

“Yes,” she answered thickly. “Oh, yes.”

“Does it feel as if you are burning with fever? A fever so hot it will burn you from the inside out?”

“Yes.” She sighed. He understood, oh dear Lord, he did know how she felt. “What is it, Brooks?”

“It’s love, darling.” He kissed the inside of her ankle. “I am going to show you every wonderful bit of it tonight.” His fingers grazed over her thighs and moved upward.

She shivered.

“What are you thinking?” His warm hand sought the top of her other stocking beneath the layers of taffeta, lace and ruffles. She felt the scrape of his knuckles against the soft flesh on her inner leg when he started rolling the stocking downward.

She shivered again, and then sighed with contentment and leaned back on the overstuffed sofa.

“I love you, Marisa.” His words sent chills skipping
over her flesh. He lifted the stocking in the air and tossed it on top of her shoes. Then he stood up, grasped her fingers and pulled her to her feet.

A log on the hearth popped, showering the air with a spray of sparks.

“Brooks?”

“Yes?”

“Teach me how to kiss.” Marisa saw his mustache twitch. For a moment she feared she had said the wrong thing, but then he took a step nearer and placed his hands on either side of her jaw. Warm fingers wrapped around her neck and met at her nape.

“Tilt your head.” His gaze never left her face.

She did as he instructed.

“Now part your lips, just a bit.”

Again she followed his orders.

“Now do whatever feels right.” He brushed his lips against hers. It was no more than the flutter of butterfly wings against her mouth, but something seemed to explode inside her. Her knees turned to liquid. Marisa grabbed hold of his strong shoulders to keep from falling.

Deep inside his chest the sound started. A growl rumbled out, vibrating her with its intensity. Stimulating her with its primal meaning.

“Honey, you are so sweet.” He held her face away and stared into her eyes. “I swear you taste like sugar cookies.” He nibbled along her ear and suckled her lobe. “I’m going to put emeralds on these pretty little ears, emeralds to match your necklace.” He turned her around and unclasped the necklace, now warm from the heated fire of her passion. He placed it on a nearby table and stepped in front of her. “Marisa, I want you to know how much I love you.”

Her throat tightened and she could not answer him. She
had no response to such a declaration. He frowned and searched her face as if he were looking for a reply in the depths of her eyes. Then he sighed.

“Do you trust me?” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up to deposit kisses to each of her eyelids, her nose, and finally to suckle gently on her bottom lip.

“Yes, Brooks.” How could she not? Hadn’t he proven himself by saving her life? Twice?

“That’s my girl, my lovely Marisa,
my Missy.
” His voice vibrated with possessiveness. It made her shiver beneath his gaze. “Cold?” he asked.

“No…I don’t know,” she admitted.

“I know how you feel and I know what to do about it.” He kissed her once more, then he began to gather the thick folds of her skirt and raise it. He lifted it over her head. She had to shimmy a little to assist him. Finally the yards of heavy material slipped free of her body. With a swish the gown was added to the pile of stockings, garters and shoes.

She stood there in her chemise, corset and drawers, waiting to see what he would do next. She didn’t have to wonder long. He bent his head and feathered kisses to her throat and the hollow of her neck.

“I am going to brand you, Marisa O’Bannion.” He threaded his fingers into the thickness of her hair, lifting it off her neck and shoulders. “Brand you with kisses and mark you with my passion. I want you to know how deep my love for you runs.”

He stood up and allowed her hair to fall back against her skin. “When you see how we are together you’ll know what I have come to realize myself.” With his thumb and index finger he tugged on the bow that held the top of her chemise. Slowly the satin unfolded and released its grip. Rough, wide hands pushed the gathered
material open. Then he stripped it from her body and tossed it onto the growing pile of her clothing. “We were meant for each other.”

She felt something hot burst inside her chest at his words.

Meant for each other.

“God, you are lovely.” He deposited kisses to the mounds of her breasts above the stiff corset edge. His fingers plucked at the laces and soon the corset was removed.

Now she stood before him naked to the waist. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it, see it in her flesh as it thumped.

“Oh, Marisa.” He ran his hand over one breast, down the curvature of her belly, and as he slipped the last knot free, he slid his hand inside the top of her drawers.

Her breath drew inward in one sharp hiss. The sensation of his fingers kneading her flesh, above the hair that covered the most sensitive and pulsing part of her, was almost more than she could stand.

“Do you understand what I am trying to say, Marisa?” he asked while he slipped his other hand behind her, supporting her back. “My passion for you is so strong, so hot, it would burn a lesser woman. You are the only one for me, Missy, and I am going to prove it to you tonight—. and every night.”

Within minutes he had her lying on the thick wool rug. Her head was resting on a satin pillow, her backside cushioned by the velvet-and-satin patchwork throw he had snatched from a nearby easy chair. The crackle of the fire and the steady tick of the clock pendulum were the only sounds.

“Brooks?”

“Yes, love?”

“I want to see you.”

His mustache turned up at the corners. It was a wicked grin, one that made her breath catch and her heart skip a beat.

“I thought you’d never ask, darlin’.” He stared down at her. “Will you do the honors, or shall I?”

“You do it.” She brought one arm up and rested her head on it. It was a pleasure for her to watch him reveal himself to her.

First he shed the shirt. The little jet studs clinked as he tossed them on the table. The glow of flames skipped over the well-defined muscles of his chest, along the scar on his arm and down the flat expanse of his belly.

She sighed in appreciation.

He undid the top of his black gaberdine trousers. They skimmed along his body, exposing powerful thighs sprinkled with a growth of dark curly hair.

Marisa’s middle contracted.

At last he took off his drawers, and there before her was the long rigid proof of his desire.

Her heart thumped erratically. “You look like that roan stud my brother Shane bought,” she said as her eyes roamed over his pelvis.

One brow arched. “Stud?” He placed his hands on his hips and grinned down at her. She was a puzzle, this lovely woman-child who had captured his soul. “Are you calling me a stud?” He chuckled.

“You look like one, but I can’t say for sure until…”

He laughed again, and covered her body with his own. “Ah, Marisa, why did it take me so long to realize how very much I love you?”

He did not wait for her to answer; instead he kissed her. Marisa rose up to meet him. And as his tongue probed her mouth, he slipped between her thighs and held himself
there, rigid, tense and ready. She felt a giddy sense of fulfillment as she lay beneath him in the half-dark room.

“It may hurt for just a minute or two.” Brooks’s voice was harsh and husky with controlled lust. He kissed her again, nearly devouring her with his passion. The fire was burning low, casting long gray shadows over the lovely rise of her breasts, the cleft of her thighs, the spot where their bodies pulsed nearly, but not quite, together.

“I’m ready,” she whispered. “Remember, I trust you.”

He sighed deeply and then his body and hands began to show her the meaning of magic.