Chapter Twenty-Two
Sophie crossed the floor with slow, deliberate steps. Each footfall pressed lightly into the plush Aubusson rug. She pulled in a breath, then another, shoring up her courage. She’d faced armed men with less trepidation. She wanted this…wanted him…so very badly. Yet, harboring a delicious fantasy was quite a different proposition than being intimate with the man who’d made her feel so very exposed, as if her heart was his for the taking.
She felt so very alive.
Gavin approached her and paused, still as if carved from marble, regarding her with a look that blended desire and a hint of disbelief. Did he suspect she would not be as bold as her provocative words had implied?
My, she had spoken impetuously, hadn’t she? Her desire for Gavin was a sweet, decadent hunger. Did she dare to give in to her need, dare to allow her desire free reign?
Her desire for Gavin was impetuous. Ill-advised. Illogical. She could not even profess a fondness for the man. He’d driven her to distraction with his sly ways and outrageous, teasing humor. He was a rogue. Perhaps even a scoundrel. And that was by his accounting. If she indulged her thirst for him, there could be no enduring bond.
And what would be the harm in that? It wasn’t as if she sought promises to love, honor, and cherish. It wasn’t as if she desired a band of gold upon her finger.
It wasn’t as if she wanted forever.
No, a man who’d offer his name and spoken vows would expect far more than she was prepared to give.
Devil take it, she would not succumb to doubt. There would be no harm in loving him, even if only for this one delectable interlude.
The toes of her slippers touched his boots. A hint of desire curved his mouth. Ah, how she longed to taste his kiss. His caress would be wanton and tantalizing and oh-so-very-sweet.
And it would be only the beginning.
Standing head and shoulders taller than Sophie, he didn’t reach for her, didn’t touch her. Rather, he waited for her to make the first move, to make it indelibly clear that she sought pleasure only he could give. This powerful man held his strength in check, allowing her to set the pace.
He awaited her touch with tender patience. The simmering fire in his eyes emboldened her. A heady craving coursed through her veins. How she wanted him.
Wanted Gavin.
She ached to learn the texture of his skin, to explore his male body, to discover how to bring him pleasure with a mere touch—as he had done to her.
If only she could convince herself one wicked seduction would be enough…
Rising on her toes, she tenderly pressed her lips to his full mouth. Tentative, at first. Seeking affirmation of his passion, of his desire.
A low groan escaped him. His arms enfolded her, drawing her to his heat and his strength. She deepened the kiss. Her tongue parted his lips, engaging him in a sensual thrust and parry, each tiny flicker of contact more electric, more heated than the last.
His hands slipped lower, cupping her bottom, holding her gently, even as his kiss branded her with a fierce longing. The undeniable proof of his hunger pressed to her belly. What would it be like to harbor him within her, to draw him deeper and deeper, until the two had truly become one?
Her arms curved around his neck, and she pressed her body closer. Canting her hips with a newfound wantonness, she cradled his erect length. A surge of awareness coursed through her, setting her nerves ablaze.
She craved more. Of his touch. Of his lean body melded to hers. Of him.
Weaving her fingers through his hair, she kissed him again. And then, she brushed her fingertips against the stubble accenting his strong jaw, delighting in the slightly coarse feel. So very different from her skin. So very male.
Her desire sparked a sudden daring, a boldness she’d never dreamed lay within her. She fixed her attention on his shirt, unfastening the buttons, slipping the crisply pressed cloth over his shoulders. She’d never undressed a man. Not even so much as untying a cravat. Her fingers fumbled nervously over a button, then another. For a heartbeat, she wondered if he found her unpracticed movements clumsy, perhaps even unseemly.
His harsh indrawn breath, a definite gasp of pleasure, pushed that fear aside.
Shrugging off his shirt, he finished what she’d started and cast the garment to the carpet.
Sophie’s mouth went dry.
What a magnificent creature!
She ran her fingers over his lean-muscled chest, savoring the warmth of skin tanned beneath the desert sun. Dark hair feathered over the carved planes, and she sampled its texture, taking in its crisp feel against her fingertips.
Lean, sleek, and powerful, his muscles tensed against her featherlight caress. What would it be like to curve her hands around those strong shoulders, holding tight as passion overtook her, savoring every moment of precious contact?
He dipped his head, and his mouth claimed hers again. She melted into him. His power over her seemed a sweet, maddening elixir.
She shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t delight in every touch, every kiss. But she did.
His large, slightly roughened hands unbuttoned her blouse, and for the first time in her life, she wished she’d worn a corset. Covered only by a thin cotton chemise, her nipples pebbled against the translucent cloth, she may as well have been naked before him. Had she ever felt so vulnerable?
He smiled, sly and knowing. Had he read her thoughts?
“You’re beautiful, Sophie.” He traced her mouth with his fingertip, seeming to savor every touch. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. You only need to tell me…if I take a step too far.”
She moistened her lips. “I want this. So very much.”
He kissed her again, a sweetly flavored caress. “I meant what I said. The slightest doubt and we will return to the way we were.”
She smiled, basking in the potent desire in his gaze. “For heaven’s sake, will you stop talking and kiss me again?”
He pulled her close, pulled off the chemise, and murmured, “As you wish.”
This time, when he pressed his lips to hers, his touch felt somehow different. Hungrier. More intense. The tender possession seared her, stirring the flames within to a sizzling blaze.
His hand cupped her breast, circling her nipple, teasing, loving, coaxing. He ducked his head, catching the delicate nub between his lips. His tongue darted out, swirling tiny circles over the pebbled flesh.
Could desire truly drive one mad? She closed her eyes, melting into him, trusting his strong arms to hold her.
He guided her backward to the settee, one small step after another. Her calves bumped the cushion, and he eased her down.
“Relax, Sophie. Give me your pleasure. That’s all I ask.”
His other hand pressed her back, and then his arm slid behind her, holding her in a light, open embrace. A wicked smile played on his mouth.
“I want to touch you. Everywhere.” He pressed a tender caress to her lips. “Tell me, darling. Do you want me, Sophie?”
Her name on his lips tore down the last of the shields she’d erected around her heart. She gave a fierce nod.
“Yes, Gavin. So very much.”
Slipping her skirts higher, his hand edged along her thigh. His so-very-clever fingers trailed leisurely along the inside of her leg, stirring her hunger for him to a fever pitch. He kissed her then, teasing her mouth with his, even as his hand glided over the soft cotton of her chemise. Exploring her heat. Testing her response.
She arched her back and released a soft breath, a silent plea for more of his touch.
He flashed a hint of a smile, deliciously wicked, and obliged her unspoken request. His fingers slid under her chemise, found the opening in her drawers.
His fingers brushed the flesh at the apex of her thighs. Light, feathery touches, each kindling a new spark of pleasure, a sweet, intense ache that spread heat through her limbs, through her veins. She wanted this…wanted him.
His possessive touch was even more entrancing than she’d imagined. Indescribable tenderness melded with a fierce hunger, commanding her senses. Each brush of his fingertips stirred an innate need to a near-blinding swell of desire. And still, he kissed her, anointing her throat and the curve of her breasts with whisper-light caresses.
She drifted in a whirlpool of sensation. Clinging to him. Digging her fingertips into his powerful shoulders.
“Oh, Gavin.” Tinged with the intensity of her thirst for him, her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.
“Sweet, sweet Sophie,” he rasped against her ear. “Come for me, darling. Give me the gift of your pleasure.”
His gravel-edged plea unleashed the last of her restraint. Pleasure engulfed her. So very intense. Nearly akin to pain, yet so utterly delicious and wanton.
He muffled her cry of passion with his kiss. And still, she clung to him, trusting him with her surrender. At that moment, she would have given him anything.
Her body. Her heart. Her love.
Love.
The word drifted through her hazy thoughts. Surely I am not falling in love with Gavin Stanwyck.
No, that could not be.
The very notion was a kind of madness. She was not a woman who cultivated tender emotions. Didn’t she know better? She would never surrender her heart to a man—any man, no matter how handsome and dashing and clever. No matter how thorough and unselfish a lover he might be.
She held him closer, savoring the aftershocks of her climax. There’d be time to consider such questions later, when she was able to form a rational thought. For now, she wanted only to lie with Gavin, to drink in every precious moment in his arms.
“That was…a most breathtaking experience,” she whispered against his mouth. Her hands glided lower, exploring the contours of his chest, the sinewy muscles of his arms. Her palms glanced over the firm, flat plane of his abdomen. A dark, tantalizing line of brown hair led from his navel lower, to the ridge of his erect shaft, straining against the taut fabric of his trousers.
She swallowed hard against a wave of desire. She wanted to touch his aroused flesh, to send him coursing into that same vortex of sensation. Could she be so bold? She drew in a sharp breath.
He stilled her hand and caressed the curve of her cheek. “I want you desperately, but now is not the time.”
“I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”
“God, you’re beautiful, Sophie. Especially when you’re flushed with passion.” He swept an errant curl behind her ear. “Stay with me. Say you’ll spend the day…and the night…with me.”
…
A sharp rapping at the door tore Gavin from the haze of desire. What the bloody hell? What could be so blasted urgent?
“Professor, ye have a visitor,” Mrs. Edson called through the door. “Farnsworth is assisting Avery at the moment, so I took the liberty of welcomin’ yer guest.”
Blast the luck.
It wasn’t like Mrs. Edson to disturb him when he’d retired to his study. Of course, given Sophie’s presence, the matron had no reason to believe he’d be huddled with his journals or immersed in research. He dragged in a breath, stripping away his momentary irritation.
“Please take his card and offer my regrets.”
“It’s Mr. MacIntyre, sir. He insists on seein’ ye,” the housekeeper persisted. “He says it’s a matter of some urgency.”
Henry. Had his assistant learned of his close call the night before? More likely, he’d stumbled upon a new scrap of information, some new intelligence that might point to the culprit who’d led Peter to his death.
Sophie inclined her head toward the door, then met his gaze. Her smile was soft and so damned tempting, it was all he could do to leave the settee and the warm, delicious woman reclining against it.
“Impeccable timing, if I must say,” she whispered. “You must see what it’s about.”
With a groan, Gavin shrugged his shirt over his shoulders. “Give me a moment,” he called to the housekeeper.
Sophie closed her blouse and stood to smooth her skirts. Her slender fingers combed through her hair, arranging the lush honey-gold curls in some semblance of order. Not that it mattered. She might appear as prim as a vicar’s wife, but the lovely rose flush on her cheeks would betray they’d occupied their time behind closed doors involved in a pursuit far more stimulating than discussing hieroglyphs and excavation techniques.
With a turn of the latch, Gavin opened the door. Henry stood behind Mrs. Edson, his expression grim. He stepped forward into the chamber.
“Mrs. Edson told me you were set upon by thieves last night. Are you well?”
“Well enough,” Gavin replied, slanting his housekeeper a speaking glance.
“I knew you’d want Mr. MacIntyre to be informed.” The matron clipped off the words. “I’m not one to run carrying tales, no matter how exciting.”
“Indeed. It’s one of the qualities I most value in you, Mrs. Edson.”
The housekeeper’s gaze lit on Sophie. Mrs. Edson held her features firm, though her mouth twitched, as if she wanted to smile and had thought better of it. Just as he thought, Sophie’s telltale blush laid waste to any attempt at discretion.
“Might I bring tea and biscuits?”
“No, thank you. That will be all for now.”
The matron went on her way, closing the door behind her. Gavin spoke a few words of introduction. All the while, Henry eyed Sophie as if she were Delilah, come to call with shears in hand. Damned odd, given the man had seemed ready to charge to her defense just two nights earlier.
“Sophie Devereaux.” Henry uttered her name as if it were an epithet. “Have you taken it upon yourself to enlighten Professor Stanwyck as to the truth? Or should I?”
Perched on the settee, Sophie curled her fingertips into the arm of the piece. Her complexion blanched as her mouth thinned to a seam. Henry’s tone was unacceptable. He had no call to unsettle her.
He turned to his assistant. “Blast it, Henry, what’s got into you? I’ll ask you not to speak to the lady in that manner.”
“I see she hasn’t told you.”
“Told me what?”
Henry marched to the settee, glaring down at her. “Are you going to tell him the truth, or should I have that honor?”
What the bloody hell did he think he was doing? Gavin clamped a hand over the younger man’s arm. “Have you gone mad? Move away from the lady.”
Sophie opened her mouth to speak, but Henry cut her off. “He deserves the truth. Because of you, he was nearly killed. He deserves to know—”
Gavin dug his fingers into his assistant’s lapels and pulled him roughly aside. “I will not tolerate such boorishness in a lady’s presence. Especially from you.”
“Lady?” Henry’s brows rose. “I do not know if that description applies.”
Bugger it, he’d gone too far. Had the man been drinking so early in the morning? Gavin reined in an impulse to plow his fist into Henry’s reddened face.
Sophie’s hand upon his forearm calmed him. “There is no need for violence. I should go.”
“Tell him, Miss Devereaux.” The anger in Henry’s voice had dimmed. “Or should I call you Miss Adams?”
Sophie went very still. The look in her eyes seemed a confession.
He gave his assistant a shake, as if that would tamp down the anger in his eyes. “Enough, Henry.”
“She is known to her readers as S. Adams.”
“S. Adams? God above, Henry, I am the one who was drugged last night. And yet you’re barging in here spouting drivel about false identities. What’s come over you?”
Sophie lifted her hand and stepped away. Two arms’ length separated them, as if she’d deliberately put the distance between them as a buffer.
“There is no need to be angry with Mr. MacIntyre.” Her softly spoken words were edged with steel. “He is speaking the truth. S. Adams is an alias, one I’ve used long enough for it to be as comfortable as a long-cherished blanket. Shall we say the public is far more receptive to an exposé if the readers do not know a woman is holding the pen.”