“What do you want to do?” he whispered back, watching her in fascination.
They studied each other, both of them unmoving and pleasurably tense, invisible fuses burning. Very carefully, as if she were experimenting with some violently unstable substance, Pandora brought her mouth to his, trying different angles, searching and tasting with increasing fervor.
No woman had ever kissed Gabriel the way she did, wringing out sensation and soft fire as if she were sucking raw honey from the comb. The longer it went on, however, the wilder she became. One of them had to stay in control, and it clearly wasn’t going to be her, and she was making it hard. He groaned as she writhed on his lap. So damned hard.
Framing her face in his hands, he pulled back and tried to gentle her. “Easy, love. Relax. I’ll give you everything you—”
Before he could even finish the sentence, Pandora dove back in and captured his mouth with take-no-prisoners enthusiasm. Panting, she tried to feel more of his chest, fumbling at the bottom of the shirt placket, but there were no more buttons left to unfasten. She grasped the sides of the placket and tugged roughly, trying to tear the garment open. It might have worked with an ordinary shirt, but the front of an evening shirt was sewn with an extra thickness of cloth and pressed with a double portion of starch to keep it smooth.
Despite Gabriel’s acute arousal, he felt an irresistible laugh swell in his chest as he looked down at her, his small and determined pirate, who was having a moment of unexpected difficulty with bodice-ripping. But there was no way in hell he would risk hurting her feelings at such a moment. After brutally quelling the laughter, he sat up straight to tug the hem of his shirt upward and over his head, baring his chest completely.
As soon as the garment was stripped away, Pandora attached herself to him with a wrenching sigh, her hands wandering over his chest and sides with unbridled greed. Gabriel eased back in his seated position. Later he would teach her about pacing and control, about the slow build of desire, but for now, he would allow her free rein. Her braid had come unraveled, the long trailing locks as shiny as moonlight on ripples of dark water. It caressed and tickled his body as she moved on him, her hips grinding in urgent and unmeasured patterns.
Gabriel’s entire body was as taut as a man on a medieval dungeon rack. His hands clenched into the sofa cushion until his fingers threatened to punch holes through the brocade. He fought to keep his mind focused, restraining his own desire as Pandora continued to kiss him, rising and subsiding in his lap.
Tearing her mouth from his with a frazzled, wordless exclamation, Pandora dropped her head to his shoulder. She breathed in gasps, clearly not knowing what she wanted, only that the pleasure was woven with frustration, and everything she did to satisfy it only made it worse.
It was time to take control. With a sympathetic murmur, Gabriel stroked her heaving back, and gathered her loose hair into a single stream. “I want to do something for you, little love. Will you trust me for a few minutes?”
Chapter 13
Pandora considered the question without moving. She felt hot and unsatisfied, her nerves tight-strung with something like hunger, only much worse. Something gnawing and sharp and shaky. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
Gabriel’s hands moved over her with tantalizing lightness. “You know I would never hurt you.”
It didn’t escape her that he hadn’t answered the question directly. She pushed herself up on his chest then, looking down at him. He was inhumanly beautiful as he lay there beneath her, all whipcord muscle and golden sleekness, his face like something from a dream. A flush of color burnished his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, as if he’d been out in the sun too long. His light blue eyes glinted with mischief and secrets, shadowed by a tangle of long lashes. A living, breathing Adonis, she thought, a wave of gloom breaking over her.
“I think we should stop now,” she said reluctantly.
Gabriel shook his head, squinting slightly as if mystified by the statement. “We’ve barely started.”
“This can’t lead to anything. Prince Charming doesn’t belong with a girl who sits in corners, he belongs with a girl who can waltz.”
“What the devil does waltzing have to do with this?”
“It’s a metaphor.”