You May Kiss the Bride(83)

She hadn’t known for sure. She hoped so. But still she felt as if she were standing on the edge of a very high cliff, possibly setting herself up for a fall which would be her undoing.

The risk was enormous.

But she was going to do it anyway.

She was going to dwell in uncertainty.

She was going to reach out and make a grab for her future—for their future. A lovely, delicious grab.

Gabriel had finished. Her hair was completely unbound. It lay about her shoulders, down her back, upon her breasts, a living mantle. He placed the clasps and pins in a glittering heap on her dressing-table and she was mesmerized by how slowly he did it, this tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man moving with such leisurely grace that a wave of pure animal lust crashed over her, through her, and she didn’t waste a single moment denying it or fighting it or trying to think of it with different words. How could she, when she felt again that sweet wetness, that obvious yearning warmth, at the very core of her?

They stood facing each other, with only inches separating them, like partners in a dance. Only it was up to them to choose the figures, the patterns.

Livia waited.

Rain beat hard against the windows. A log in the fireplace snapped, settled itself.

Then Gabriel sank down on his knees before her.

And for a moment she forgot to breathe.

Still with that wonderful agonizing slowness he slid his hands to the backs of her thighs, to the sensitive skin there. He brought his mouth to her sex; it was concealed by her thin shift and petticoat, but he kissed it, kissed her, and Livia felt, with a shuddering thrill, the heat of his breath and the dampness of his tongue through the fabric.

Quickly she reached down to caress his face, his hair, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said, not looking up. “Just—be.”

She pulled back.

And he slid up her petticoat, bunching it up around her thighs.

There was now only her shift between them. And then his mouth—his lips, his tongue, sweet and knowing—was upon her again. Her knees began to tremble and part of her wanted to tip back her head, close her eyes, grope for something with which to support herself.

But not for the world would she interrupt this moment, or shut out the sight of Gabriel, the man she . . .

The man she loved.

The realization—the truth of it—blazed across her being, her heart and soul and body, and nearly toppled her over. And for a crazy moment she almost burst out laughing. What a time to comprehend her own feelings. And yet, why not?

Why not when he was giving to her this most exquisite pleasure?

How long had she loved this man, so handsome and clever, so arrogant and exasperating, so . . . so . . . so good at what he was doing to her with his mouth and hands?

Here Livia lost the train of her thought, as within her a cascade of glorious sensation built, and built—

But she wanted to wait. To delay her own conflagration, save it for later, savor it with him, together. She grasped at his hair. “Stop.”

“No. You’re nearly there.”

“Stop. Please.”

He did, and let go of her thighs as well. He looked up at her, and in the candlelight his eyes were dark pools without limit.

He said, low:

“Do you know how much power you have over me?”

“Power? What on earth are you talking about?”

“Look at me. I’m on my knees. Willingly, I might add.”

“Don’t be an idiot. This is not about power. Get up.”

Without haste he stood up.

He was—magnificent.

Then Livia fell to her knees, caught at the fall of his buckskins, rather more expertly than she had before, and revealed him, hard and ready.

“Oh, God,” he groaned.

“Be quiet!” she hissed. She sought him with her mouth but he was too tall, or she was too short: in the giddy excitement of her desire she couldn’t figure it out and instead rose quickly to her feet, grasped his hands, backed toward the bed and sat on the edge.

This was better. No, it was perfect. She pulled him closer. Touched her lips to him. He was rigid. Hot. His skin there had a kind of delectable softness. She ran her tongue along him and could tell that he liked it.

Liked it very much.

Tentatively she took him into her mouth and knew that he liked that, too. She wasn’t sure exactly what to do, but a kind of primal female instinct helped guide her, although more than once her teeth got in the way; he flinched a little but didn’t pull away from her. She stroked the warm globes beneath and heard him sharply draw in his breath.

Now he did pull away.

Fixed his eyes upon her.

“Clothing,” he muttered, frowning. “Always too much clothing.”

He ripped off his neckcloth. Gone was the languid slowness: with wonderful efficiency and speed—bordering, in fact, on savage haste—he divested himself of boots, shirt, buckskins, undergarments until he stood naked before her.