Page 34 of A Perfect Gentleman

She trembled beneath his touch, her senses filled with him. His mouth moved lower, exploring the hard center line of her chest, the contrasting softness of her breasts, and all the while his hand trailed over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, arousing her with a feather-light touch.

Abigail twined her fingers through his hair, stirred by the soft glide of it over her skin. She wanted more, and experimentally she ran her hands down the sides of his neck, rewarded by the surge of heat in him. She caressed his shoulders and back. Frustrated by the cloth that lay between her fingers and his skin, she went to the buttons of his shirt.

He stood up, his eyes never leaving her as he stripped off his clothes, cursing softly when his hasty fingers slipped on the fastenings. Then he was naked, long and lean and fully aroused, but she hardly had time to take in the sight of him before he was on the bed beside her, his mouth on hers, his arms around her, pressing her into him.

He was hard and hungry, and his questing fingers found the hot damp center of her. Abigail moved against his hand, instinctively seeking release, but what he was doing only increased the need inside her. His breath labored in his throat and she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her hip, throbbing and insistent.

Murmuring her name, he moved between her legs. Slipping his hands beneath her buttocks, he lifted her slightly and pushed into her. Abigail tightened at the sudden pressure and pain. This wasn’t going to work, she thought, panicked. Graeme stopped abruptly, his eyes flying to hers.

“Abigail! You’re . . . why didn’t you say?” He started to move back, and she flung her arms around his neck, holding on.

“No! No, please, don’t stop. It will be all right, won’t it? I’m not—there’s nothing wrong with me, is there?”

“No.” He braced himself on his arms on either side of her head, bending down to kiss her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” She could feel his smile against her cheek as he kissed his way lightly across her face and down her neck. “You’re perfect. Lovely.” He drew a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t have rushed.” He nuzzled into her neck. “Just relax.”

She could feel the tension in his arms, hear it in his breath, but his voice was soft and soothing, his lips tender on her skin. She gave way, her body responding to the gentle coaxing of his mouth, the soft brush of his fingers down her side. He moved into her slowly, and again she felt the pressure, followed by a sharp swift pain.

Then he was inside her, filling her. It felt so strange and yet so right that she wanted to laugh or cry or perhaps shout out loud, she wasn’t sure what, but she only turned her head and pressed her lips against his arm where it lay beside her head.

He let out a low groan and buried his face in her hair. He began to move inside her, and Abby realized with a start that yet more pleasure was possible. Now she did let out a breathy laugh that slid into a moan as the sweet sensations intensified. Sinking her hands into Graeme’s hair, she moved with him. He murmured her name as he thrust with harder, swifter strokes. “Abigail . . . Abby . . .”

The sound of it on his lips stirred her almost as much as his movements. Need built within her; she felt as if she were racing and reaching and what she sought was just beyond her grasp.

Then it exploded within her, flooding out all over her in great waves, startling her so that she cried out. Graeme shuddered against her, groaning, as he rode out the cataclysm.

chapter 12

Abby awoke in the wash of pale morning light, huddled against a firm warmth. She realized in the next instant that the source of the heat was Graeme. He lay naked, his back to her, his breathing soft and steady, indicating he still slept. She did not open her eyes, but simply lay there, luxuriating in the moment.

It would not last, of course. Graeme would awaken and reality would return. They would once again be strangers, poised somewhere between enmity and intimacy. But for a bit, right now, he was her husband, the man who had evoked such passion and pleasure in her last night and who had, for an instant, been joined to her in a shattering union.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Abby opened her eyes. She inched away from Graeme. Theirs was a mutually beneficial arrangement, a rational and impersonal relationship, and if by some stroke of luck there had been passion between them, that was not love or even affection. There was no reason to cuddle up to him. It wouldn’t do to cross a line or break a “rule” of their arrangement. She tried to recall exactly what Graeme’s stipulations had been but could not. She hadn’t been paying much attention to his words.

Her movement must have disturbed him, for Graeme rolled over in his sleep and onto his side, one arm falling over her. His eyes opened hazily and he frowned. She could see recognition awaken in his eyes. “Abigail.”

“Good morning.” She had the annoying feeling that she was blushing.

Abigail expected Graeme to pull back, but he only reached up and smoothed his hand over her cheek, brushing her hair from her face. “Good morning. Are you all right? I mean—why did you not tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you were untouched. That you hadn’t been with a man before.”

“I thought that was a given,” she responded tartly, and she was the one who slid several inches away. “Since I am your wife and you have never touched me. I didn’t realize you believed me a wanton.”

“No. I didn’t—it’s just—” He rose up on his elbow to look at her. “It’s been ten years, after all, and we were apart.”

“So you assumed I slept with other men.” It was satisfying to see him squirm a bit.

“I am sure there were a number of men who were eager candidates. Besides, the way you acted last night—what else was I supposed to think? You were the one seducing me. ‘Wouldn’t you do this?’ and ‘Let’s take off that.’ How did you know those things?”

His expression was so puzzled, his tone so aggrieved, that Abigail had to laugh. “One doesn’t have to have do something to learn how to do it. I thought you would be more . . . comfortable if I approached it like a professional. So I asked a professional.”

He stared. “You went to a prostitute?”

“A high-class one, of course. I assumed that was the sort you would be accustomed to.”

“Abigail. My God.” He sat up. “How did you find her?”