His jaw set. “This.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her.
She had one moment of lucid thought: That she knew all about this. All about the heat, the yearning, the need. All about the passions that would flare, rage and swallow them.
A second later, the heat, the yearning, the need, the passion and the desire that swam in its wake, caught her, and ripped every scintilla of thought away. Replaced it with sensation.
And behind the sensation, as she was learning to expect, came emotion.
Stronger; every time she was with him it grew and swelled. More powerful; she couldn’t any longer deny it, let alone ignore it.
It drew her, captured her, drove her-to sink against him and yield, to surrender and take, to set aside all restraint and simply love him. Physically, yes-she now understood why the act was termed lovemaking-but the more precious, more costly gift she had to give dwelled in what powered the physical-her intention, her commitment, her devotion to him.
They’d come together too often for his kiss to be anything but incendiary; he’d meant it that way, so it was. His lips were hard, commanding, ruthlessly demanding, and she readily complied.
Readily surrendered her mouth, gasped when his hand closed over her breast. She barely registered him opening the front placket of her riding dress, then stripping it away-because by then the only thought in her head was to be naked in his arms.
Her dress fell to the sand, followed by his jacket, neckerchief and shirt, her chemise and his trousers…only when her drawers whispered down her legs and the sea air caressed skin rarely exposed did she realize…
She drew her lips from his, gasped, “We’re on the beach.”
“So?” His hands spread, he held her to him, her hips molded to his. “There’s no one else within miles. Just you and me, the stars and the sea.”
“Yes, but…” She blinked; pushing back her hair, she stared at him, then glanced at the beach, wet sand and dry sand, couldn’t imagine…
He laughed briefly. “In the surf. Come on.”
“What?” But he was already striding down the beach, towing her with him. She followed, still stunned. “In the waves?”
He glanced back at her. “Surely, as a Gascoigne, you’re not going to balk?”
“Being a Gascoigne has nothing to do with it,” she muttered under her breath. They reached the waves; she braced for their icy touch-and experienced an altogether different sensation. The summer had been warm, the days long and hot; the sea, at least in the shallows, had heated. The water purled around her feet and legs as he drew her relentlessly on; it felt cool against her already heated skin, but not cold.
The sensation was pleasant, a tempting, distracting sensual contrast.
It became even more so when he finally stopped, beyond the breaking waves where the water reached to his waist, planted his feet and pulled her around and to him, into his arms-and kissed her again.
Ravenously, voraciously-a kiss and a claiming deliberately calculated to set their fires raging again.
The resulting conflagration took less than a minute to reduce her once more to a state of heated, urgent, hungry and greedy, desperate need.
He knew-he lifted her, hoisted her against him; needing no direction, she locked her arms about his neck, wrapped her legs about his waist and kissed him back, all fire and determination, willing him, needing him, to take her.
The glide of his blunt fingertips over the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs had her gasping. She clung to their kiss, urged him on, demanded-then sighed, a near sob, as his fingers pressed in, thrust deep…but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Gervase read her spiraling need through their kiss, through the desperation that reached him so clearly, that so powerfully joined with his own. He didn’t truly know what had possessed him, only that he had to have her now, here, had to make her see…
He savaged her mouth, driven by that pounding primal need to make her his-and have her acknowledge it. Have her know it, comprehend it, understand it.
The waves were retreating, their repetitive surge a caress in itself. His fingers buried in her sheath, he stroked, and felt her sob. But the water was level with his hand, the to and fro motion distracting, both water and air cooling what didn’t need to cool. Holding her against him, supporting her weight, he walked deeper into the sea.
She knew, clung, waited until he stopped again with the water at mid-back, below her shoulders, leaving the waves flirting with her breasts, with her tightly furled nipples.
The sensation evoked a strangled gasp, then she tightened her legs around him and shifted, restlessly seeking, wanting.
Inwardly smiling-his beast intent and slavering-he drew his fingers from her sheath, positioned his erection, then thrust up as he pulled her down.
They both lost their breaths.
Lips parted, they gasped; from under their lashes, mere inches apart, their eyes locked. Slowly he lifted her, then brought her down again, thrusting even deeper, filling her to the hilt.
She exhaled, her breath washing over his lips, breathing with him as he moved her upon him, her breasts rising and falling as his chest did the same.
Her gaze lowered to his lips; he shut his eyes, concentrated on all he could feel… She closed the last inch between them and pressed her lips to his.
Gave him her mouth, welcomed his tongue, wrapped him in her arms and let their own tide take them.
Slow, forceful, repetitive; a drawn-out excruciatingly intense loving.
They’d learned not to rush, and the surge of the waves about them helped. The steady, measured, inexorable rise and fall gave them another rhythm to cling to when their own grew too fraught. The coolness of the water helped keep the heat from cindering their wills too soon, let them stretch the moments out, and out, and out…let them commune in the dark sea, in the depths of the night, with the wild cliffs behind them and the stars above, the surf a constant whisper in their ears, alone but for nature all around them.
He gave himself up to it, completely, utterly, and prayed she would know, that she would see. That she might, tonight, finally understand.
The end was spectacular, even for them. It came upon them in a rush and caught them, shattered them. Wrung every last iota of passion from them, then flung them high, beyond the world, where every sense vaporized and glory filled the void-and filled them, glowing in their veins as they slowly spiraled back to earth, to the sea, the waves and the darkness of the night, to the comfort and inexpressible joy they found in each other’s arms.
Chapter 15
When at last she lifted her head from his shoulder, Madeline stared into Gervase’s face, and tried to fathom what the last moments had meant, what they’d revealed.
The power between them-fueled on her part by what she recognized as love-had only grown stronger, but…did he feel it, too?
If he did…what was it he felt?
A suddenly very vital question, but one his expression, more stoic than impassive, did little to answer.
“Can you stand?” He sounded resigned.
Realizing her legs were still locked around him, she straightened them and tried; she was stable enough.
She drew her arms from his shoulders; he took her hand.
“Let’s get back to the boathouse.”
She let him steady her through the waves. In the boathouse she would be able to see his eyes, and perhaps get some idea of what was going on, what it was that seemed to be shifting and resettling in the landscape between them. She’d thought she’d got it right, but he seemed to want to tell her she’d got something important wrong.
They reached their clothes; he handed her his handkerchief. “Just dry your hands-there are towels inside.”
She did, then they collected their clothes and walked up the beach, the breeze cool but not cold on their damp skin; picking up their footwear, they climbed the steps to the boathouse door.