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 wantyou.”
“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.
