Wicked at Heart (39 page)

At last he broke
the kiss, and as her eyes drifted open, she saw him gazing down at her, the
little sunbursts of gold in his eyes seeming to draw her up into their very
depths. 

"My
dearest, cherished, Gwyneth."  Leaning his weight on one forearm, he reached
out and tenderly cupped her cheek.  His gaze roved over her face as though he were
looking at an incomparable treasure.  "You have shown me things I did not
know existed, you have purged my heart of rage and ugliness, you have made me
whole again, defended me, and saved my life.  I love you with all my heart, and
I want nothing more than to prove it to you with my body, with my soul, with
every means at my disposal, but . . ."

"But what, Damon?"

His thumb gently
caressed the side of her face.  "But I must know something.  The last time
we were about to make love, you told me you had never known a man before."

"That is
so."

"But — I am
confused.  You were married . . ."

She reached up
and traced the curve of his brow with her fingers.  "Lord Simms wed me
only to rescue me from an unfortunate situation," she said, and briefly
outlined the life she and her sisters had led at the inn.  "He was an old
man, far past the call of passion, who was content to worship a wife from
afar.  We were the fastest of friends, Damon — but we were never lovers."

He stared down
at her, slowly shaking his head.  "How can any man look upon you and
not
want to possess you, wholly and fully?"

"
You're
looking upon me," she said softly, invitingly, "and I have yet to see
you
begin the task of possessing me wholly and fully."

Lowering his head
until his brow touched hers, he gazed fiercely into her eyes.  "I know
I've been a brute in the past, but I swear to you, Gwyneth, I shall be as gentle,
as considerate as you deserve to have me be."

"I know you
will."  She stared into his eyes and very slowly said, "Now, get on
with the ravishing, will you, Damon?  I have waited long enough for this moment."

He kissed her
once more, and she felt his fingers working at the embroidered white bow that
tied beneath her waist, slowly, gently pulling until the bow fell apart and the
ribbons lay trailing across her ribs and stomach.

"Aaah,
that's better," he murmured, and she sighed in delight as he bent his head
to nuzzle the warm valley between her breasts.  Liquid warmth pulsed through
her, thick and viscous.  Her breasts tingled with need and want, eager for the
touch of those masterful hands, the branding heat of that searing, sensual
mouth.

She drove her
hands upward, exploring the warm, hard slabs of his chest through the loose
shirt.  "My turn," she said huskily, and helped him pull the shirt
off over his head.  Then she lay back, staring up at his splendidly
proportioned torso, his powerful chest and shoulders, with admiring eyes.

"That's
better," she echoed, slyly.

He laughed.  She
answered him with a shy little giggle.  Then he drew her up and slowly
unbuttoned her dress all the way down the back, his hands warm against her
flesh.  She shivered as he dragged the fabric from one shoulder and pulled it
slowly, enticingly, down her arm.  By the time he got to the other shoulder,
she was on fire.  Moments later, the gown was a discarded pile of color beside
the picnic basket, and she wore nothing but her chemise, petticoats and
garters.

A light breeze
drove through the forest of poppies and thistles, making her chemise flutter
against her skin and setting afire every inch of flesh against which it
whispered.  She knew the gauzy fabric did little to shield her taut nipples
from his eyes, and she secretly gloried in the fact.  Sure enough, his gaze was
drawn helplessly to her bosom, and she could see that beneath his breeches, he
had grown large and hard.  The thought of being
ravished
by such a man
filled her with dizzy heat.

He lifted his
gaze and let it burn into hers.

He pulled off
his boots, his stockings.  She smiled at the sight of his bare toes against the
blanket, finding them as beautiful as the rest of him.  Then she moved close to
him and slowly let her palm rove down his chest and hard, flat stomach, down
over the dark arrow of hair that led to the closure of his breeches.  Her heart
hammered in her chest.  Her womanly regions burned and ached.  And still he
watched her, his eyes shimmeringly iridescent with shifting shadows, colors,
and nuances of controlled desire.  She looked down once more at the hard bulge
in his breeches, and murmured, shyly, "May I touch?"

He took her hand
and gently placed it atop the hard swelling.  "If you do not, my dear
fiancée, I shall think you don't want me, after all."

"How could
I not want you?  You are the most magnificent man I have ever met."

He smiled, and
had she been looking at his face, she might have seen the faint color that
touched his cheeks, for he was not used to receiving such compliments.  But she
was looking at her hand, and what lay beneath it, fascinated and eager to
explore him.  She felt him growing even harder, stiffer, larger, beneath the
fabric that lay between him and her gently questing touch.  Her fingers strayed
toward the buttons that held the drop-front closed, and suddenly her thumbs
grew clumsy.  It was all she could do to undo each button, but somehow she
managed, finally rising up on her knees as she undid the last one.  He sprang
free, rising high and proud, and, holding him gently, she bent forward to drop
kisses against the warm skin of his chest.  His arm circled her back like a
wreath of steel, holding her tight against him.

"Don't be
afraid," he murmured huskily into her hair.

The huge
hardness of him filled her hand.  "I'm not afraid, Damon.  A little shy,
but not afraid.  How could I be, when I have wanted this for so long?"

"Wanted
this?  Forgive me, Gwyneth . . . my guilt knows no bounds . . . my memories of
how I threatened and bullied you still plague me, terribly."

"Stop
torturing yourself," she said.  "That is behind us."

She let her
fingers slide into the warm bed of hair from which his erection rose, and then,
still exploring, rested them, light as a butterfly, atop the velvety head of
his shaft.  He groaned softly, and as she raised her head to look at him, she
saw that his eyes — diabolical?  How had she ever thought them diabolical, they
were fascinating and
beautiful
— had darkened with desire.  She gently
stroked him, learning the shape of him, the texture, the size.  The knowledge
that he would soon fill her made her inner regions tingle and ache with
longing.

Her thumb roved
over the soft tip until a small drop of moisture wept from it.  With gentle
fingers, she smeared it over the velvety knob, hearing him catch his breath
through gritted teeth.  "By God, Gwyneth, you're going to finish this
before it's even started if you keep this up."

"Are you
not enjoying it?" she asked, reaching lower to cup and handle his testicles.

"You seem
to know exactly what you're about . . . and here I thought you were an innocent
virgin!"

"Innocence
and virginity are two different things."  She dragged her fingers back up
and traced little circles atop the velvety tip of him until he began to shudder
with the effort of holding himself back.  "Besides, I have married
friends, and they
do
talk, you know."

He made a
helpless noise, and she positioned herself so that she was crouched down before
him, the summer sunlight bathing them both in its warmth, the poppies,
thousands of them, blowing in the gentle wind.  She rained kisses down his
chest, past the faint bruises that still colored his ribs, and down into the
wiry soft hair from which his erection sprang.  She felt his hands in her hair,
gripping it almost savagely, heard the strained inhalations of his breath as he
fought to draw air through clenched teeth.

She held him between
her palms and slowly brushed her cheek against each side of him.

"Gwyneth, that's
not a good idea —"

Smiling, she did
it again, and with this pass, used her lips.

"Gwyneth —"

She gripped him
a third time, and slowly closed her mouth over him.

He filled her
mouth, and she worked him with her tongue, circling the head, first hesitantly,
then with increasing boldness.  He groaned, and she tasted him, a precursor of
all that he  was straining to hold back.  But she didn't want him to hold
back.  She pulled him deep into her mouth until the sweat was standing out on
his brow and his breathing came harshly through his lungs; he stood this
torture for a few more agonizing moments, then, grasping her by the shoulders, he
pushed her backward until she lay on the blanket once more, his mouth branding
hers and his erection huge and swollen and pressing almost painfully against her
belly.  His kisses burned her face, her throat, her breasts through the gauzy
chemise.  Relentlessly, his mouth moved downward, his hands shaping the contour
of her ribs, her hips, her thighs, her legs.  They settled on her ankles and,
skimming her calves and thighs, dragged the hem of the petticoats all the way
up to her waist and over her head.  Through the light veil of fabric, she saw
diffused white sunlight … felt his mouth against the inside of her ankles . . .
felt the touch of his tongue, licking, tasting its way back up her leg, warm
upon contact, cool and shivery when the air hit each damp spot.

"Oh,
Damon," she said, trembling in delight.

She reached up
to pull the gauzy skirts off of her face so that she could see him, but he caught
her hand.  "Leave them," he said, his voice low and husky.  "It will
heighten your pleasure if you can feel, but not see, what I am doing."

He spoke the
truth.  She gasped as his mouth grazed her knees now, his tongue swirling
around each kneecap, his hand smoothing its way up her thigh and preparing a
trail for his mouth. 
His mouth.
  She knew what he was going to do to
her.  She knew, and her body knew, and already it was hot and wet and beginning
to tremble violently.

Biting her lip,
her fingers clenching a fold of the blanket, she stared up into nothing through
the light material covering her face, feeling his hand moving toward her
pelvis, his mouth not far behind it.  His lips, teeth, tongue were nibbling the
inside of her knee now, the sensitive skin inside her right thigh. 
Oh. . .
 
 She felt his fingers pushing slowly upward, toward the pool of liquid fire
that ached for his touch. 
Oh, God . . .
  Then he put his hands between
her thighs and pushed them gently apart, fully exposing her damp flesh to the
cool summer breezes, to his hungry gaze.  Her body tensed and she moaned
softly, crushing the fold of the blanket in her fist.

"Damon. . .
." she murmured, aching with need, "must you make me wait so
long?"

"I fear I
must, my dear," he murmured.  She heard a light snapping noise, and a
moment later something ticklish and soft was grazing her feet, ankles, and
calves.  She tried to clamp her legs shut, but his ruthless hand and one knee
held them open.

"That
tickles!"

"Yes. 
Again . . . it will heighten the pleasure."

The feathery
tickle was against her kneecap, now.

Moving higher up
her leg.

"What
are
you doing?" she gasped, staring up at the sunny whiteness through the veil
of fabric.

"Teasing
you."

"With
what?"

"A
poppy," he said, and dragged the fragile blossom along the sensitive
inside of her right thigh, over the top of her mound, then down along the
inside of her left thigh.  Gwyneth made a hitching sob deep in her throat, and
her head lashed from side to side beneath the veil of muslin as waves of
passion built within her.  She felt Damon's hard knee and hand bracing her
thighs open, and strained against both.  She felt him dragging the poppy back
up the inside of her thigh . . . parting the folds of her womanhood with his
fingers . . . and flicking the poppy over her own damp flesh, back and forth,
side to side, until noises of keening anguish burst from her throat.

Just when she
thought she could stand no more, she felt his big, warm hands sliding beneath
her bottom, lifting it, and then the roughness of his jaw against her tender
inner thighs as he buried his face between her open legs.  His mouth found and
fastened upon the swollen bud of her passion, and she bucked upward on a cry of
raw ecstasy, her back arched nearly double, the veil of fabric still obscuring
him from her view.  He drew the hard bud deeply into his mouth, sucking her
hard and stroking it roughly, incessantly, with his tongue, until the first
violent waves of climax rushed over Gwyneth and she cried out in surprise and
pleasure.

"Oh!"
she moaned, but he did not end the sweet torture, only licking harder, holding
her wide with his thumbs, and she began to sob as another violent wave of
pleasure roared through her, crashing over her with such force that she blacked
out for a moment.  When she came to, limp and stunned, he was gently pulling
the veil of skirts down from her face, gazing down at her with love, hunger,
and a look of charming, little-boy devilry.

"Do forgive
me, my dear," he said, innocently. "I could not help myself . .
."

And as she
gazed, panting, up into his shimmering, beautiful eyes, he grinned, and she felt
his erection pressing against her belly, heavy with unspent passion.

"Three
times lucky?" he asked, wickedly.

"I dare
you."

"You should
know better," he murmured, raising both brows and gently lowering himself
down atop her, supporting his weight with his forearms so as not to crush her. 
Everything between her legs was still throbbing, and she doubted there was
anything left in her.  But he proved her wrong.  As his mouth, sweet and musky
with the scent of her, grazed her jaw, her chin, and finally fastened on her lips,
as his hands cupped her breast and pushed it upward so that he might suckle the
thrusting, peaked nipple, she felt the fire building inside her once again.