Nightingale (7 page)

He came up behind her. Her body tingled with awareness. She froze, uncertain. “Please,” she pleaded.

“What is it?”

Jemma closed her eyes. How easy it would be to fall back against his chest. But then what? It was too late for them. A declaration of love surrounded by such wealth would sound callow.

“We've come full circle,” she said. “We're done.”

“Are we?”

Oh, dear God, please help me.
“Yes.”

He pressed his lips against the nape of her neck.

She dropped her dress. She should tell him to stop. Words died in her throat when he did it again. She struggled for sanity.

“No, Dane,” she managed. She took a step forward, but his hands came down on her shoulder, holding her in place. She caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror's reflection. He was smiling.

Jemma looked away. “This isn't good,” she insisted.

His hand slid down her arm to her waist. He pressed his palm against her abdomen and pulled her back to him. She could feel obvious evidence of his intentions.

Deep muscles clenched. He knew.

“We shouldn't,” she said, but her words had lost their insistence.

“We need to.”

“We mustn't. Dane, we can't live in the past.”

He moved his hips against her. “I was thinking of the present.”

But do you love me?

Her question echoed in her mind. What did lie between them?

Dane's hand moved lower. The heat of his touch destroyed all resistance.

“We'll not know if we aren't willing to take the risk,” he murmured in her ear.

Her poor heart . . .

There would be a price to pay. There always was. But right now, Jemma didn't care.

She turned in his arms and kissed him fully on the mouth.

D
ane's need to make Jemma understand how deeply she had hurt him was gone.
Poof.
Disappeared. Years of anger and resentment no longer weighed him down.

He was free . . . but his attraction to her was still here, and it was stronger than ever.

Perhaps they had been too young to have fallen in love so completely years ago, and yet the tension between them now was as if they had never parted.

Love. The word reverberated in his mind as he kissed her back with all his being. He wanted to be sophisticated, to be wiser. As he slid his palms over her smooth skin, he told himself he must not confuse lust with love. Jemma attracted him as no other woman ever had, but that didn't mean he was falling in love with her again.

Or did it? Did their bodies know something their wary minds refused to consider? Was a second chance possible for the two of them?

Tentatively, her tongue touched his. Dane's blood hit the boiling point. What man cared whether or not a woman loved him when they were both naked and aroused . . . ?

The time was ripe to teach her new tricks. He hefted her up in his arms. Her long legs circled his waist; her breasts pressed against his chest. Their lips never parted as he walked to the bed.

His one coherent thought as he placed her on the rumpled bedspread was this time, he'd be more cautious. Let her declare herself first. He'd already made a fool of himself once. This time, he would protect his heart—and then she laughed.

He greedily began kissing the line of her neck, tickling her enough to laugh. To laugh! Had he ever thought of laughter and lovemaking? With his mistresses it had been their business to please him, and they'd been very serious about their work. They'd been seductive women who'd known what he liked and done it.

Jemma was merely reacting to the pleasure of his touch.

Dane pulled back. Their bodies were stretched alongside each other. Only two candles still burned, and in their flickering light, her expressive eyes appeared more alive than ever.

She lightly ran her fingers down his whiskered jawline. “You tickled.” Her nipples were hard and tight.

“Is that bad?” he whispered, reveling in the warmth of her body against his.

Her mouth silently formed the word
no.
She focused on his lips and reached up to kiss him. Her tongue traced the line of his lower lip, tickling him and making him smile.

It became a game between them. Dane delighted in trying to tickle her with his lips. The sound of her delight was a potent aphrodisiac. He kissed her shoulder, over her collarbone, down to her breasts.

Jemma was no cold lover. She gasped and sighed her pleasure. It urged him on. He gave his attention to her full, beautiful breasts, then kissed his way down the flat expanse of her abdomen, steadily working his way lower.

When he circled her navel with his tongue, she whimpered. He went lower, and lower still until he could have all of her.

The moment his lips touched her intimately, Jemma startled and tried to close her legs. He placed his hand on her waist to let her know this was right and natural. Slowly, she relaxed, and he drank deep.

Her fingers buried themselves in his hair as if to hold on for dear life. Her body curved to him, her legs over his shoulders. She whispered his name. He couldn't help but smile; so sensitive was she to him that she felt the movement and found her release. Her body tensed and arched up off the bed. A sharp cry escaped her, a gasp of discovery.

Dane gave her one last kiss, and she fell back to earth. He rested his head on her stomach, listening to her breath return to normal, inordinately pleased with himself.

Jemma sat halfway up, propping herself up on her elbows, her hair back over her shoulders. “What was that?” she asked.

His chin on his hand on her stomach, he met her astonished gaze and smiled. “Did you like it?”

She released her response on a shivery sigh before adding, “Certainly it is nothing the Church has ever sanctioned.”

Her dry response startled a laugh out of him. His own laughter sounded rusty, as if it had not been in use for a long time . . . and it hadn't.

He climbed up to lay beside her on the bed. Jemma turned in the curve of his arms. “And what of you?” she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of his arousal. She kissed him beneath his chin. “What can I do for you?” Her fingers closed around his erection, and now it was Dane's turn to whimper.

He rolled over on his back, bringing Jemma with him. Her eyes widened when she found herself sitting on his abdomen. He didn't want to enter her yet . . . not quite yet.

Her hair created a silky curtain over her breasts. He reached up and caught a shiny strand, measuring its distance down her body.

“I used to wonder how long your hair was,” he confessed.

“It's too long for fashion. I should cut it.”

“No, you shouldn't,” he said quickly.

The stain of a blush colored her cheeks as she admitted, “It's my one vanity.”

“And a good one it is. More precious than gold.” He slid his hand up her arm to her neck and brought her down to kiss him. She tasted sweet and willing. He bent his knees and entered her in one smooth push.

She tightened around him. Their kiss broke.

“Sit up,” he ordered softly.

Jemma did as he asked, impaling herself on him, and he thought he could die from the pleasure of being in her this deep.

“Dane—?” Her voice sounded husky and dark, uncertain.

“Trust me.”

She swallowed and then nodded. He felt her movement all the way to the core of her. Using his hips, he thrust up, and knees tightened around him. And again, Dane heard himself laugh with pleasure.

She smiled in agreement, a goddess in her glory. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she loved him. He didn't. Instead, he began rhythmically moving. She found following his movements awkward at first. Her hands fluttered as if she wasn't certain what to do with them. He placed them on his chest, one of her palms flat over his heart, and drove himself deeper.

T
here was part of Jemma that feared such unbridled wantonness. And another part, a newly discovered part, that hedonistically wallowed in it.

The need for release built inside of her, and she wasn't alone. Beneath her, Dane's face reflected a wide range of emotion. There was tenderness and hunger, urgency and desire.

He placed his hands on her waist and showed her how to move the way he liked. His breathing grew heavier. His soft words of praise and encouragement drove her in a way she'd never known before. His pleasure became hers.

Disappointments evaporated. Regrets faded from memory. All that mattered was this moment as together they strove, searching for the same pinnacle. Satisfaction lay within their grasp. Anything was possible.
Anything.

Dane lunged up from the bed, taking her in his arms. “Jemma,” he breathed. “Dear God,
Jemma.”
She could feel the force of life leaving him. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him close, and found her own release.

This time, it was even better than before.

She closed her eyes, her arms around him, and let her body savor every blessed, spiraling sensation. Dane too seemed lost in the intensity of their coupling.

For long, long moments, they held each other—and then he began laughing, quietly at first, and then full-throated, the sound joyful. His jaw was whiskery rough against her skin. “That was good, so damn good.”

He took her face in his hands. His sharp eyes studied her, his thumbs lightly rubbing the corners of her mouth. She wondered what he was thinking.

“It's never been like that before,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. She'd never known how completely involving it could be. But then her woman's intuition told her it was not this way with every man. Only with Dane.

The words
I love you
were on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back.

They would sound trite now. Later, when their passions had cooled, maybe then she would have the courage to speak them.

And maybe he would believe them.

“Ah, Jemma,” he said, as if he could read her mind. He put his arms around her waist. They sat facing each other, her legs still around his hips.

“Dane—” she started but stopped, words failing her. Instead, she placed her palm on his chest. His pulse had returned to normal. Gently, she kissed him.

He leaned his head against hers. “I know,” he agreed. “I'm frightened, too.”

His admission caught her off guard. She raised her gaze to his, but he shook his head. “Tomorrow, Jemma. Tonight, let's not ruin what we have.”

His words were like a shot through her heart. She feared they did not bode well—and yet she was afraid to either challenge him or to reveal her own heart.

“Come,” he said quietly. “It's time to sleep.” He pulled back the bedsheets, and, like a child, she followed his lead and climbed into the bed beside him.

Jemma curled her body to fit his. For an instant, she was tempted to whisper
I love you.
She didn't speak the words aloud . . . or at least she thought she didn't.

Or perhaps it didn't matter that she confessed her heart. Snuggled against the safe haven of his body, she pushed all worries aside. His hand came down around her waist, cuddling her closer, and she fell into deep, exhausted sleep.

J
emma woke several hours later. The curtains were still drawn tight, and the candles were all burned out. However, she sensed it was morning.

Groggy as she was with the need for sleep, it took a moment for her memory to return, and when it did, she immediately rolled over on the bed to where Dane had been sleeping.

He was gone.

Abruptly, she sat up and looked around the room. “Dane?”

There was no answer. Nor was there a clock where she could look to see what time it was. What was left of the fire smoldered in the grate.

The dress she had worn last night was no longer on the floor by the desk. Her torn undergarments were gone, too.

Outside in the hallway, she heard a woman and a man arguing and knew that was what had woken her.

She raised the sheet up around her to cover her nakedness and pushed back her heavy hair from her face feeling very uncertain—and then she recognized her mother's voice.

The door came open with a bang.

Dane's valet spread himself in the doorway to bar her entrance into the room. “Madame, you will not enter!” he said.

“I most certainly will,” came her mother's tart reply. She looked past the valet. “Jemma, call this man off.”

Jemma burned with embarrassment from head to toe, but she did not cringe. Instead, she said, “Please, it's all right. Let her come in.”

The valet appeared ready to argue but stepped aside. Her mother was wearing her Sunday best bonnet and dress. She gave the man a superior glare and walked into the room.

“Please, shut the door,” Jemma said, not wishing anyone to be a witness to a difficult interview.

Her mother complied, her expression smug, and why not? Jemma had no doubt that her mother hadn't anticipated this turn of events. She wrapped herself in her pride.

“So, you did,” her mother said. “I had feared the worst.”

“The worst? Why, Mother? Was this not what you had expected?”

Her mother nodded, and then her expression of superiority changed to one of deep regret. She raised a distracted hand to her head, pushing her bonnet askew. “I had hoped, but it was all in vain.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's duped us both, Jemma. Dane Pendleton met Cris this morning. They are fighting the duel.”

J
emma had trouble wrapping her mind around her mother's words. As if from a distance, she heard herself dumbly repeat, “Dane met Cris today?”

“Yes,” her mother bit out.

“But he couldn't . . .” Jemma couldn't believe he would. Not Dane. Not after what had transpired between them last night.

Then again, what had happened? Had he actually promised to refuse to meet Cris? Or had she been so involved in her own turbulent emotions that she had failed her brother?