“Oh, I don’t mind.”
She closed her eyes and waited. Nothing happened. He didn’t move a single muscle. She knew; she was achingly aware of every one of them.
She opened her eyes and found him watching her with an enigmatic expression. “Well?” she demanded.
He smiled that slow, crooked smile of his that turned her bones to honey. “You start.”
Sixteen
“Me?” she croaked. “Start?”
Gabe smiled. “Yes, you start.” He rolled over and lay back, put his hands behind his head, and prepared to think of England. A man could die happy.
She raised herself on one elbow and stared at him, disconcerted. “But what do I do?”
“Whatever you like.” She looked so lovely, so disconcerted. She’d said she wanted more control, he was going to make sure she got it.
She sat up and looked down at him. It took every shred of self-control he had to remain still. That nightgown was no nightgown, it was an instrument of masculine torture, revealing…almost, and concealing…not quite. A tissue-thin draping over full, creamy breasts, a silken veil revealing berry-dark nipples tight and uplifted, pouting for his caress.
It was more erotic than total nudity. Or perhaps it was simply that the woman in the nightgown excited him more than any woman ever had. He’d even had wild erotic fantasies about her in that enormous pink flannel tent Mrs. Barrow had lent her. Thank God someone, some angel, had given her this silken invitation to madness, this covering that caressed her curves even as it both concealed and flaunted.
God, but she was beautiful, even with her sweet, earnest face scrunched with frustration as she stared down at him.
“But the man always starts,” she insisted.
“Not always,” he told her. “Besides, I’m tired.” He stretched, keeping his hands behind his head, his fingers locked. He didn’t trust himself not to reach out to her otherwise, and it was important she take the initiative.
She’d obviously never taken it before. And he was damned if he’d let their first time be for legal reasons. Or some sort of ridiculous sacrifice on her part.
She was deceiving herself, pretending she wasn’t as aroused as he was. She didn’t have to admit it in so many words—he understood that kind of reticence—but he wanted her toknowit.
She’d started this thing, teasing him that way, long after he’d warned her. Now he was going to drive her mad with desire, the way she’d driven him mad since the night they’d first met.
Then he was going to give her—and himself—the night of their lives. Hopefully the first one of many. This was his woman. He intended to grow old with her, or die trying.
“Too tired?” She lifted the covers back and peered at his drawers where his cock was doing its damnedest to get to her. “Liar!” she exclaimed. “Stop teasing!”
“Why? You’re teasing me.”
“I am not,” she denied indignantly.
His eyes dropped to her breasts in their silken wrapping. Her hands instantly came up to hide her nakedness, and he wanted to groan, but almost at once her eyes grew thoughtful and wandered to his own naked chest.
She put out one hand and ran it across his chest, stroking lightly with her fingertips, exploring and watching his face to see his reaction. She touched his nipple. It tightened under her touch. She rubbed it gently, then started on both of them. He groaned and arched under her hand, fighting for control.
She stroked his chest thoughtfully with one hand, the other scratching lightly around and around his nipple. Her gaze dropped to where a faint line of dark hair led down his stomach and into his drawers and he braced himself, but she made no move in that direction. Dammit.
“You’re like a living statue,” she murmured, running her hands appreciatively over him, caressing each swell and ripple of muscle. “I thought so when I was putting that ointment on you. Perfectly proportioned and so hard and firm, yet warm.” Her breasts brushed against him lightly as she moved.
“Very hard,” he gasped. “Very warm.” He wasn’t going to be able to take much more of this. Who was supposed to be driving whom mad? he wondered.
She glanced again at the bulge in his drawers and chewed thoughtfully on her lip. He groaned aloud. “That mouth of yours is going to kill me one day.”
“Is it?” She looked pleased and bent to kiss his mouth lightly. He seized the opportunity hungrily, his mouth claiming hers, tasting, enticing, possessing.
She drew back, her eyes, in the firelight, looking dark and smoky with desire. Her gaze wandered again to his drawers. “Would you mind if I—”
“No! Go ahead,” he ground out and braced himself as she reached for the buttons that fastened them.
