Ryan leaped, throwing herself into his arms. He swept her to him, burying his face in her neck. She wrapped her legs around his hips and he swept a hand beneath her bottom. Without another word, he carried her down the steps into the night.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gabriel was mindless. Mindless with rage at the man who dared insult Ryan, who put his hand on her; mindless with need because she was in his arms again.
He’d spent the afternoon trying to keep away from her. He’d given directions to his grooms about dismantling the furnishings for the wedding. He’d thanked them and given them an extra bag of coins for the vast change to their responsibilities these last weeks. He’d ridden to Mayapple and taken out each of Killian’s stallions, urged them to run full out and jump hedges and cantor sideways like dancers. His goal had been to pound out the doubts and desires warring inside his mind and exhaust his body to the point of collapse.
He’d succeeded only in the exhaustion—although in this moment, striding across the garden to the stables, Ryan in his arms, he felt exhilarated and boundless. He wasn’t exhausted, he was on fire. He could carry her to his camp in the forest, or to Scotland, or the moon.
He strode the garden path instead, across the stable yard, to the door of the small room. He kicked it open without slowing. Ryan had burrowed into him, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin just below his ear.She kissed, and licked, and savored; and Gabriel’s consciousness shrank to the sensation in that one spot and the echoing throb of his erection.
Once inside, he slammed the door with his boot and spun. He pressed her against the door and let out a moan. He released her only long enough to turn the lock.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, speaking the words against her lips.
“Sorry for...?” she asked sharply. Her voice was demanding and accusatory, but she didn’t wait for an answer; she kissed him hard and then pulled back. “For what are you sorry, Gabriel?”
“Sorry that I wasn’t there—not at dinner, like a reasonable...” He couldn’t think of what reasonable role he would’ve filled at dinner, so he kissed her instead.
“A doting husband?” she suggested, speaking between kisses. “A faithful lover?”
He pulled back and stared at her, breathing hard. He deserved this, and he knew it—but his excuses were shite. There was nothing left to say.
“It couldn’t be either of those,” she mused. “You are not doting, and we are not lovers, are we?”
As if to make a point, she glanced downward. Their bodies were pressed tightly together. He’d pinned her to the door.
“You’re cross,” he breathed.
“We are not lovers,” she repeated, “and you’re not really my husband, despite the fact that we stood for the most beautiful wedding anyone has ever seen, and it’s been documented and witnessed and will prevent me from marrying your cousin.”
She kissed him hard and then popped her mouth from his and took his face in her hands. “What are you, Gabriel? If you could not come to dinner and I was left to my own devices with those terrible men? Are you my devotedfriend? Is that what we are, Gabriel? Friends?” She kissed him again hard, arching off the doorway, pressing her soft heat against his aching need.
It occurred to Gabriel that “crossness” did not accurately describe how she felt in this moment. She was angry—and she had every right to be. He lifted her from the door and carried her to the bed.
He would’ve doubted her willingness to be kissed and carried and pressed against doors if she weren’t so tightly wrapped around him. Her legs hugged his hips. Her arms were at his shoulders. While he stared, panting, at her beautiful face, she launched herself at his mouth, kissing him like a woman starved. She was crossandshe wanted him. And she would have answers, apparently. God knew she deserved them.
“I am,” he growled, striding to the bed, “the only one permitted to touch you. No one but me.”
He lowered her onto the mattress and came down on top of her. He searched her face, praying this answer was enough. It was woefully insufficient but also the bloody truth.
“So touch me then,” she dared. “If you are the only one,touch me, Gabriel—please.”
The miracle of this answer was a pardon and an invitation at once. It was mindless, and he loved descending into a mist of irrational need and possession with her. There was no logic or reason or tomorrow ornext week. He’d come for her in the most primal way, and she’d allowed him to take her.
“Take off the dress,” he rasped, peeling himself off of her. Firstthis, he thought. He’d wanted to see her, to see all of her, since that first night in the dark cave. He’d wanted her splayed before him; to look his fill and touch with no limits and bring pleasure. He wanted to simplyresonatebeside her nakedness, like a cymbal struck; to thrum and vibrate and hum for her.
He balanced on a knee and rolled her toward the wall, giving himself access to the fasteners.
“The girls chose the dress,” she said.
“I don’t care,” he said. He brought his hands to the fasteners and began, roughly, to unflick each of them.
She gave a shocked little laugh. “You don’t care that your nieces chose it or you don’t care that I’m wearing it?”
“My only care for this dress is that it’s off your body.”
“Of course,” she said, and he paused. He was losing her. He’d said the wrong thing. All of this was wrong, of course; and they could only forge ahead in the wrongness if they descended together.
