The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin
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wanted to taste him, to use her tongue and her mouth as if she were savouring an exotic confection.
‘Do you know what you’re inviting?’
Did he read minds? And was it her imagination, or did his voice sound husky and vaguely strained?
She lifted her head and met the burning intensity of his darkened gaze. ‘Yes.’
A thrill of anticipatory excitement arrowed through her body at the thought of what demands he might make when caught in the throes of passion. With it came a sense of fear of his strength if it was ever unleashed without restraint.
She swallowed, the only visible sign of her nervousness, and his eyes registered the movement then flicked back to trap her own.
‘Then what are you waiting for?’ he queried softly. The silent challenge was evident in the depth of his eyes and apparent in the sensual slant of his mouth.
She’d begun this; now she needed to finish it.
Without a word she held out her hand, and felt the enclosing warmth as he clasped it in his own.
In silence Gabbi led him into the bedroom. When she reached the bed she leant forward and dragged the covers free. She turned towards him and placed both hands against his chest, then gently pushed until he lay sprawled against the pale percale sheets.
This was for his pleasure, and she slid down onto her knees beside him.
Slowly she set about exploring every inch of his hair-roughened skin, tangling the tip of her tongue in the whorls and soft curls, the smooth texture that was neither soft nor hard, but wholly male and musky to the taste.
She felt a thrill of satisfaction as muscles tensed and contracted, as she heard the faint catch of his breath, the slight hiss as it was expelled, the soft groan as her hands sought the turgid length of his arousal. With the utmost delicacy she explored the sensitive head, traced the shaft and flicked it gently. Then she lowered her mouth and began a similar exploration with a feather-light touch, allowing sheer instinct to guide her.
Not content, she trailed a path to his hip, traversed the taut stomach, and traced a series of soft kisses to his inner thigh.
With deliberately slow movements she raised her head and looked at him, then she loosened the pins from her hair and shook its length free.
A tiny smile curved her lips as she bent her head and trailed her hair in a teasing path down his chest, past his waist, forming a curtain for the delights her lips offered to the most vulnerable, sensitive part of his anatomy.
Control. He had it. Yet she could only wonder for how long as she lifted her head and lightly traced his moistened shaft with the tips of her fingers.
Her eyes never left his as she brought her fingers up to her mouth, and his eyes flared as she sucked each tip, one by one. Then she rose to her knees and straddled his hips with a graceful movement.
He didn’t touch her, but his eyes were dark, so dark they were almost black, and his skin bore the faint flush of restrained passion.
She wanted to kiss him, but didn’t dare. This was her game, but there was no doubt who was in charge of the score.
The element of surprise was her only weapon, and she used it shamelessly as she shifted slightly and teased his length with the moist, sensitive heart of her femininity. Then she arched against him, savouring the anticipation of complete possession for a few heart-stopping seconds before she accepted him in a long, slow descent.
Totally enclosed, she felt him swell even further, and gasped at the sensation. Then she began to move, enjoying the feeling of partial loss followed by complete enclosure in a slow, circling dance that tore at the level of her own control.
Her fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders as she fought against the insidious demands of desire, and she cried out when his hands caught hold of her hips and held them, steadying her as he thrust deep inside her, then repeated the action again and again until she became lost to the rhythm, mindless, in a vortex of emotion.
When she was spent he slid a hand behind her nape and brought her head down to rest against him.
Gabbi lay still, her breathing gradually slowing in tune with his. There was a sense of power, of satisfaction that had little to do with sexual climax in her post-orgasmic state. His skin was warm and damp and tasted vaguely of salt. She savoured it, and felt the spasm of hard-muscled flesh within her own.
Did a man experience this sensation of glory after taking a woman? That the sexual symphony he’d orchestrated and conducted had climaxed with such a wondrous crescendo?
And when it was over, did he want an encore?
Gabbi lifted her head and stared down at the slumberous warmth in Benedict’s dark eyes, glimpsed the latent humour in their depths and caught the soft slant of his mouth.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured gently as he angled her mouth down to meet his in a possession that was a simulation of what they’d just shared.
His hand slid down her spine, and she gasped as he rolled with her until she felt the mattress beneath her back.
It was a long while before she lay curled in the circle of his arms. As an encore, it had surpassed all that had gone before. And, she reftected a trifle sadly, it was she who had lost control, she who had cried out in the throes of passion.
On the edge of sleep, she told herself she didn’t care. If pleasure was the prize, it was possible to win even when you lost.
WHY was it that some days were destined to be more eventful than others? Gabbi wondered silently as she entered the house and made her way through to the kitchen.
She’d been very calm at the board meeting when Maxwell Fremont had verbally challenged her to explain in minute detail why it would be beneficial to re-finance a subsidiary arm to maximise the company’s tax advantage. The initial margin was narrow, given the re-financing costs involved, but the long-term prospect was considerably more favourable than the existing financial structure. Her research had been thorough, the figure projections carefully checked, and there had been a degree of satisfaction when the proposal had gained acceptance.
The afternoon had concluded with a misplaced file and a computer glitch, and on the way home a careless motorist hadn’t braked in time and her car had suffered a few scratches and a broken tail-light. Which was a nuisance, for insurance red tape meant that the Mercedes would be out of action while the damage was assessed, and again when it went into the workshop for repair.
A few laps of the swimming pool, followed by an alfresco meal on the terrace, held more appeal than dressing up and attending a formal fund-raising ball. However, the ball was a prominent annual event for which Benedict had tickets and a vague disinclination to attend was not sufficient reason to initiate a protest. Although the thought of crossing verbal swords with Annaliese over pate, roast beef and chocolate mousse wasn’t Gabbi’s idea of a fun evening.
And any minute now Benedict would drive into the garage, see a smashed tail-light and demand an explanation.
She crossed to the refrigerator, filled a glass with fresh orange juice and took a long, appreciative swallow.
‘Care to tell me what happened?’
Right on cue. She looked at him and rolled her eyes. ‘Heavy traffic, a driver more intent on his mobile phone conversation than the road, the lights changed, I stopped, he didn’t.’ That about encapsulated it. ‘We exchanged names and insurance details,’ she concluded.
He crossed to where she stood and his fingers probed the back of her neck. ‘Headache? Any symptoms of whiplash?’
‘No.’ His concern was gratifying, but his standing this close didn’t do much to stabilise her equilibrium. ‘Traffic was crawling at the time.’