Page 32 of Lady Frederica and the Scot Who Would Not
“Are you including yourself in that bit about the men?” she asked, her warm breath fanning his face.
“I promise you, Frederica, it is not you. It’s me.” And before he said too much, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her. She was like discovering a rare, exquisite whisky of which he could only get his hands on enough to have one small sip. Every cell within him fired to life in a way he’d only experienced with her.
She’d had chocolate at some point this day, and something tart that made his tongue tingle. She was like basking in the sun and soaking up the rays. She parted her lips on a soft moan, and he plunged his tongue inside, a desperation pushing him forward. He felt the same sort of urgency in her, too. She met each stroke of his tongue with one of her own, and though he kept his hands on her face, she slid hers down his back and splayed her fingers against him, palms flattened as if in surrender.
She broke the kiss, and he thought to be glad of it because he’d been getting carried away, but then she threw her head back, inviting him to plunder her neck. He couldn’t turn away. He kissed a path down her hot skin, knowing the direction was danger, but he descended lower and lower to bliss, until he stood on the precipice of sanity and sweet surrender.
One touch.
A warning slithered through his head, hissing like a snake. He slid a finger under the top edge of her bodice, past some stiff undergarment, and brushed her hardened nipple. She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers curling hard into his shoulders. Desire vanquished all thoughts but to slide his tongue over her hardened peak. He couldn’t say how it happened next, but she made the most enticing sound of pleasure from deep in her throat as he stroked his finger over her bud, and his need grew so great to taste her skin there, smell it, feel it in his mouth, that with some tugging on strings and hurriedly undoing of clasps that he found at the back of her gown, the material loosened enough that he freed her left breast.
In the dark night, it was a glimmer of creamy flesh. It was the apple in the Garden of Eden. He took her in his mouth, and he felt much like Adam must have when he bit into that apple. He didn’t care in that moment how far he fell. All he wanted was to bring her pleasure and take his own. He suckled her in long pulls and nips as she tangled her hands into his hair, and she alternately tugged at his head and pressed him closer.
“What are you doing?” she panted.
Excellent question. His mind had deserted him. Before he could pull his wits together to release her and answer, she said, “I ache, Beckford. So very much.”
He knew how to assuage that ache. He abandoned his ministrations to her breast to her protest. “Beckford, don’t stop!”
“Shh,” he assured her, his voice thick with desire as he bent to gather her skirts up. The fingers of his left hand grazed her warm, silky thigh as he did so, and with his right hand, he found her unmentionables, tugged them down her shapely legs, and rid her of them, tossing them to the side.
She gasped as his fingers delved into her silken hair between her thighs, and he located the pleasure point that would make that ache go away.
“Oh my heaven, that feels good,” she said, her voice breathy, one hand clutching his back and her other hand coming to his wrist. “Beckford, we shouldn’t.”
“No,” he managed to force out as disappointment flooded him, and he stilled. “We most definitely should not.” His words came in ragged spurts around his labored breathing.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her fingers fluttering against his hand before disappearing and joining her other hand at his back. “Why have you stopped?”
“You said we shouldn’t,” he replied, perspiration breaking out on his forehead from the control it was taking not to keep going.
“I didn’t say stop, though!” Her words were a rush of fury and excitement. “I said we shouldn’t.”
“Ah, my mistake.” He grinned, his fingers touching that perfect pearl that made her quiver once more. “I forgot about the language of women.”
“I will be offended later,” she said on a moan. “Now I simply want to feel the pleasure.”
“Do you mean the pleasure when I touch you here?” He ran the pad of his thumb over her nub ever so gently.
“Yes, yes. More.”
“Like this?” he teased, stroking faster and in circles.
“Yes, yes, just like that. Beckford—”
“Gabriel,” he demanded, his heart pumping blood so hard he’d probably be deaf from his desire tomorrow. “Call me Gabriel.” He had gone and jumped off the edge of a cliff. He had not allowed anyone to call him Gabriel since his mother died, not even his sister. He was no angel—far from it. But he wanted to hear his name on her sweet lips.
“Gabriel.” She clung to him, her thighs clenching together to press against his hand. “Gabriel, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
“Even if someone comes down the path,” he said, offering a provoking smile then glancing down the long, dark, pebbled passage just to be certain they were in no danger.
“Maybe then,” she said on another moan, and she tensed, her fingernails digging into his shoulders for one breath, two, three, before they loosened and her entire body sagged forward. Her cheek came to his chest, and her hand settled over his heart. He tried to will the damn thing to stop hammering, but it was useless. He was wound with need and desire tighter than any coil.
“I will never forget this, Gabriel.”
And before he could answer, a shout cut through the night. “Frederica!”
Reality punched him hard and fast like the fool he was. He never let desire rule him. Never. Not until her.
