Her sudden change of tack-not capitulation so much as embracing the inevitable-left him momentarily adrift, mentally scrambling to adjust his strategy, then her hands, until then pressed against his upper chest, slid up to his shoulders, gripped, then one eased and slid to his nape, then further into his hair, fingers twisting, lightly gripping…an evocative urging his instincts needed no help to translate.
He responded, more driven than deliberate, yielding to her demand and letting their mouths meld, their tongues tangle in a more flagrant, more explicit engagement than any he’d planned.
She met him, was with him, through the greedy, heated caress. Urged him on with a small gasp when he broke the kiss, sliding his lips to the hollow beneath her ear while his chest swelled and he dragged in a breath.
But then he returned to her mouth, too hungry, not yet appeased-any more than she was.
Her lips were lush, hot, demanding, the slick cavern of her mouth a sensual haven as she welcomed him back. He sank deep, and she pressed against him, into him.
He no longer needed to hold her to him; releasing his until-then-immovable grip on her waist, he spread his hands and pressed his palms to her back, without conscious thought satisfying his need to learn-of every curve, every long plane, each supple muscle, each delectable swell of female flesh.
Raising his hands to the backs of her shoulders, he cupped them in his palms, then slowly ran his hands down, tracing the long planes of her back, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe swell of her derriere, sliding down and around to cup one firm globe in each hand.
She shuddered; he felt it, felt the primal thrill of it in his bones, through the kiss sensed her response, her uninhibited, unscreened wanting.
Sensed her desire rise to meet his.
Rise to swirl with, to complement, to mesh with his.
To set fire to passion and ignite sensual need.
Madeline gasped through the kiss. Never before had she felt like this-as if there were some thing, some being within her, within her skin, expanding, taking over, driving her to grasp, to seize, to embrace every second of sensation, of experience.
Of all she’d thought she’d never know.
She felt heated, nerves alive, her breath no longer hers but his-her body wrapped, trapped in his arms and glad, so glad, to be there.
Her rational mind couldn’t take it in, but her senses reveled and gorged. And some side of her she didn’t know frankly rejoiced in the escalating heat, in the compulsive, burgeoning swell of what even she, innocent and inexperienced, recognized as passion.
Hot, urgent, increasingly explicit.
Their kiss had grown wildly so, infecting his touch.
Infecting him.
And her.
So that she made not the smallest demur when one hard hand swept up her side to palm her breast. To caress, to cup, then to lightly knead.
Sensation, new and novel, flared, grew, spread molten delight just beneath her skin.
And he knew. His hand closed, more possessive; beneath the straining bodice of her walking dress, his fingers found the furled bud of her nipple and tweaked, rolled-and pleasure, sharp and sweet, sliced through her.
Breathing was beyond her. Raising both hands to grasp his head, she gripped, felt the slide of his curls, so much softer even than they looked, over her fingers as she held him and kissed him-hard-then in desperation pulled back.
“Oh, God-Gervase!” Eyes closed, she struggled to breathe. “Someone might see.”
“They can’t.” His voice was deep, gravelly by her ear as his hands, both now ministering to her breasts, continued to play. “No one can see up here, even with a spyglass.”
The fact he’d thought even of a spyglass reassured her completely.
Dragging in one last breath, she reached for his face, framed the long planes between her palms and brought his lips back to hers.
She was still hungry, still greedy for his kiss, his lips, and the sensations they wrought. For the reaction they evoked in her, the heretofore unknown side of her that came alive in his arms.
Gervase inwardly groaned, and complied, unable not to, incapable of denying her-yet he hadn’t imagined, hadn’t dreamed she would be so demanding. So wanting.
So starved.
If he’d known, he would have chosen some other site for this encounter. His apartments, for instance, with the bed he intended her to grace close at hand.
Instead…they were on the battlements.
The increasingly wind-strafed battlements.
It took more than effort, more than steely will-it took desperation to drag his hands from her breasts, to grip her waist and shift, turn, so her back was to the door and he was before her.
Even then she merely kissed him again, her mouth a gift he couldn’t refuse. It took several minutes of heated engagement before he recalled-again-why he, they, had to stop. Halt. Now. Before…
Before matters got entirely out of hand and stopping became impossible.
When he finally lifted his head, Madeline discovered hers reeling. Her lips throbbed, swollen and slick-and still eager.
So damningly willing.
Hauling in a breath, irritated to feel a sense of loss that his hands were no longer on her breasts, she opened her eyes and forced herself to meet his.
They’d never looked more tigerish, their expression more intent.
“Have you changed your mind yet?”
The words, gravelly and low, laden with male desire, nearly made her shiver. Distracted with suppressing the wanton reaction, when she stared at him uncomprehendingly, he clarified, “About warming my bed.”
Her mind refocused in a rush. She blinked up at him. “No.” Her hands had fallen to rest against his shoulders. She pushed. Hard.
And he budged not one inch.
A very odd sensation skittered down her spine, novel and distinctly startling.
She was helpless, trapped between the door and him, between ungiving wood and the hard muscle and bone of his unyielding body. Never before had any man made her feel captured.
To win free she would need to cede…something.
She blinked, inwardly snapped free of that ridiculous supposition. “Let me go.”
She endeavored to infuse every ounce of her will into the words; she lifted her chin to give them emphasis.
His expression hardened. But he eased his grip on her waist. “For now.”
The warning in the words was every bit as explicit as the kiss had been.
She glared, but it was a weak effort. With one hand, she groped behind her, found and grasped the latch. Stepping to the side, her eyes on his, she opened the door.
He stepped back and let her swing it wide.
Breathing a little more easily, head high, she flashed one last defiant glance at him, then turned and went through. Stepping onto the stairs, one hand on the stone wall, she started down.
It had been just a kiss, a part of his silly game. No matter what he’d said, he wasn’t-couldn’t be-seriously intent on seducing her.
If she repeated that statement often enough, she might again believe it.
“Fancy forming your own private gentlemen’s club in London, just so you have somewhere where society can’t bother you.” Edmond glanced up the breakfast table at Madeline. “Neat, don’t you think?”
“Better’n neat,” Ben opined around a mouthful of sausage, relieving her of the need to reply.
Just as well; in her present mood, any response she made regarding Gervase Tregarth and his doings was bound to be laced with frustrated ire.
She sipped her tea, and tried to shift her mind from that irritating gentleman, and his effect on her; unfortunately, in the present company that appeared a lost cause.
Bad enough that the interlude Gervase had engineered on the castle battlements, and all that had transpired there, had laid siege to her mind throughout the previous evening and disturbed her night, but his outing with her brothers and the exploits with which he’d regaled them had been the principal subjects of their conversation ever since.