Absolute Pleasure (11 page)

He continued on, his fingers blazing a trail, tracing the bumps, dips, and ridges of her spine, men he traveled on to her hips and bottom. Though her feminine figure was protected by skirt and petticoat, he could determine shape and substance. She was lush, curvaceous, a temptress who fueled his flights of masculine fancy.

"I adore your body," he whispered. "You're voluptuous, superb in all the ways a woman should be."

Intending to shock and provoke, he tossed her hair over her shoulder, revealing a broad expanse of her upper back, then he deftly unfastened the two top buttons of her dress. The maneuver instantly slackened the front so that it fell away from her bosom.

At his audacity, she gasped in dismay, clutching at her cleavage while whipping around to glare at him, shooting him with her teeming disapproval. She was breathtaking; she appeared to be disrobing for a lover, or perhaps, surprised in her boudoir as she rushed to don her apparel after hours of illicit sexual coquetry.

"Don't move," he commanded. "Stay just as you are while I draw."

Rapidly, he commenced recording her, but he couldn't sketch swiftly enough. How he wished there was a device that could immediately capture her likeness! That he could snap his fingers, and have her naturalness accurately illustrated!

Frustrated by his slow methodology, his hand nevertheless glided over the pages. She was an incredible model, centered, motionless, serene at her task, and with simple, stark lines, he scrupulously depicted what his eye so distinctly noted: her beauty, her sensuality, her suppressed, erotic disposition.

He drew more than she'd really revealed, using artistic license to widen the split in her dress, then to do away with it altogether, so that he was sketching bare back and buttocks, the naughty spots provocatively shielded by her hair.

Moving the stool, so that he was observing her profile, he took further aesthetic liberties, dropping her gown more than it actually was so that a breast was exhibited to the nipple. By examining her so thoroughly, by delving across skin and bone, he knew much and could infer the rest. While sharpening his talent, he'd meticulously analyzed the human form, had drawn thousands—if not tens of thousands—of people in his life. His imagination was vivid, and he could surmise how she would look unclothed.

He drew until his hand grew tired, until he glanced up and noted that she was exhausted from holding the pose he'd demanded. In mid-stroke, he halted.

"That's enough for now," he said, and she slumped down.

As always happened when he’d been in a frenzy of composition, his flourish of inspiration ebbed, leaving fatigue in its wake. His arms were tired, and his pencil slipped to the floor, his fingers no longer capable of sustaining its weight.

Diverse illustrations were scattered about them, like leaves fallen from a tree, evidence of his stimulating burst of creativity.

He leaned down and scooped up several of them, scanning them for skill and precision. She appeared just as he'd wanted her to, just as he saw her.

Satisfied, he held them out.

"Look," he ordered.

Nervously, she peeked down, but she was apprehensive, even though she was exceptionally tantalizing in each one. He had the talent to correctly reproduce her handsome features, and his ability hadn't failed him.

"Look!" he repeated more gently.

Tentatively, she peered at the top one, a silhouette that showed her to be pretty, and so very, very sexy.

She scrutinized it for a protracted period, awed and astounded that he perceived her in a light so divergent from her own. "Is this really me?"

"Si."

Her eyes searched his, probing for equivocation or fabrication, but he was telling her the truth: She had a significant elegance, but she took great pains to hide it.

Upon accepting the depth of his sincerity, a blush reddened her cheeks, and her attention skittered away, resting, once again, on the drawing.

"It doesn't seem possible."

She was so unsure of herself! So unaware of her innate appeal and charm! Evidently, her comeliness had been disparaged and belittled for so long that she couldn't picture herself as remotely attractive, and his heart went out to her. What must her life have been like, growing up under Findley Harcourt's direction and authority?

As she inspected the sketch in detail, she was a lonely, tragic figure, and he suffered outlandish pangs of peculiar sentiment: to protect and shelter, to cherish and admire, to nurture and comfort.

With his previous lovers, he'd ceaselessly been conscious of their lack of self-esteem. He had a knack for detecting a woman's insecurities and utilizing them to bolster their pride and independence, but he'd invariably done so in order to achieve the end result, which was his financial enrichment.

Yet, as he assessed Lady Elizabeth, he was compelled to acknowledge that his misplaced affection for her had changed his original incentives. He had no ulterior motive. He truly cared about her and wanted her to be happy.

What a bizarre transformation! Just how was he supposed to deal with such a curious turn of events? If he wasn't pursuing her for economic enhancement, what was his goal? Certainly not a permanent relationship. Because of her status, they had no future. She'd never stoop so low; he'd never reach so high.

So what was his intent?

He couldn't define his objective; he only knew that he had to convince her that his appreciation was genuine.

Eager to wipe away her frown, to assuage her reservations, he slid his stool nearer, so that they were side by side, but facing each other, and he took the stack of renderings from her.

"I'm not lying, Elizabeth," he said, boldly pronouncing her given name, and relishing how it rolled off his tongue.

"Mr. Cristofore—"

"Gabriel," he declared. "You're the most extraordinary woman I've met in a long while."

He rifled through the stack, hunting for one of his favorites, where he felt he'd adequately portrayed her basic character: a profile of her naked shoulder, of the swell of her breast. It was a stirring, captivating drawing that animated and vitalized his male sensibilities.

"When I see you like this"—he gestured over the parchment—"I'm aroused and titillated. As a man. As a potential lover. You excite me with your sensual nature. I'm utterly bewitched."

"I want your words to be true," she murmured.

"They are."

Finally, she found the courage to wrench her appraisal from the sketch. She gazed at him, so ingenuous, and so damned fetching. Previously, he'd warned himself away from the foolishness of kissing her, yet abruptly, he couldn't recall why he'd chosen caution and restraint over intemperance and excess.

Circumspection wasn't part of his constitution and never had been. Without hesitating to debate the lunacy of what he was about to do, or to dissuade himself from his impetuous, dangerous course, he narrowed the distance between them.

His mouth brushed her own, and sweetly, deliberately, she permitted the tender overture. Her lips perfectly melded to his as if they had been sculpted for kissing him and no other purpose.

Ah,
he thought,
this is what heaven must be like.

His senses reeling, his blood pounding through his veins, his cock hard and braced for action, he closed his eyes and indulged.

Chapter Seven

As Gabriel's lips settled upon her own, Elizabeth wasn't shocked in the least For the prior four days and nights, for longer than that—perhaps her entire life—she'd dreamed about this moment, and she was delighted to find that she had vastly underestimated the actualities of the event. In fact, her fantasies were nothing compared to the reality.

He gently cuddled against her, and she readily allowed the intimacy. Automatically, her eyes fluttered shut, and her senses engaged, heightening her enjoyment. She could smell the soap with which he bathed, the starch his laundress used in his shirt. There were other aromas, as well, of linseed oil and turpentine, of the fresh outdoor air, and another, more distinct scent that was uniquely his.

His chin brushed hers, and she felt the hint of whiskers on his shaved skin. The sensation was exhilarating, the experience absolutely too luscious for words, and she wanted it to never end.

With practiced ease, he nimbly and cleverly taught her how to react, how to respond, and she was amazed to note that she had an extraordinary aptitude for kissing, that she adapted to it as though she'd kissed him a thousand times.

Her world seemed to have tipped off balance with the onslaught of stimulation. She was alive in every pore, invigorated down to the smallest bodily particle. Her breasts swelled, her nipples throbbed. She was aching and restless, the mysterious womanly core between her legs contracting, her body crying out for a relief that was just beyond her ken.

She reached for him, steadying her hands on his forearms. The gesture was an approval of sorts, a surrender, a request for more, and he didn't disappoint.

Enhancing the pressure, thrilling her further, he deepened the kiss, a greater urgency in his motions and maneuvers. The move pushed her backward, but as there was no support on the rear of the stool, he stabilized her, holding her firmly in place so he could continue his masterful provocation.

Her front was snuggled against him, her breasts in direct contact with his chest. The collision set off a maelstrom of agitation. Her clothing was too tight, her corset a useless requirement.

She yearned to have his agile fingers coursing across every inch of her exposed flesh. Her torso screamed out for manipulation and handling. If he didn't touch her—immediately—she just might expire!

As if intuiting her increased perturbation, he intensified the embrace. His tongue flicked at her mouth, parting her lips. Asking. Asking. Instinctively, she perceived what he wanted; she opened and welcomed him inside.

He tasted like wine and tobacco, and she reveled in the novel flavors. Reeling, she tightened her grip, and he responded by pulling her off her stool and onto his lap. Her hip was wedged into his groin, and his tongue in her mouth. He explored, and as she acclimated, she grew more bold. With her own tongue, she eagerly stroked his in the rhythm he'd instituted, and the intrepid gesture caused him to growl low in his throat. The sound reverberated through her, encouraging her to augment her participation, rather than sit and passively receive his attentions.

She investigated the flex of shoulder, the width of chest, the strength of muscle. He was flat where she was rounded, hard where she was soft, rough where she was smooth, and she couldn't get enough. With mind and body, she endeavored to imprint every impression for later dissection and analysis.

She couldn't have guessed how long they tarried, hugging and caressing. The procedure was fiery and ardent, then tender and loving, and she was astonished by the myriad of methods and techniques to be learned in what she'd ceaselessly thought to be a simple phenomenon.

Gradually, the kiss wound to a subdued conclusion, but he didn't desist He burrowed across her cheek, under her chin, down her neck, to bite at her nape. Goose bumps flared and tickled down her spine, all the way to her toes.

Snuggling against him, she was assailed by his heat his masculinity. She rested, wishing she could stay forever, that she would never have to go, but men the dastardly distant clock began to strike four, once more signaling the conclusion of her idyllic escapade.

In an instant, her adventure in paradise was terminated.

"I'm starting to hate that clock," she murmured into the fabric of his shirt.

"As am I."

He chuckled, the undiluted pleasure of it making her feel connected to him as she'd never imagined it possible to be.

She had to withdraw, to separate herself, but she couldn't move. Once she detached herself, she'd have no reason to linger. Depressingly, she'd have to depart for her lonely, dreary home that was filled with such rancor and strife, yet now that she'd been kissed by Gabriel, she couldn't conceive of returning there.

By permitting him to slacken her dress, by sanctioning his free running of his hands over her person, she'd gone much farther than she'd ever supposed she might She had to rein in her wanton behavior! Yet even as she scolded herself, and warned herself against greater involvement, she knew that she'd visit him again, and very likely would cooperate in whatever reckless acts he precipitated.

Where he was concerned, she had no willpower.

"I should go."

"Yes, you should," he concurred, but he didn't set her away, and she was somewhat mollified that he was in no rush.

There was no other option, though; she couldn't delay. Mary would be waiting in the main house and, considering Elizabeth's dishabille, she would require several minutes to repair the damage their outburst of passion had performed on her hair and clothes. Giving herself a mental shake, she forced herself away, sliding from his lap to the stool on which she'd originally been sitting.

As this was the first occasion she'd ever engaged in a tryst, she wasn't sure how to conduct herself now that the ardor had waned. She couldn't look at him, so she stared at the floor.

"Would you help me with my dress?"

"With pleasure." But he didn't stand.

Instead, he leaned in to her line of sight, so that she couldn't avoid him. "There's nothing improper with what we've been doing."

"I know," she said, for even though her comportment went against everything she'd ever been told, she wasn't sorry. Every second of the episode had been exceptional, and she'd take up with him again in a heartbeat if he but asked.

"Don't be embarrassed."

"I'm not. I just..."

Just what?
How could she convey how special the afternoon had been?

Being in his presence made her feel as though she'd walked out of a dark room and into the bright sunlight. The interval stretching ahead, when she would have to survive without him, was gray and indistinct. Separation was overtly dismal, and apparently, she didn't hide her despondency very well.

"Why are you so sad?" he inquired.

"Am I such an open book? You read me too easily."

"I can't explain it. It seems we've always been acquainted. That we’ve always been close. I can determine your thoughts, almost before they enter your head."

Since she was suffering from the same heightened discernment, she was relieved by his confession. Perhaps her bizarre perceptions of cognition and affinity weren't so absurd after all.

"I'm not really sad," she said. "It's so marvelous when I'm with you. I feel as if I belong here, that it would be wrong for me to leave." And the concept of
home
had grown so distasteful that she couldn't bear the idea of going, but she was too proud to admit the sorry state of her personal affairs.

If only she could do more to change her life besides grasping at illicit, stolen moments with a handsome libertine!

"I wish you could stay longer," he surprised her by declaring.

"So do I."

"What a tangle..." he murmured, mirroring her musings exactly.

"Aye."

"There's so much I'd like to show you; so much I'd like to tell you."

What a positively romantic remark! What a silly ninny she was to be so affected by it! "And what would you tell me," she dared to query, "if you had all the time in the world to say it?"

"That I didn't understand how it could be between a man and a woman." He gestured between them, indicating what had just transpired, and he took her hand, linking their fingers. "Nothing similar has ever happened to me before."

The statement sank in, and she hesitated. She'd been anticipating something individual and fanciful, but unfortunately, the comment sounded like rehearsed seduction drivel. She tried to wrench her hand away, but he gripped it too tightly. "Don't utter such gibberish to me."

"What?"

"We both know it's not true, and—"

After a lengthy pause, he demanded, "And what?'

"And... you make me wish it was," she blurted out angrily.

She gave a fierce tug, yanking herself free, and she shifted on her stool, displaying her back to him. Blessedly, he remained where he was, watching her. His sizzling regard roved up and down her spine, but he didn't interrupt her attempts to compose herself.

Oh, but this was hopeless! What was she doing here? What was she seeking to accomplish? They could never have an enduring relationship. He wasn't the type to court a woman, and she wasn't the sort he'd choose even if he did desire a woman for more than a harmless flirtation. Dallying with him was torture, a slow, systematic torment that served no valid purpose.

She swallowed, forcing down the swell of emotion that was abruptly choking her. "Please button my dress."

He stood and laid his palms on her shoulders. "Why can't you trust me?"

"Because I'm quite sure," she dolefully replied, "that you've whispered those same words to any number of women, here in this very room."

"Bella— "

"It's difficult for me to be with you"—she glared around at him as he fixed her gown—"and to comprehend that this is the sole extent of what will ever occur between us. Don't falsely elevate my expectations. It wounds me when you do."

His responding gaze was so sincere that she could have been easily beguiled by his earnestness. "I meant what I said," he proclaimed. "Believe it or no."

As if he couldn't bear to delve into such contentious topics, he brusquely dropped the subject. "Let's get your hair up."

He rummaged around on the sofa and floor, searching
for her combs, and she straightened on the stool as he snuggled himself behind her. With an adept twisting, he had her hair anchored as carefully as any coiffeur might have done it.

Then, mere was nothing else to do but go, and she rose, but she couldn't make her feet take those wavering steps toward the door. She assessed her surroundings as if she might never return. What a gloomy supposition!

"You'll visit again, won't you?' he asked.

Was there anticipation in his voice? Was he nervous? Unsure? "Yes, I will." She couldn't fathom any other alternative. "When?"

"How about Monday?"

Three days away! Infinity!
Calmly, she answered, "Monday will be fine. What hour would be good for you?"

"Much earlier," he urged. "How about in the morning? You could share the noon meal with me. Spend the day."

"Oh, Gabriel—"

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and roughly jerked her to him, the unforeseen move cutting off me remainder of her reply. His fingers were spread wide and almost touching her breasts, spurring her to undergo an agonizing instant where she couldn't decide if she was hoping he would—or wouldn't—move higher.

"Say my name again."

He kissed the sensitive spot on her neck, just below her ear, and she shivered. "Gabriel."

Speaking his name aloud was a capitulation, a relinquishment of fortitude, a recognition of how much he'd begun to mean to her, of how much more important he'd be in the future.

She covered his hands with her own. "I don't want to leave."

'Then don't. Stay with me. We'll have supper together. We'll talk, and eat, and love—"

"I can't," she groaned in frustration. Pressing her back into his chest, she squeezed her eyes shut against the picture his disreputable invitation painted.

Would she could do as he suggested! How sublime it would be to revel in his private company for a few more hours! To watch him as he went about such mundane tasks as dining and drinking! To avoid home and the tribulations that awaited her! But she couldn't acquiesce.

She couldn't justify a belated absence. While she could sneak away for a short portraiture session—the pretext was innocuous enough—she'd have to devise some clever fabrications if she was to be gone for a prolonged duration.

"Why is
home
so disturbing to you?" he gently probed.

How accurately he deduced her woes! She had no one in whom she could confide, had told no other save Mary how vile her home life had become, yet Gabriel Cristofore had effortlessly surmised her best-kept secret

"There have been some drastic changes recently,” she divulged. "My father remarried about six months ago. To a girl really; she's ten years younger than I. It's been hard ... on all of us."

"Why don't you move out? You're an adult woman; you could establish your own residence."