The salty tang of him filled her senses. Releasing one thigh, she cradled the tight balls in their pouches, then stroked the base of his shaft.
Felt his reaction. Felt the tension coil, felt him lock his spine, felt his hands close hard about her head, holding her still…
“Enough!”
She heard the hoarse command; releasing him, she looked up.
He brushed her hands aside, swooped, locked his hands about her waist, and lifted her. Lifted her high-she grabbed his arms for balance-then he swung her to him.
She locked her legs about his hips. In the same instant, he entered her. Hands locked about her waist, he steadied her and thrust in, deeper, then deeper still. She tightened her legs and pressed closer, pressed down, until their bodies were locked, fused, joined.
They were both gasping.
Running her hands over his shoulders, she wound her arms about his neck, hauled his face to hers, and kissed him. He kissed her back-ravaging and voracious. She met every challenge and hurled it back, took as much as she gave. Using her legs for leverage, she eased up upon him, then slid down. Hands spread, curved around her bottom, he supported and guided her. Used her body as she used his, pressing pleasure on her, taking it in.
Their joining became, not a battle of wills, but a battle of hearts-who could take more, give more. There was no answer. No winner, no loser. Just them, together, wrapped in sensual pleasure.
Held by a sensual need only the other could fulfill.
Time suspended as they let their bodies couple unrestrained. Their eyes met in heated glances, lips met in heated kisses while their bodies met in growing urgency.
It wasn’t enough, not for either of them. Gyles carried her to the bed.
“Don’t you dare lay me down.” It took all the breath she had to gasp the words.
The look he cast her was inexpressibly masculine. “Damn difficult woman,” he ground out. But he sat, then swung his legs up on the bed, then juggled her and came up on his knees. Spreading them wide, he settled her so she was still wrapped about him, her thighs riding his hips.
He met her eyes. “Satisfied?”
She smiled, closed her hands in his hair, and kissed him.
It was the same position in which they’d first made love, yet so much had changed since then. Not them, themselves, but what lay between them, the flame, the fire, the commitment, the devotion.
The acceptance.
As they continued to love and the lamps burned low, Francesca sensed the last barriers fade. Not only in him, but in her, too, until there was just them, together, facing the reality of what that truly meant. Coping with it.
Her gaze was locked with his when she finally crested the bright peak; as her lids lowered and fell, he joined her. They held still for a long minute, struggling to breathe, waiting for their whirling senses to slow, then she tightened her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. And felt his arms tighten about her, holding her to him.
She smiled. He was hers just as much as she was his.
Chapter 19
“Have you received any news from the Castle?”
Seated at his desk in the library, Gyles looked up and watched Francesca walk toward him. “Not since Monday.”
It was raining outside, a steady downpour. Francesca went to the window and stood looking out.
Gyles forced himself to look back at the letter on his blotter. After a moment, he glanced up-and found Francesca gazing at him. Her eyes lit with a soft glow, and she smiled. He focused on her lips-remembered all too vividly what they’d felt like closed about him, remembered all that had transpired throughout the past night.
He wrenched his gaze back to her eyes. She read his, tentatively tilted her head. “I won’t be going out in this. Do you have anything-any legal cases or information-you’d like me to find?”
The purr of her voice was like a caress, a gentle, understanding one. Gyles held her gaze, then looked back at his desk. He searched and drew out a list. “If you could find these references…?”
Taking the list, she perused it, then moved down the room. Under cover of replying to a letter, Gyles watched her, studied her-looked within and studied himself. After last night, she had every reason to hope, yet she wasn’t pushing, wasn’t presuming, even though he knew that in her heart, she knew. As did he.
How to cope? After last night, when they’d both knowingly, deliberately, allowed passion to strip their souls bare, that seemed the only question left.
She returned carrying a large tome. As she set it on the desk, he reached out and snagged her wrist. She looked up, brows rising. He laid down his pen-the ink had dried on the nib-and tugged; she let him draw her around the desk.
“Are you happy here in London, going about within the ton?” Reluctantly releasing her, he sat back.
She leaned against the desk and looked at him, eyes clear, gaze direct-wondering what tack he was taking. “It’s been entertaining-a novel experience.”
“You’ve become very popular.”
Her lips curved lightly. “Any lady who was your countess would attract a certain amount of attention.”
“But the sort of attention you attract…”
There it was-that much admitted, brought into the light. She held his gaze, then looked away. Moments ticked by, then she said, “I cannot choose whom I attract, nor can I dictate the nature of their attentions. However”-she again met his eyes-“that doesn’t mean that I return or value such attentions.”
He inclined his head, accepting that. “What elements”-he paused, then continued-“would cause you to smile upon, to hold dear, a particular gentleman’s attention?”
She hadn’t expected that question; her eyes darkened, turned distant as she searched for the answer.
“Honesty. Loyalty. Devotion.” She refocused and met his gaze. “What does anyone-man or woman, lady or gentleman-desire in such a sphere?”
He hadn’t expected such simple truths, hadn’t counted on her courage, her propensity to follow, reckless and regardless, wherever he led.
Gazes locked, they both considered, wondered… hoped.
Gyles knew very well where they stood. Teettering on the brink. “There’s a Madame Tulane, an Italian soprano, performing at the final gala at Vauxhall tonight.” He drew a playbill from beneath his blotter,
Francesca’s face lit; he handed her the playbill and watched her devour the details. “She’s from Florence! Oh, it’s been so long since I heard-” She glanced up. “Vauxhall-is it a place I can go?”
“Yes and no. You can only go if I take you.” Not precisely true, yet not a lie.
“Will you take me?”
Her excitement was palpable. He waved at the shelves. “If you help me with these references, we can leave immediately after dinner.”
“Oh, thank you!” The playbill went fluttering; she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him.
It was the first time they’d touched since last night, or, more precisely, that morning.
She drew back. Their gazes locked. Green and grey without any masks, any veils. Then she smiled, sank onto his lap, and thanked him properly.
The rain stopped at noon; by eight o’clock that evening, Vauxhall Gardens was packed with revelers, all eager to enjoy one last fling. A chill dampness hung in the air; the minor avenues were dark and gloomy yet still crowded, occasional feminine shrieks attesting to their attraction.
Gyles inwardly cursed as he steered Francesca through the throng. Who would have believed half of London would turn out on such an evening? The jostling hordes included every class of Londoner, from ladies like Francesca wrapped in velvet cloaks, to shopkeepers’ wives, primly neat, looking around curiously, to whores, painted, feathered, bawdily trying to catch gentlemen’s eyes.