The MacGregor Brides (20 page)

He wanted to give her everything he had to give. And he wanted to take everything she was. He rolled the stockings down her slim thighs, thrilling when her breathing grew thick and her movements restless.

When she touched him, those elegant and competent hands roaming over him, fingers seeking, flexing, he had to take her mouth again or die.

She moaned when his shirt was tugged away, when his flesh slid over her flesh. This was what she wanted, this intimacy of body to body and mind to mind. Her earlier nerves forgotten, she smiled against his mouth, framed his face with her hands.

Pleasure was cool and silky. She wrapped herself with it.

He knew that she floated, drifted. Her lazy sigh was another thrill for him. Slowly, slowly, he took her higher, until her sighs were gasps, until her eyes flew open in shock. Beneath his, her body arched instinctively, seeking more.

Sensation spiked into sensation. She shook her head once, as if to deny what was happening inside her. His eyes were on her face, intense, concentrating on every flicker of emotion that passed over it. And his hands … oh, his hands were so quietly relentless.

Heat slammed into her, a ball of lightning. The breath strangled in her throat. Pleasure was suddenly sharp and fierce, and endlessly thrilling. She heard her own moan, all but felt it rise up through her and thicken the suddenly heavy air.

She shot to a peak, over, then shuddered down again.

“Branson.”

“Again.” He didn’t want her to catch her breath, to clear her mind. Watching her, dazzled by her, he urged her to the next wave. And when he was sure she was ready, when he was certain there would be more pleasure than pain, he let himself ride with her.

He was inside her, filling her, and moving with him was as natural as breathing. She gave herself,
yielded herself. When his mouth came back to hers, she met it eagerly. When his hands closed over hers, she gripped them tightly to complete the union.

Slowly, silkily, spinning it out, savoring it. They were mated, and they were matched. In his eyes she saw her own wonder. And her heart filled with joy the moment they rose and fell together.

He pressed his lips to her throat and knew he’d never really made love before. He’d been as innocent as she, because he’d never known what it was to be in love with a lover.

It was everything.

“Gwendolyn. Beautiful, strong, outrageously sexy Gwendolyn.”

She felt happiness bubble. “Branson,” she said, in the same sleepy tone. “Beautiful, strong, outrageously sexy Branson.”

He lifted his head. Her eyes were heavy and dark, her skin was glowing, her lips were softly curved. “I’m going to have a hard time ever letting you out of this bed.”

“Was I going somewhere?”

“Not far, anyway.” He traced the shape of her face with his finger. “There’s a whirlpool tub in the next room.”

“Is there?”

“I’m thinking I could let you get just that far. How would you feel about a hot, bubbling bath, a glass of icy champagne and a man who already wants to make love with you again?”

“I’d feel very interested. Wait.” She took his face in her hands, brought his mouth to hers. The kiss was warm and deep. “I’d wondered what it would be like, the first time. How I would feel after knowing I’d shared myself with a man. Nothing I ever hoped for, no foolishly high expectation I ever built up, was as wonderful as tonight.”

Swamped with emotion, he lowered his brow to hers. “I don’t know what to say to you now.”

“Tell me the night isn’t over.”

“I’ll tell you it’s only beginning.” And he would tell her, when the time was right, that he wanted a lifetime of nights with her. If he told her now, he thought, the romantic in her would want to believe it. But the practical woman within would doubt.

When he told her he loved her, he wanted no doubts.

And if he told her now, while she was still soft and pliant from loving, the romantic in her might give him the answer he needed. And then the practical woman would step back, assess and decide she’d been swept up in the moment.

When she told him she loved him, he wanted no doubts.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked him.

He brought himself back, smiled. “I was thinking what I could do to persuade you to put that little … surprise you were wearing back on.”

“Right now?”

“No.” He rubbed a finger over her bottom lip. “After the tub. You could wear it while we have that cold supper.”

She chuckled. “You want me to wear a garter belt while we’re eating?”

He bent down to nibble the lip he’d just rubbed. “Oh, yeah.”

She considered, remembered the way he’d looked at her when he discovered what she’d been wearing under the velvet gown. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a chance to talk me into it, in the tub.”

“I’m really good at water sports,” he warned her, and she laughed.

“I’m counting on it.”

She awoke luxuriously, as if sliding through layers of shimmering silk. Her sigh was low and indulgent as she shifted, reaching out, then soft and sulky when she found herself alone in bed.

She’d wanted him to be there, just there, so that she could touch that firm, warm flesh. So that he would turn to her again. If they could survive one more again.

She didn’t open her eyes yet. It was so nice just to float and dream. To feel her system slowly hum to life again.

She’d had no idea the body could be so miraculous. None of her studies, her training, her work, had taught her just what marvelous reactions the human system had to sensory stimulation. Nothing had prepared her for what she was capable of, given the right … incentives.

She rubbed her hand over the sheet, found it cool, and wondered how long he’d been gone. And when he could come back.

He’d promised her breakfast in bed, she remembered. And she intended to collect. Reluctantly she opened her eyes, blinked owlishly at the clock. Well, perhaps it was a bit late for breakfast, she decided. But it was the perfect time for brunch.

Rising, she found a soft terry-cloth hotel robe on the bathroom door and she bundled herself into it and went to find him.

He was working at the laptop on the table in the parlor. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his eyes seemed just a little irritated. Odd, she thought, she’d imagined him writing with little or no effort, words simply flowing out. Everything he did seemed to come so naturally to him. But now he had the look of a man who was struggling with something, and was not entirely pleased with the results.

She raked a hand through her hair to smooth it. Her body was already tingling. It was exciting, she realized, to watch him work, to see him think, to know he wasn’t aware she was watching. Part of the excitement might have been that he wore only black sweatpants. And, to her own surprise, she had already imagined how easily she could dispense with them.

His head came up suddenly. He looked at her—through her, really. Then his gray eyes cleared, warmed, and he smiled at her. “Good morning. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m disturbing your work.”

“It’s not going well anyway. It was, for a while.” When he held out a hand, she crossed the room, threaded her fingers with his. “I woke up early,” he told her, kissing her fingers one by one. “I thought you could use a little more rest.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so relaxed in my life.” She laughed when he tugged her into his lap. “Or more rested,” she said, lifting her mouth to his.

“I didn’t let you get much sleep.”

“And I appreciate it.”

He found that sweet spot, just at the curve of her neck, and nuzzled. “We can crawl back into bed
and order breakfast.”

“Mmm. This is fine for now.” She shuddered when his hands slipped under the robe and found her. “And that’s even better.”

* * *

It was nearly noon before she could think again. They were sprawled on the floor of the parlor, with her head on his chest. He had to smile when he felt her fingers on his wrist. “Taking my pulse, Doc?”

Laughing at herself, she drew her hand away. “I suppose I was. It’s still a little fast.”

He pressed his own fingers to the beat in her throat. “So’s yours.” He drew her with him as he sat up. “If I don’t feed you, we won’t be able to even crawl into bed.”

“I enjoyed the floor.” She picked up the robe she’d been wearing, studying him as he rose. “As a doctor, I’d like to say you’re in excellent shape. As a woman,” she continued as he hauled her to her feet, “I’m compelled to say you have a great butt.”

“Thanks. On both counts.”

“I was watching you work after I woke up. You looked so serious and annoyed.”

“Certain parts of a story are nothing but an annoyance.”

“What part is this?” She shifted to try to look at the screen of the computer he’d left on when she distracted him. “Can I read it?”

“No.” Briskly he leaned over and, flicking a few keys, turned the screen to black.

“Well, that’s definite.” She frowned at him. “And rude.”

“Yeah. Want me hanging over your shoulder giving opinions when you remove your next gallbladder?”

She was very close to pouting, which appalled her. “Who said I was going to give any opinions?”

“You would have. You wouldn’t have been able to help yourself. The trouble here, darling, is while few believe they can perform brain surgery, nearly every living soul believes they can write. If only they had the time and opportunity.”

He kissed her lightly. “Nobody reads my work until it’s done, except my editor. I keep more friends that way.”

“Well, if you’re going to be touchy about it …”

“I am. What would you like for breakfast?”

She jerked a shoulder. “Whatever. You’ve already told me what the story’s about,” she reminded him.

“No, I told you the basic conflict and gave you an overview of one of the main characters.” He knew better than to grin, but couldn’t help himself. “Are you going to sulk? It’s very attractive, actually.”

“I’m not sulking.” Her eyes went dark and moody. “I never sulk.”

“Nobody warned me about this,” he murmured. “Gwendolyn doesn’t like to be crossed. She pouts.”

“I certainly do not. Are you going to order breakfast, or shall I?”

“I’d be happy to.” He found it just one more facet of her to enjoy. The simple illogic of it. Feeling cheerful, he ordered twice as much food as they could possibly eat. “You’ll feel better when you have some coffee.”

She set her teeth. “I feel perfectly fine.”

“And I think I have something else that might smooth your feathers.”

“They’re not ruffled,” she said evenly, “therefore they need no smoothing.”

“Just the same.” He strolled off, and came back in with a big gold box tied with red ribbon.

She huffed out a breath. “Branson, I’m not a child who needs to be placated with presents. And if I were irritated with you, a gift would hardly change the matter.”

“This one might.” He smiled charmingly. “And you don’t know until you open it.”

She didn’t want to be placated, but found herself too curious to resist. It would be the eighth day, by his odd and unpredictable calculations. The box was heavier than she’d expected, so she set it on the table and toyed with the ribbon.

“It’s awfully small for eight milkmaids,” she commented.

“Maybe I switched themes.” The quick distress in her eyes that she didn’t quite manage to hide delighted him. “Open it and find out.”

She pulled the ribbon, opened the lid.

The bowl was gorgeous, the interior a glossy summer blue. Around the outside, eight pretty maids sat on buckets and milked foolishly cheerful spotted cows. She didn’t need to see the signature on the bottom to know whose work it was.

“Aunt Shelby,” she murmured. “How did you manage this?”

“I begged. Actually, I begged Julia, and she used her influence on her mother. I’m told the former First Lady found the request amusing.”

“She would. I love it.” She spoke quietly as her heart swelled. What was he doing to her? she wondered. How could he make her feel so many different things in so short a time? “I don’t think you’ll be able to top this one.”

“I’ve an ace or two up my sleeve yet.”

“It’s still a week till Christmas,” she said, then, on a strangled sob, threw herself into his arms. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s all so fast, I can’t keep up.”

“Just hold on to me. Wherever we’re going, we’ll get there together.”

“I need to find my balance. You keep throwing me off.” She clung to him. “It’s as if you know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. Even before I do. It’s unnerving.” She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.

She didn’t know why what he’d said earlier played back in her head at just that moment. Why the words rang in her ears like an alarm. But the eyes she’d closed opened. “What did you mean, no one warned you?”

“Hmm?”

She eased back slowly, until they were no longer touching, and studied his face. “Who have you been talking to about me?”

“I don’t know what you mean. That’ll be breakfast.” Grateful for the delay, he went to the door.

She remained calm as the waiter set up the food. And she began to think, to backtrack, and to come to a few logical conclusions.

“You’ve studied me, haven’t you, Branson?” she asked when they were alone again. “A prototype, you once said.”

“Of course I’ve studied you.” He poured the coffee carefully. “On a professional level. We agreed to that at the beginning.”

“But we’re not on a professional level here.”

“And one has nothing to do with the other. Absolutely nothing to do with the other.” Temper simmered in his eyes. “Do you think I’m using this, using what’s happened between us, for a book? Is
that what you’re accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you, I’m asking you.”

“Then the answer is no.” His gaze narrowed. “You’re not sure you believe that.”

“It just seems odd that you know me so well, as if you’ve outlined me as a character.”

“I outlined your profession, your gender, your focus. I mixed in Audrey—the blond med student—her ambition and competitive streak, and the body language of the head E.R. nurse. That’s what I do. I wasn’t taking notes for the damn book when Daniel and Anna told me about you.”