He never would. Gerrard waited, watched her fight to hold on to sufficient wit to consider his decree…Releasing her breasts, he loosened her sash, parted her robe and slid his hands beneath. Around, past her waist to slide down, over her hips to possessively caress the lush curves of her bottom.
Her gaze grew more distant, her senses following his wandering hands.
“Do you agree?” he prompted.
She refocused on his face, studied his eyes. “Do I have any choice?”
He eased her closer, moving deliberately into her. “No.”
Hands rising to his shoulders, she tipped back her head to keep her eyes on his. “Then why ask?”
“Because I wanted you to know the answer. To understand how things are…will be.”
“I see.” Jacqueline held his gaze as he drew her against him, quelled a reactive shiver at the strength in his hands, wondered what it was she saw burning behind the rich brown of his eyes. “And now I know…what next?”
“Now you know…” He bent his head. “We go on.”
On. That was precisely where she wanted to go; Jacqueline returned his kiss with fervor, eager to learn what path he’d chosen, what sensual avenue he’d set his mind upon.
He shifted, angling his head; the kiss turned heated, demanding. His arms closed around her, locking her to him, then his hands spread, molding her to him, leaving her in no doubt whatever of his rapacious need.
To her surprise, he drew back from the kiss, unhurriedly, as if he knew she was his and intended taking all the time he wished to savor her. Eventually he raised his head; she lifted her lids and looked up at him. He studied her face, searching, she didn’t know for what.
His hand tightened about her bottom, lifting her to him, blatantly shifting her hips against the ridge of his erection.
“The lamps-do you mind if I light them?”
His tone and the predatory look in his eyes suggested the question had sprung from ingrained manners; it was no true request.
“If you wish” was on the tip of her tongue; she caught it back, asked instead, “Why?”
His roving gaze returned to her eyes. “Because I want to see you.” Smoothly, gracefully, he released her, and clasped her hand. “To view you as I make love to you.”
Her senses leapt; she felt giddy. The heat in his eyes beckoned, caressed-promised all manner of illicit delights.
Eyes locked on hers, he raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers, then unfurled them and pressed a burningly hot kiss to her palm.
She swallowed, nodded. “Very well.”
Her voice wasn’t entirely steady. He turned her; she dragged in a breath as he led her across the room to where a pair of bronze lamps stood on either end of a narrow side table. On the wall behind the table hung a rectangular mirror, wide and high within an ornate gilt frame.
He halted before the table. Releasing her, he lit one lamp; she tracked him in the mirror as he crossed behind her to light the other. The flames flared, then steadied; he glanced at her, clearly gauging the golden light bathing her. To her surprise, he turned the lamp lower, checking the level of light, then crossed to adjust the other.
When he turned, she swung to face him. He took her hand; she expected him to lead her to the bed-instead, he moved her back, turning her, positioning her before the center of the table, facing the mirror midway between the lamps. He moved to stand behind her; over her head, he looked into the mirror-at her, her body-then lifted his gaze to her eyes. And smiled.
Not his charming social smile but that slight curving of the corners of his lips that was far more sincere-and infinitely more predatory.
“Perfect.” Reaching for her shoulders, he drew her robe down and away. He tossed it aside, over an armchair, but his eyes never left her; as he stepped closer, his gaze lowered from her face. In the mirror she followed his gaze, and saw what he did, the tight peaks of her full breasts standing proud through the fine lawn of her nightgown.
The gown was virginal white, thin and soft, now gilded by the warm glow from the lamps. She’d fastened the long placket to just above her breasts. His gaze drifted lower, over the indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips, and lower, over her stomach to the faint shadow that was the curls at the apex of her thighs. His gaze lingered, then swept slowly on and down, then unhurriedly returned to her face.
The lengthy perusal had heated her; as he studied her eyes she wondered if it showed. She was tensing to turn and face him when he shifted, and lifted her hair. She’d brushed it out; a thick rippling river, she’d left it running down her back. He speared his fingers through it, then raised his hands and lifted the spread veil forward, over her shoulders.
His face a mask, hard, unreadable, he laid the long tresses down. Shaking his fingers free, he studied the result, then artfully shifted this strand, then that, until he was satisfied.
Until her bright brown hair lay partially over her breasts, an inadequate but distracting screen, burnished by the lamplight.
Before she could comment, he reached for her; sliding his hands about her waist, he closed the last inches between them. She felt his hard warmth at her back and relaxed, but his hold on her waist prevented her from sinking back against him.
Holding her before him, he bent his head; through the strands of her hair, with his lips he found and traced her lobe, then dipped to press a long kiss to the sensitive spot behind her jaw.
“Unbutton your nightgown.”
The words whispered past her ear, distilled seduction. She inwardly smiled; catching his eye as he glanced up, into the mirror, she willingly raised her fingers to the highest button, and slid it free.
His hands rode at her waist, hot and strong, fingers tensing as her hands descended. He watched, unblinking, as she slipped each button free.
“Open it. Wide.”
Gravelly, forceful, the quiet words sent a shiver spiraling down her spine. Her gaze locked on the vision in the mirror, she grasped the sides of the nightgown and slowly lifted them apart, drew them aside, revealing her breasts, full, firm, already tight.
The lamplight flowed over her, highlighting planes and curves, casting others in shadow. His gaze didn’t race, but perused her bared flesh in an intense yet leisurely appraisal; under that blatantly assessing, flagrantly male gaze, her nipples furled into painfully tight buds.
He straightened, lifting his head. Still close behind her, he raised his hands-caught her gaze as he closed the fingers of each about the rucked shoulders of her nightgown, and eased it off, and down.
Glancing down, he ran his hands down her arms, freeing them from the gown’s sleeves. “Put your hands on the edge of the table.”
He looked up, met her eyes as, wondering, she slowly obeyed, leaning forward to place her hands on the wooden tabletop, lightly gripping the edge.
“Don’t shift your hands until I give you leave.”
His to do with as he pleased.
A shudder racked her, yet she felt no trepidation, not the lightest lick of fear. What she felt was excitement, the dark thrill of wanton desire.
And he was feeding that, scripting the moment-as he wished, perhaps, but why did he wish it? She glanced at his face, the planes austere in the lamplight, his expression stark, not so much impassive as set.
His gaze had left her face to wander down over her breasts, then lower. Her nightgown had gathered in loose folds about her hips. His hands returned, palms sliding bare across her naked skin, warm yet hard, long-fingered, strong as they lightly gripped her waist, then swept, slowly, down.
Over her hips, taking her nightgown with them until it slipped over her thighs and slid to the floor, a soft puddle at her feet.
Leaving her naked, bathed in lamplight.
