He didn’t seem to object, either.
His kiss was deep, he had brought her against him without hesitation, and she could feel the hardness of him pressing against her belly. Desire spun them together, and a raw need urged her on: there wasn’t time to think, only to feel. Livia put her hand on his shaft, tentatively at first, stroking through the smooth fabric of his buckskins, then more boldly. It pleased him, excited him, she could tell, and it was impossible to know where his pleasure ended and hers began.
But she was greedy.
She wanted more, to feel her fingers upon him, on his flesh. And she began to fumble for an opening.
“No,” he said, “wait,” and then his hands were on her breasts, sending a giddy spiraling warmth through her even through all the layers of her clothing, and Livia felt her head go back, limply, against the wall. He stroked the full, heavy curves, held them, brought their tips to a hard tautness. She was paralyzed, alight, and in the very center of her blossomed rich sensation, delicious, fiery, urgent—
“Why, I’m . . . I’m wet,” she said breathlessly, too caught up to properly guard her words.
That glow, she saw, was in his eyes again.
“Show me,” he said to her, and Livia felt her knees go a little shaky.
It was at once an order and the humble request of a man to his woman.
A paradox.
But one that in this moment made complete and total sense.
“Yes,” she said.
Without hesitation, without shame she grasped at the long damp train of her riding-habit and lifted up the hem. There was a rush of cold air against her legs and she shivered, partially from the sudden chill, partially from anticipation.
“God, oh God.” Gabriel’s voice was soft, guttural. He stroked an exposed length of her thigh, then in a single slow movement her sex, and Livia jerked with shock and pleasure, aware that his fingers were wet with her excitement.
She was ready.
She knew she was ready for more; ready for him.
Even as he continued to stroke at her with such sweet and deliberate purpose, she reached again with both hands to the fall of his buckskins. She unbuttoned it, pulled at them, and found him, stiff and hot to her hand. Masculine, primal, wonderful.
He groaned again, deep in his throat, and Livia’s heart hammered in her chest with a savage kind of joy; and then, for just a moment, she caught the sound of rain pelting on the roof. Time—time was her enemy. She spoke:
“Now.”
Her voice was a little breathless, but also clear, determined.
He stilled, and she hated that.
“Livia,” he said, low, “are you sure?”
“Yes. Show me how to do this.”
She didn’t have to say anything else. He kissed her, hard and roughly. Lifted her, with effortless strength, against the wall, held her poised to receive him, and gladly did she open herself to him.
And then he stopped again.
“Now,” she told him.
But he broke the kiss to stare down at her, eyes still gleaming, and she could see a new demand in them. He was toying with her, tantalizing her, she could feel his shaft just at the moist cleft of her, and fiercely she gripped at the hardness of his shoulders, where muscles bunched from the holding of her.
“Now,” she repeated. “Hurry.”
“No. Say my name.”
“What?”
“Say my name.”
“It’s—it’s Gabriel Penhallow.”
“No. Just my first name. And say it to me.”
“Gabriel,” she said softly.
He shifted slightly, closer, and a jolt of exquisite pleasure ran through her like lightning. “Again.”
“Gabriel,” she said, and this time she pushed herself against him.
“Yes,” he answered, “yes, Livia,” and slid inside her. She cried out, and again at the abrupt resistance within her. Gabriel paused, a question now in his eyes, and she thought she would lose her mind at the wanting of him.
“Yes, Gabriel,” she told him, urgently, and he kissed her again and kept going; and when, in a thrust, the resistance within her was gone, there was only bliss, warm, wet, primeval as he moved, steadily, rhythmically, within her a building joy, and she could not for her life have articulated where she ended and he began, for it made no difference . . .
She kept her eyes open and he did the same.
It was this locked gaze that made her feel naked, no matter that clothes still shielded much of their bodies.
Naked, wild, free.
Right.
Whole.
And then her whole body was shaking as pure ecstasy shot through her, emanating from her sex and radiating to her limbs, her heart, her soul. Livia gasped; she hadn’t known, could never have dreamed this was possible. Again she cried out, loudly, choked out his name, even as he moved quickly within her, then groaned, and she felt a hot liquid warmth inside, spilling from him.