A Kiss at Midnight

He sucked harder, and she forgot the words that formed in her mind before they could reach her lips. She clutched his shoulders, but he pulled away from her. Before Kate could collect herself, he braced himself on one elbow, freeing his right hand, which slid down her leg to—

There.

“I don’t think that’s—” Kate managed.

But his fingers were dancing in her curls, and he lowered his head to her other breast, and she couldn’t answer, she couldn’t speak.

Sparks started racing up her legs, and she writhed, her hands clutching him, desperately running down his arms, over his chest. “I want,” she panted.

“What?”

He sounded entirely too lazy, too calm, and too in control. His voice penetrated her brain and she opened her eyes. She was just lying on her back like a ninny and letting him pleasure her.

Ignoring (with effort), what he was doing with his fingers, she started kissing his cheek. When he wouldn’t raise his head, she licked him like a cat, just the way he’d licked her, and purred when he shuddered at her caress.

Finally he raised his head, so she licked the edge of his lips, and then nibbled at them, because the idea occurred to her, and they looked delicious.

Gabriel put up no objection.

She let her hands run down his back and over the curve of his arse, discovering the muscles, exploring hills and valleys and the small dimples that marked his left and right side.

She could feel him stirring against her, and it seemed to her that it was likely a good sign.

“Kiss me,” she commanded, licking his lips again. “Please.”

He covered her mouth fiercely, and her arms flew back up to his neck, as if only holding him tightly would keep her steady in the firestorm of their kiss. Long drugging moments later, he broke off the kiss, only to say, “I want to make this last all night, but Kate . . .”

“What?”

“If you don’t stop rubbing against me like that, this is going to be a very short and disappointing first encounter.”

“I like it,” she said, smiling up at him and wiggling. “It makes me feel . . . warm. And soft. And”—her cheeks turned rosy—“wet.”

He framed her face with his hands, brushing her lips with his, and suddenly she felt that part of him, nudging against her.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.” Everything in her body strained, as if all her concentration had gone to that fiery place between her legs.

His eyes were black with desire. “I need to put on a French letter, as commanded,” he said, grabbing something from the bedside table. And then, a moment later . . .

He was larger and hotter than she would have imagined. He slid partway into her, and stopped, whispered something that she couldn’t understand.

She drove her hands into his hair and arched toward him. “It’s not enough,” she panted, and heard a groan that was almost a laugh . . . and then he drove forward again.

She screamed, but not because of pain. It was the feeling of being owned, possessed and taken, the sense of another person, not just any person, but Gabriel, Gabriel .

He pulled back. “Does it hurt?” he asked. “Talk to me, Kate. We don’t have to continue. We can—”

“Please,” she panted.

“Please stop?” He was hanging above her, his jaw tight, his eyes black with passion. “Does it hurt too much, love?”

“I can’t—”

“You can’t take it,” he said, withdrawing even more. “I understand. I’ve been told I’m too large before.”

“Damn it,” Kate cried, finally finding her voice. “Come back, Gabriel. Come—come now!” And she reached down and pulled him fiercely toward her.

His smile flared with pure wild joy. “That’s my Kate,” he crooned, and he stroked forward.

She arched her back instinctively, coming to meet him. He was too full, too big, too perfect. It was the very edge of tolerable. “Again,” she gasped, willing her body to accept.

Obligingly, he performed.

And again.

And again, again, again, again, again. He pumped into her until his breath was nothing more than a hoarse rasp, and sweat dampened both their bodies.

“Sweetheart,” Gabriel said, “you have to, I need you to . . .” but he lost his voice and she didn’t know how to follow the heat and the madness where her body wanted to go. Until . . .

Until she discovered that if she tightened . . . if she squeezed . . .

He let out a hoarse bellow, for one thing. Every time.

And she . . . it made flames lick down her legs and up her middle, and she arched her back again, welcoming the joy and the wildness, the sweat and the pleasure, and then . . . there it was.

Wave after wave of heat crashing through her body, until she cried with wanton pleasure, dug her fingers into him, and hung on.

Thirty-five

T hey had washed, and made love again, slow and sweet, cuddled under the blankets, as the night air grew chilly and then freezing.

“I should go,” she whispered, at some point in that long night.

“I feel like bleeding Romeo and Juliet,” Gabriel said. “Don’t start telling me about the lark, Juliet, because they don’t fly up this high.”

“I have to go,” she said, feathering kisses on his neck.

“No.” He sounded like a stubborn little boy. “No.”

She laughed against his neck and tucked her leg a bit more securely between his. She had never imagined feeling so happy, so safe.

“I will never forget you,” she whispered, because it had to be said. She had been brought up to make proper goodbyes, to say her thank-yous, to take her leave. “And I will always remember this night.”

His arms tightened around her. “You’re turning me into Romeo.”

“Romeo didn’t swear as much as you do,” she said, tracing a pattern on his chest with one finger. “It’s not princely.”

“Nothing I do is princely since I met you,” he said. “Not this night, not—not any of it.”

She couldn’t stop herself. “Just don’t forget me.” He was silent, and her heart faltered.

“Do you know what Romeo says to his bride when she’s lying there in the tomb?” Gabriel asked.

“I don’t remember,” Kate admitted.

“He promises to stay with her forever. Maybe there’s something else, and then he says, Never from this palace of dim night will I depart again . I have the palace, Kate, I have the palace, and still I can’t stay with you.”

“Doesn’t he kill himself at that point?” Kate asked cautiously.

“Yes.”

“I’d rather not be part of that,” she said. “I must say, Gabriel, that the literature you fancy seems very dark.”

“I suppose there’s a parallel between Dido and Juliet,” he said.

“Ridiculous women,” she said, resting her chin on his chest. “I adore you, but I’m not planning to build a funeral pyre in the near future.”

She felt his chuckle before she heard it, felt his smile in the kiss he dropped on her hair. “That’s my Kate.”

“I don’t have a romantic bone in my body,” she said unapologetically.