“For what?” Gabriel moved her off his lap, sat up, and raked his hands through his hair. Despite his attempts to restore order, the golden-bronze locks fell back into disheveled layers, some sliding over his forehead, and it looked wonderful. He laid an arm across the back of the sofa, his gaze locked on her.
Pandora was so distracted by his tautly muscled torso and arms, and the tantalizing fleece of hair on his chest, she could barely recall the answer. “For all the things I can’t do. Your wife will have to act as hostess for all kinds of events, and attend balls and soirées with you, and what woman with two perfectly good legs can’t dance with her husband? People would ask. What excuse could I give them?”
“We’ll say I’m a jealous husband. That I never want you to be in any man’s arms but mine.”
Pandora frowned, pulling the front of her nightdress together. She felt aggrieved and even a bit self-pitying—and there was nothing she despised more than self-pity. “As if anyone would believe that,” she muttered.
Gabriel took her upper arms in a firm grip. His eyes were as bright as lit matches as he stared at her. “I never want you to be in any man’s arms but mine.”
The world stopped on its axis. Pandora was stricken and frightened to think there might be even a grain of truth in his words. No, he didn’t mean it. He was manipulating her.
She pushed at his chest. It was as hard as a stone wall. “Don’t say that.”
“You belong with me.”
“No.”
“You feel it,” he insisted, “every time we’re together. You want—”
She tried to hush him with her mouth, which in retrospect was not the wisest tactic. Gabriel responded immediately, his kiss deep and demanding.
In the next moment she was on her back, stretched out beneath him. He braced enough of his weight on his elbows and knees to keep from crushing her, but she was still anchored securely, pressed into the sofa cushions while he kissed her with slow, consuming ardor. He seemed determined to prove something, as if she didn’t already want him, as if she weren’t already weak with hunger. Her mouth opened to his, absorbing the intoxicating taste of him, the smooth male heat, the erotic exploration of his tongue. She couldn’t stop her hands from sliding over the heavy muscles of his back, the skin luxurious to the touch, thicker and more satiny than her own.
His parted lips dragged slowly over her neck and down to her breasts. She arched as he captured a taut nipple with his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, catching at it lightly with his teeth. His hand covered her other breast, shaping the malleable flesh, before sliding along the side of her body, charting the curves of waist and hip. The hem of her nightdress had ridden up on her thighs, making it easy for him to tug it up to her waist. Shocked, she clamped her thighs together.
Her toes bunched at the sound of his soft laugh. Devilish, sensuous, knowing. Easing to his side, Gabriel trailed his fingertips across her stomach to her navel, caressing around it with lazy circles. At the same time, he kissed and sucked at the tip of her breast until it was wet and unbearably sensitive.
His fingertips tickled their way down to the thatch of silky-coarse curls between her thighs, stroking idly. Pandora writhed, her gaze unfocused. Oh God, was she really letting him do this? Yes, she was. Moaning with shame and worry, she felt him playing softly with her, the tip of his middle finger sliding into the top of the delicate furrow of her sex. A brief, ticklish swirl left her gasping. Her legs pressed together more tightly.
His mouth released her breast. “Open to me,” he whispered.
She bit her lip as he stroked through the curls, the darting touches of his fingers making her weak. Her body was nothing but heat driven by heartbeats. Nothing was clear anymore. Nothing mattered except what he was doing to her. Her legs shook, and she whimpered at the effort it took to keep them together.
“Pandora . . .” His voice was soft and seductive. “Open to me.” His fingertip insinuated between the sensitive folds of her sex and wriggled gently. The sensation rippled through her like flickers of white flame. “So stubborn,” he whispered. “Oh, Pandora, don’t tempt me. You’re going to make me do something wicked.” His forefinger slid along the seam of her closed thighs. “Just part them one inch. For me.” A hot breath of laughter fanned against her skin. “Not even an inch?”
“It’s embarrassing,” she protested. “You’re bothering my nervous condition.”
“This is a well-known treatment for female nerves.”
“It’s not helping. You’re . . . ahh! . . . making it worse . . .”