D2D_Poison or Protect Page 10

  “Take my dress off me, Gavin.”

  He unbuttoned the bodice down the back, tiny caresses as he went, peeling it away and laying it reverently aside. Then he untied her overskirt, pulling it up over her head. He was careful about her hair, smoothing it after, his hands wide and worshipful. He lifted up her top skirt, paying it equal attention. Were his hands shaking slightly? Preshea found relief in knowing he was not unaffected. He was pulling off her first petticoat now, and Preshea was beginning to regret that fashion called for so many layers. His reverence now felt achingly slow. He unwrapped to savor, like a poor child with only one gift at Christmas. She willed herself to enjoy, allowing the spice of him to season her confidence. He moved on to her second petticoat, this one heavy with her revolver in its special pocket.

  He smiled at the weight.

  “Such a canny lass you are, leannan sìth.”

  He was standing before her now, his eyes warm as they flicked over her face and neck, her bare arms, and her fine silk underpinnings. His skin was warm too, as his hands stroked the path of his gaze – the side of her throat, the turn of her shoulder, memorizing her with his fingertips. Even that damnable spicy scent of his was warm, inviting. He was one massive, muscled invitation.

  He made quick work of her corset cover so that finally she stood before him in nothing but chemise and stays, stockings, drawers, and boots.

  Well, I suppose that’s still quite a bit of clothing.

  “Wait.” She stopped him before he could continue.

  He froze gratifyingly quickly, a slight panic in his eyes. As if he were afraid she would flee.

  “You first,” she said instead, accepting his invitation.

  He flashed one of those big sincere smiles and, without hesitation, shrugged out of his robe. He was, indeed, quite bare underneath it.

  “Oh, my.” Preshea’s prior experience in such matters had all been beneath nightclothes, at best uncomfortable, and at worst agonizing. She had neither seen nor wanted to see any of her husbands naked.

  Gavin was different. Whatever he’d done with the Coldsteam Guards had clearly involved a deal of physical labor. The hair on his chest shaped down to a single line over his stomach. She would not allow her eyes to follow it farther, not just yet.

  If I’m going to take advantage of this man, by George, I shall do it properly. I’m no lily-livered milk-water miss!

  She stroked his chest with one hand. Not quite daring enough to go lower. Although she did want to know what he felt like everywhere. Soon. No doubt he would allow it. Soft. His chest hair was very soft. He closed his eyes to savor her touch. Preshea allowed herself to look at everything he offered. He was not a particularly small man anywhere, as it turned out.

  She glanced up to find him watching her. Eyes still so warm, crinkled at the corners in delight at her appraisal. At her obvious interest. At her desire. So, she looked her fill again, flushed but sure. If he was hers for the taking, he should know that.

  He was not embarrassed to be naked while she remained clothed. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it, if his cock was anything to judge by.

  She found herself smiling. An odd sensation right now. Strange that humor should accompany such an act. But she couldn’t help it; she was delighted with him. And with herself. And with her power over him. She stepped away slightly and turned around, presenting her back to him and drawing her hair forward over her shoulder. “My laces.”

  He loosened them quickly. Showing a depth of experience with corsetry that belied only two paramours. Or perhaps each had been for a long duration. He was clearly a man who enjoyed the titillation of undressing his lover.

  He guided her around to face him once again so he could pop open the busk. Pulling the corset off and laying it aside, he loosely encircled her in his arms. Instead of pulling her into a full embrace, he rubbed her back, strong and firm, stroking the places where the lacing had bit through her chemise to mark her skin with wrinkles.

  It felt so glorious, she moaned and relaxed forward. Her focus shifted to those big hands massaging through the thin silk, although she was acutely aware of his eager flesh pressing against her stomach. She let herself melt, pressing against him. Warm.

  Tentatively, she nuzzled her nose into his chest hair, soft and only a little pricking against her face. His breath was rougher now, and his heart, under her cheek, was racing. That plus his stroking hands were causing her own breath to hitch, her body to ache in ways both pleasant and anxious. She was bathed in the scent of him now, and she did not care that it could overwhelm her. She knew she could stop this at any time, the moment she felt close to drowning. And he would let her. But for now, she would be warm.

  After a long moment, he judged his ministrations complete and let his hands drift up her back, into her hair, to cradle her head against his chest.

  She grinned. She had his measure now. “My chemise,” she ordered.

  He lifted the garment easily over her head. He was so much taller than she that he barely had to stretch. This one was her best chemise and she saw him finger the fine silk admiringly.

  Now she was standing before him in stockings and drawers, feeling exposed but also even more powerful, for his breath was uneven and his eyes dilated.

  “You are so verra bonnie.” His voice was roughened by need.

  She opened her mouth to say something flippant, but…

  “Aye, you know it weel. But you dinna know it from me.”

  He began petting her naked skin with those big hands. The length of her arm. The base of her throat. He stroked down to her breasts. They were not very big but, she thought, they were well shaped. He seemed to agree, weighing and cupping them in an appreciative way, not critical. It was odd; they felt heavier at his touch, swollen. Her nipples peaked and burned. He pinched them both, very slightly. A sensation, a little like electricity, sparked through her and down to her groin, and she gasped. Her knees actually became weak. It was ridiculous; she was stronger than this.

  “You like that.”

  Preshea only stared at him, eyes wide.

  “You may ask me anything you like, lass. And, in truth, ask anything of me.”

  “May I do it to you?”

  “Aye, I should like that.”

  So she did, pinching his nipples, gasping in surprise when they tightened under her fingertips.

  “I enjoy it. As I enjoy the little noises you make. See?”

  He gestured down. If anything, he had gotten harder. Preshea swallowed, uncomfortable. She wasn’t certain she liked the reminder. That particular part of a man’s anatomy had never brought her much pleasure. But then, neither had a man’s hands. He distracted her by pinching her nipples again, a little harder this time.

  There came that tingling flash in response.

  I must want him. Strange sensation – a thrill of anticipation combined with moisture between her legs. She had never felt it before.

  Unexpectedly, he dropped to his knees before her. It was perfect.

  He unlaced her boots, one at a time, then slid them off. Hands squeezed away the ache of confinement. She braced herself easily on his broad shoulders, and he looked up at her, eyes filled with joy at her casual use of him.

  Boots placed carefully aside, he rested his head against her stomach, above the ties to her drawers. He seemed to want to breathe her in. He closed his eyes, rubbing the roughness of his cheek against her belly. Preshea ran her fingers through his thick hair.

  “Gavin?” She didn’t know what she was asking, but she must break the tension; it was too much.

  “Aye?” His voice was a low rumble.

  “What do you want?”

  “Ask me that tomorrow.” He pulled back a little to untie her drawers; fingers poised and eyes questioning, he waited.

  “You may.”

  He pulled the laces and smoothed the silk down her legs to pool on the floor. His hands slid back up, caressing her legs with the same long strokes he had used on her back. His thumbs leisurely
circled her hipbones. She jerked, sensitive there.

  “Someday,” he said, “you will stand like this and I will lick you here until you come apart above me.” He touched her very softly at her apex with one finger.

  It was an utterly startling offer. Preshea was humiliated to find herself become wet enough for him to feel it with that light touch.

  “Good.” He grinned up at her. “You like that idea.”

  “Not tonight?” she questioned, looking down to see his cock twitch eagerly. He likes the idea as much as I do. She had to admit, it was nice to have the evidence of his interest on display.

  “We aim to find what you enjoy. Not what I want.”

  “But I like that idea.”

  “And I like it too much. I wish to make this last.”

  He stood and she was only a little disappointed. He tilted his head at the bed. She took the suggestion as wise; after all, her knees were becoming most unreliable.

  She moved away from him towards the bed and then paused, feeling impish.

  “It’s so very high.”

  He gave a low chuckle and came over swiftly, kneeling to offer her his cupped hands. She placed one stockinged foot in and he tossed her easily into the very center of the bed.

  She giggled, actually giggled! Then dampened that inclination and arranged herself as her other husbands had expected – on her back, legs wide, passive.

  Still kneeling beside the bed, he looked up at her prostrate form, and then stood in that fluid way of his. He claimed to be clumsy, but she thought he was quite the opposite. Or perhaps it was simply that his grace was all expended here, in the bedchamber.

  She expected him to cast himself atop her and take her then. From the glassy sheen of desire in his eyes, it was what he wanted. It must be. To plunder.

  But when she put her arms up and open to receive him, he shook his head and remained standing.

  “Nay, lass. Remember, I am no taker.”

  “Oh.”

  He reached over, powerful arm muscles coiled as he arranged her a little upright with the pillows tucked underneath, solicitous, as if she were ill.

  “Why?”

  “So you can watch me.”

  “Oh, dear.” Preshea wasn’t certain she wanted such intimacy. The anticipation, too, was risky. Never before had anyone taken so long with her, for any reason. It was gratifying… and frightening. For there, under all his care, was the certain knowledge of what he really wanted from her.

  “You want me to lose control.”

  “In pleasure. Yes.”

  “That would require trust.”

  “And you dinna trust anyone.”

  She stared with wide eyes as he walked to the foot of the bed and sat on the counterpane, scooting close to her. He picked up one stockinged foot and began to rub it. Her foot began to forget the high-heeled slippers of earlier that night. It felt so good, she gave a little “oh” of delight.

  “I don’t trust anyone enough for that.”

  “Aye. A sadness, that. So, I work for your pleasure tonight, your trust later.”

  There he goes again, assuming there will be a later.

  Preshea could not deny that she was wildly curious. Desperate to know what he might do next. So far, it had all been so warm and wonderful. So, she let herself trust him, with her body at least. For this one night.

  He moved to the other foot, and then began to work his way up her leg. First with hands and then with his lips. Through her silk stockings, his touch made her skin feel tight and sensitive. His lips were feather soft, broken by the occasional brush of teeth, the flick of a tongue, until eventually he had worked his way up to the tops of her stockings. There, the white flesh of her thighs quivered under his mouth. And he would keep moving up.

  “No! You said tomorrow.”

  He laughed then. “I said standing tomorrow. Tonight, lie back. Watch.”

  He dipped down between her legs, nuzzling against her. She protested, embarrassed that he would want to do such a scandalous thing. Until that moment, Preshea had thought she was the most scandalous person she knew. Now she was beginning to think this self-effacing Scotsman had hidden depths. And, as it turned out, hidden skills.

  He was insistent, although never rough or brutal about it. He coaxed her thighs apart with soothing hands, and eventually she relaxed because, she had to admit, it was a glorious feeling. Tingly. Like just before a sneeze, only better and, of course, situated somewhat lower down.

  His tongue was remarkable, coiling and uncoiling. She wondered, somewhat hysterically, if the burr of Scottish brogue made a man’s tongue more flexible. He nibbled to one side and the other, then licked flat fully across. She jerked at the intensity of the sensation and found herself writhing. Ladies of quality do not writhe!

  He paused, hand to her belly, holding her still, blue eyes glazed with lust.

  “Sit up, please.” Preshea was shocked to find her voice shaking, her control slipping.

  His eyes pleaded.

  She gave him the reassurance he craved. “Not to stop. Just for a moment. I want to see you. I need to know you are enjoying this, too. Please.”

  He did as she asked, rocking back and rising onto his heels.

  Remarkable. He was quite certainly enjoying this.

  “Very well.” Preshea corrected the tremor in her voice, remembering those hours of elocution lessons. One must always take the greatest care with one’s words. Years it had taken to fix her childhood lisp. “Proceed.”

  Relief and need flooded his face. She noticed that something else swelled in response to her order. Did he like the command in her voice? Fascinating.

  He dove back in, barely pausing to breathe. His tongue devilish and driving. Urging her along. She didn’t know what crescendo she was heading towards, but she’d decided to give him her body, and he seemed rather good at playing it. As though I were some violin and his tongue the bow.

  He swiped across her again. The tingling was unrelenting now, almost painful with intensity. Spikes of pleasure arrowed through her.

  He pressed against her more firmly, tongue insistent. He would not be denied, whatever the ending of this symphony.

  He slid a single finger inside her and she started. But it felt so good to be filled. Better than good – superb. So much better than the dry, tearing stretch of her husbands’ pathetic efforts.

  Once more, his tongue swiped and pressed. Then the tingling exploded and she was soaring. Splintering and fracturing and spinning as if drunk on champagne and dancing a waltz and perfectly executing a killing blow… all at the same time.

  Only when she went to speak did Preshea realize she was biting her hand to keep back the sounds. “Holy smokes.”

  She felt his rumble of amusement against her legs. His cheek rested on her thigh and he was kissing her softly there. He had removed his finger but kept his hand pressed against her throbbing core.

  Eventually, he looked up. His face was wet with her juices and his eyes were still glazed.

  “You can’t like that,” Preshea was embarrassed enough to protest.

  His eyes cleared and he quirked one eyebrow. Then he reared back, coming to his knees between her thighs. He evidently had liked it. His cock was huge and hard with a little moisture at the tip.

  Fear struck her then. Would he take her now, drive into her with no thought but for his own satisfaction?

  He did not fall upon her; instead he sat back on his heels and reached down for her hands, pulling her up to her own knees. He wrapped her in a strong, soothing hug. Not too confining. She was appalled by how much she loved it, melted into him.

  He kissed her then. His mouth musky and salty with her flavor. She realized it was the first time he had kissed her lips. It turned carnal, all tongue and teeth. She shifted forward, wrapping as much of herself as she could about his broad, muscled body, rubbing her stomach against his hardness, surprised at her own eagerness.

  She could feel the surge of his back muscles under her ar
ms as he twisted away from her. She thought he was breaking free, rejecting her enthusiasm, but then she found herself carried up and over, landing sprawled atop him.

  Frustrated, she banged his chest with a tiny fist. “What now? Get on with it!”

  He laughed then, fully laughed, vibrating under her hands.

  “Ride me.”

  “What?”

  “You. Ride. Me. That way, you’re in control.”

  “I can do that?”

  “I suspect you will be quite good at it.”

  “My stockings are still on,” she said, as if that were some kind of objection.

  “Oh, aye.”

  “You like that?”

  “Aye.” He actually blushed a bit at that. Given all the things they had done, she wasn’t sure he could blush. It was adorable.

  It was also another touch of power – she still had clothing on, he did not. And he liked it more than he cared to admit.

  She took her time, partly to see if she liked the sensation and partly because her caution seemed to drive him mad. He held himself so still, but she could see that it cost him, sweat beading his forehead, neck corded with tension, jaw stiff. Surely, he wanted to thrust into her. But no. He let her sink onto him slowly and set the pace.

  Which she did.

  It was not unlike horse riding. Although, she fancied she was better at this than the canter. And it was certainly much more enjoyable.

  She found that if she swiveled her hips in exactly the right way, she could chase the tingling sensation again. So she did, moving as she liked.

  He lay under her, watching, suffering (for surely he was desperate for release), but also smug with her pleasure. He arched against her out of instinct, all coiled need bent to her will.

  “Touch me again?” she asked.

  He did, gliding his hands up her ribcage and breasts before pinching her nipples, as if he knew that was what she really wanted.