The Truth About Love (29 page)

He reached for her, and drew her down onto his lap, into his arms—into a kiss that within a minute had set fires alight everywhere under her skin.

Raising one hand, he cradled her head, and pressed her lips wide. Angling his head, he filled her mouth, and took everything she offered, all she freely yielded. She clutched the fine linen of his shirt, fists clenching tight, then realized…slowly straightening her fingers, she spread her hands.

Over his chest. Beneath her thighs, his felt like rock, solid and un-giving; the arms about her felt like iron bands, not crushing her yet holding her captive. But his chest felt like cushioned stone, warm, unyielding yet comfortable. She sank her fingers into the heavy muscle and pressed closer, drawn by his heat.

By the urge to get closer still. Pushing her arms up over his shoulders, she pressed her already heavy, already aching breasts to his chest—and felt his pulse leap. Sensed the catch in his breathing, then his fingers shifted about her jaw, his lips firmed—and fire and molten heat poured from him, flooded through their fused lips and into her.

Gerrard’s head was spinning. Again. Just being near her when she was thinking sexual thoughts was enough to arouse him. Painfully.

Kissing her was sheer torture.

He couldn’t stop.

Yet some part of his mind knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what script he should follow. That he had such a side to him was something of a revelation; more ruthless, more primitive, and passionate, possessive and protective in the extreme, driven by primal instincts and content to be so, such maleness was something he’d associated with Devil and Vane, and the other Cynster males he knew—not him.

Until he’d met her, he hadn’t met this side of himself, hadn’t known it existed. Now he did.

Now it felt right, and he embraced it; he had no choice.

He tugged the sash of her robe free, slid his palm beneath the satin, skated over warm skin shielded by filmy silk, then closed his hand firmly about her breast, and provocatively, possessively, kneaded.

Instinct informed him what he wanted her to feel, what he needed the interlude to achieve. Settling her more firmly in his arms, his lips on hers, he set out to educate her senses, to educate the passion he sensed in her.

Jacqueline let herself flow on the heated tide he sent rushing through her. She felt no fear, no hesitation, but gave herself up to the wild and thrilling ride. Eagerness buoyed her, anticipation and expectation were a giddy mix roiling through her veins; excitement flowered and desire burgeoned, powerful and compulsive.

His lips and tongue demanded her attention; his hand on her breast shattered it. His long fingers teased, taunted, then soothed. She gasped through their kiss, gripped his head with both hands and with her lips and tongue urged him on.

She wanted to know all; pressing heated kisses on his firm lips, inviting ever more in return, she made that plain.

She was perfectly certain he understood. His hands, palms and fingers spread, traced her body; her robe hung from her shoulders, wide open, no impediment as he pandered to her senses and, she was sure, his. There was hunger in his touch, quite blatant, an element of desire she’d not before encountered—it sent frissons of mindless anticipation sliding through her.

This and more—she wanted to know it all, to experience all there was, all that might be. When his lips left hers she sighed, floating in the warmth they’d created, wits whirling yet able to follow as he bent his head and, nudging her chin up, set his lips to her throat. Paid homage to the sensitive region beneath her ear, then skated down, tracing the long line to her collarbone, pausing to hotly lave the pulse point above it, then his lips glided over the fine silk covering her breast, and fastened about one tightly budded nipple.

She tensed in expectation of a repeat of the sharp sensation she’d felt before, but his ministrations this time only soothed; he licked, laved, dampening the silk until it clung to her skin, then his tongue swirled and her world shook. Trembled.

Her breasts, full and tight, ached; he switched his attention to the other, repeating the subtle torture, then divided his time until she thought she would scream.

The instant before she did, he lifted his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth with his tongue and, like a marauding pirate, plundered. His hands slid lower, outlining her waist, gripping momentarily, fracturing her attention, then gliding lower to sculpt her hips. To learn her form as an artist might; for one moment, she wondered…then his fingers brazenly pressed between her thighs, stroked her curls, pushed past them to reach the throbbing flesh beyond, then pressed further and probed, and she lost all ability to think.

Discovered to her surprise that she could only feel, that there was such a state as being overwhelmed by her senses. Heightened to almost excruciating sensitivity, they commanded every last ounce of her concentration, held her ruthlessly focused on his touch, on the openly predatory way in which he was caressing her. She’d offered, and he was taking. Despite her whirling wits, that fact registered clearly.

She was in complete agreement.

Reassured he was taking the road she’d wished to take, she dragged in a breath, and turned her attention to him. To other aspects she’d yet to explore.

Like his chest. His shirt was of the finest linen; through it she could feel his flesh, feel the muscles shifting beneath her fingers as like a cat she kneaded. But that wasn’t enough; she wanted to feel his skin. Leaning her elbows on his chest, trying not to think too much about the far too evocative play of his fingers between her thighs, she set her hands to his cravat.

Sensually captured by the tactile wonder of the hot, slick flesh his fingers caressed, Gerrard didn’t realize what she was about until she wrestled his shirt wide, and laid his chest bare.

She wrenched back from the kiss to look—one glance at her face, at the expression that lit her eyes, and he was lost. Slayed by a desire so deep, so complete, it spared no part of him, left no vestige of his self, his soul, free. From that instant, he was hers, no matter she didn’t know it. From beneath heavy lids he watched her face, enthralled by the play of emotions across it, by the directness he’d from the first seen in her, and valued for what it was.

All that it was—the most arousing element in any sexual encounter was the response of the other. With her, he would never need to wonder, not even to think—she lavished her appreciation on him, and in so doing enslaved him.

He let her play as long as he could, as long as he dared. He knew the script—she didn’t; control, his control, was vital. And with that, she wasn’t helping.

Her hands traced down; her expression plainly stated she was fascinated with his ridged abdomen. Fingers spread, she tested, explored; from beneath her lashes, she threw him a sultry glance, then returned to her avid play. His painter’s brain happily re-created the scene in his mind, titled it:
Siren Exulting.

She was. The sight held him in thrall.

But when her hands eased and drifted lower, his newfound ruthlessness rose to the fore. Catching her hands, he lifted them to his shoulders, released them there; ignoring her questioning glance, he drew her back to him, back into his arms, back into a kiss expressly designed to render her witless.

To plunge her back into the sea of desire, of heady wanton passion, that had been steadily rising about them.

She went eagerly; grasping his head between her hands, she kissed him back with abandon. An abandon that only made him ache all the more, that only made it harder to do what he knew he should.

He had to break her spell, her increasingly strong grip on his senses.

Before he could change his mind—before she could further weaken his resolve—he lifted her, stood, and carried her to the window seat. She drew back from the kiss; he had to let her. From beneath her long lashes, she looked into his eyes, studied his face; he could read her thoughts easily—see the anticipation, the flare of expectation that flamed in her eyes, brilliant emerald and gold, gilded by the fires of passion.

The nursery was old, the window seat wide and liberally supplied with soft cushions; he tumbled her down onto it, and followed, trapping her half beneath him. She laughed softly, a sound of pure abandon that raked his soul, and racked his desire one notch higher. Reaching for him, she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, parted in flagrant welcome.

He sank into her mouth, for long moments simply indulged, and wallowed in her clear encouragement, in the honest passion that was so much a part of her. He wanted that—wanted to seize—but experience warned that with her, caution and care were imperative. Steeling himself, he mentally drew back, and turned his mind to executing the strategy instinct drove him to employ.

Jacqueline sensed his attention shift; his lips remained fused with hers, a potent distraction, but then his hands were on her, roaming her body, so scantily clad she might as well have been naked.

She wished she were naked—she wanted to feel his hands on her skin, ached for the greater intimacy, wanted that hurdle crossed so there’d be fewer between her and her goal. His touch had grown harder, more demanding, each caress a blatantly sexual act, an intimate claiming.

He touched her as if she was his, sculpted her flesh as he wished, explored without reserve.

Each caress stoked the fires beneath her skin until she writhed beneath him, insensibly sure she needed even more. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but he responded by running his hand from her collarbone down over her breast, squeezing, swiftly kneading, tweaking the nipple to painful erectness before sweeping down, tracing the indentation of her waist, then passing over her stomach, splaying and pressing possessively, then sweeping lower still, stroking her curls, veiled by fine silk, before gliding down the long line of one thigh—to her knee and the hem of her nightgown.

He drew it up, up to her hips, then he tugged and drew it higher still, to her waist. Cool air played over her bare skin as with one knee he nudged her thighs apart; through their kiss, she gasped—she would have pulled back, broken the kiss to drag in air and steady her giddy senses, but he didn’t permit it. He held her to the kiss as the exchange turned scorching, as he set his hand to her bare knee, then ran his palm up, over her thigh, and found her.

Cupped her, then his fingers stroked and he parted her soft flesh, and slid not one but two fingers into her.

She felt the intimate penetration to her soul, felt her body arch, not in protest but in welcome. He stroked, possessive and sure; her every sense locked on the movement. On the sensations he evoked, that he drew from her, pressed on her. She had to cling to the kiss as her world spun; he held her to it, her lips beneath his, feeding her kisses laden with passion, with a desire that burned as bright as her own. More than anything else, that desire, his blatant wanting, buoyed and reassured.

She wanted him, and he wanted her. That seemed totally right.

Gradually, he eased back from the kiss; lifting his head, he looked down at her, studied her face from beneath heavy lids, then his lips quirked in smug, wholly male satisfaction. Between her thighs, his hand worked, knowingly stroking, stoking a need that was already threatening to sweep her away. She sank her fingers into his shoulders and tried to pull him back, but he moved lower, then shifted—with his free hand caught her nightgown hem and raised it higher still, then bent his head.

His mouth, hot and wet, closed over her nipple. She almost screamed, the sound only half smothered; the sensation wasn’t new, but had grown immeasurably sharper. And only swelled more as he feasted, as he made free with all she’d willingly offered. Steadily he drew her, body and senses, into deeper waters, into the hot, surging tide of passion unrestrained.

She went willingly, aware her horizons were rapidly expanding, that she’d lost touch with the world she knew, and would have to rely on him to guide her back.

Her body was no longer hers to command. Her world had reduced to the window seat; she was acutely aware of how her body, all but naked, writhed beneath his experienced caresses, how it rose, responding to every ardent touch, how the lamplight played over the valleys and hollows—how he watched, and saw, and was pleased.

Grimly pleased. She sensed that last as he lifted his head and looked down at her breasts, firm, swollen and aching, nipples tightly furled, skin flushed with desire. He moved lower still, and let his gaze wander, down over her waist, her stomach, to the damp curls one thumb idly stroked, to the junction of her thighs, to where his hand worked, constantly caressing, probing, but never quite pressing as he had once before.

Slowly, he traced his way back to her face, met her eyes, then the light of sheer conquest gleamed in his, and he bent his head.

His lips touched her navel; his tongue swirled, then probed. She shrieked, but the sound came out as a breathless squeak. She felt him chuckle, then he drew back and blew gently on her damp flesh, then touched his lips once more to her skin, and set about trailing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down over her stomach.

To her curls.

To—

She screamed, but she’d lost her breath entirely—no sound came out at all. She twisted, but he’d grasped her hips, anchoring her while he pleased himself, and pleasured her.

“Gerrard!”
She finally managed a shocked whisper.