Page 63 of Gabriel: Duke of Bencalor

Slip­ping her thigh be­tween his, she rocked her clit against the long mus­cle the gui­tar had rested on, rev­el­ing in the elec­tric sen­sa­tion that blasted through her. His fin­gers splayed over her butt to help her rock harder un­til she be­gan to pant in uni­son with her move­ment, her head thrown back.

“No, no, no, querida mía,” he said, eas­ing his thigh away. “Not here.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist, slid­ing two fin­gers un­der the waist­band of her trousers un­til his fin­ger­tips met the bare skin just above her hip bone. Sud­denly, all her at­ten­tion was fo­cused on that one point of se­cret con­tact. Look­ing up, she found his eyes fiery with in­tent.

“We’ll go to my apart­ment.” He tucked her against his side and swept out of the tower and down the hall­way.

As they passed me­dieval ta­pes­tries and arched door­ways, in­de­ci­sion seeped into her brain. This was blur­ring the bound­aries be­tween work and per­sonal life in a way that Mikel might not ap­prove of. He had said Quinn could be trusted. Would sleep­ing with Gabriel make her un­trust­wor­thy in his eyes? Oh, God, what about the king? How could she face him, know­ing she’d had sex in his palace?

The tips of Gabriel’s fin­gers flut­tered over the lit­tle patch of skin he’d found be­neath her clothes, and she for­got about her boss, the king, and any­thing ex­cept strip­ping to let Gabriel touch her ev­ery­where.

Just this one time. No one would care if she was a one-night stand like one of the women from the shoot­ing range.

Gabriel stopped in front of an­other oak door and pressed his thumb against a black pad be­side it. The latch clicked, and he shoved the door open, pulling her through with him be­fore he slammed it shut. He took her through a se­ries of rooms she barely glimpsed un­til they spilled into a space dom­i­nated by a large bed framed by high, or­nately carved wooden posts and cov­ered with a quilt in a swirling pat­tern of gray and sap­phire blue.

“Now,” he said, pulling his arm from around her waist only to strip her suit jacket down her arms be­fore fling­ing it away. Then he un­but­toned her blouse so deftly that the fab­ric seemed to open of its own ac­cord be­fore she shrugged out of it.

“Pre­ciosa, so beau­ti­ful,” he mur­mured, his fin­gers feath­er­ing along the lace edge of her bra. He met her gaze with a look that asked per­mis­sion.

If she shook her head no, he would es­cort her to her car. And she would re­gret miss­ing this for the rest of her life.

She locked eyes with him as she reached be­hind her back, un­hooked her bra, and let it fall to her feet.

“I won­dered,” he said, his eyes shift­ing to her breasts, “what color your nip­ples would be.”

He’d been think­ing about her body. A wall of heat scorched through her, in­cin­er­at­ing her last doubt. She arched her back, des­per­ate for him to touch the aching tips.

But he didn’t use his hands. He bent and kissed first one and then the other, the warm, damp brush of his lips send­ing an­other sear­ing wave of long­ing though her. “More!” she begged as the yearn­ing pulsed be­tween her thighs.

He wrapped his hands around her rib cage to hold her in place be­fore he sucked one nip­ple into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it. The shock of heat and wet made her gasp and push far­ther into his mouth.

As he moved to the other breast and drew hard, the sen­sa­tion streaked like elec­tric­ity to coil low in­side her. It tight­ened with ev­ery swirl of his tongue un­til she teetered on the edge of cli­max. “I’m go­ing to come,” she said on a gasp, dig­ging her fin­gers into his shoul­ders to brace her­self.

He slid one hand down to press his fin­gers be­tween her legs, rub­bing hard against the fab­ric to help her. Then he ever so gen­tly scraped his teeth around her nip­ple.

A light­ning bolt siz­zled through her, and she con­vulsed as all her in­ner mus­cles slammed to­gether and re­leased. She threw her head back, eyes closed, to fo­cus on the storm of plea­sure rack­ing her as he drove her fur­ther with his mouth and his hand.

When the storm sub­sided, she sagged for­ward onto his chest, re­al­iz­ing that he’d banded one arm around her waist to sup­port her while her mind was be­ing oblit­er­ated by her or­gasm. She sucked in a deep, rib-stretch­ing breath and gave a lit­tle shiver.

“Are you all right?” Gabriel’s voice rum­bled into her ear where she pressed it against the soft cot­ton of his shirt.

She could feel his erec­tion against her ab­domen. She wanted it in­side her, fill­ing the empti­ness that seemed to ache.

“More than all right.” The af­ter­glow still rip­pled through her like a warm tide. “Now I know why mu­si­cians have groupies.”

“Rock stars do, not to­caores,” he said, amuse­ment warm­ing his voice as he stroked one hand over her hair.

“Then groupies are stupid.” Her mind was drift­ing on a wave of bliss.

He laughed, the sound low and sexy. “They don’t have the re­fined taste in mu­sic that you do.”

She lifted her head to find him smil­ing down at her in a way that in­flamed the ache in her belly. “Trust me, any­one would know that your mu­sic is hot.” She dropped her voice to a purr. “And you’re even hot­ter.”

His smile turned into pure lust. He bent and slipped his arm be­hind her knees, haul­ing her up against his chest and car­ry­ing her to the bed. He laid her gen­tly on the quilt be­fore he straight­ened and be­gan un­but­ton­ing his shirt at warp speed.

She sim­ply watched, partly be­cause her mus­cles were still lax from her or­gasm and partly be­cause she wanted to sa­vor her first glimpses of his body.

As his shirt fell open, her gaze traced the line of dark hair over olive skin that de­fined the cen­ter of his torso. Then her at­ten­tion was snagged by the tat­too spi­ral­ing up his rib cage.

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