Too Wicked To Kiss Part 33

If only she could start her visit to the nursery anew. Perhaps she could've said the right things, kept Rebecca from crying, saved the lovely doll from destruction.

There'd been more than rage in Mr. Lioncroft's eyes. There had been pain. He'd taken Rebecca's rejection of his gift as a rejection of himself. And he'd no doubt interpreted Evangeline's clumsy handling of his niece's question as the worst kind of betrayal. He'd trusted her. Trusted her to believe in him when n.o.body else did. Trusted her to help him.

Instead, she'd made everything worse.

Evangeline pressed her ear against the wall and listened.

Mr. Lioncroft wasn't in his office. He wasn't in the dining rooms, the drawing rooms, or the library. And from the sound of it-or lack thereof-he wasn't even roaming the secret pa.s.sageways between his walls.

How was she going to apologize, to explain he hadn't heard what he thought he'd heard, if she couldn't even find him?

She'd almost given up altogether when she recalled his studio.

Her knock on the closed door went unanswered, as did her tentative, "Gavin?" and her somewhat more forceful, "Gavin!" Either he was not inside, or he had no wish for her company. Too bad.

Her fingers curved around the bra.s.s doork.n.o.b. The cold metal sent ripples of gooseflesh along her arms. Or perhaps the gooseflesh was due to her impending confrontation with the man within. If he were within. There was but one way to be sure.

With a twist of the handle, she eased the door open.

Large windows graced the far wall. A maze of tall wooden easels cluttered up the interior. Layer upon layer of canvases tilted against all four walls, some bare, some with breath-stealing landscapes. A thick, pungent smell permeated the air with a sharp, strange scent. Paintbrushes, color-smudged palettes, and half-rolled tubes lay atop a table covered in stained cloths. A jumble of wood stacked in one corner next to an unfinished frame.

On the opposite side of the room stood a lone long-limbed figure, feet at shoulder width, thumbs hooked into his waistband, gaze fixed at the sprawling view of wild blackberry fields below.

Evangeline cleared her throat.

He remained motionless.

"I know you're innocent," she informed him softly. "I know you've never killed anyone in your life."

He smiled grimly.

"Rebecca heard rumors, that's all," she tried again, taking a hesitant step closer. "I had already told her you didn't do it."

He didn't respond.

"I apologize," Evangeline said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He said nothing.

"Do you want me to leave?"

His jaw tightened.

"Do you want me to stay?"

His muscles twitched.

"May I see Jane's portrait?"

He whirled to face her.

"What would be the point?" he demanded, eyes bleak. "It's half-finished. It'll never be finished. Now that they're terrified I killed their father, they'll be too frightened to suffer my company, much less sit for me. Rose will take them away and I'll never see them again. Not even on canvas."

Before she could respond, he strode to an easel facing a small chair. He grimaced at the canvas perched on the crossbar. His hand lifted above his shoulder, then came flying down toward what was no doubt Jane's unfinished portrait.

"No," Evangeline cried and launched herself across the room.

She tried to throw herself between him and the still-wet canvas-and succeeded.

The edge of his palm barely glanced against her, but a horrified expression engulfed his face.

"Oh, my G.o.d." His voice was strangled, his face ashen. "I hit hit you. Oh, my G.o.d." you. Oh, my G.o.d."

"You didn't." She shook her head frantically. "I swear you didn't. It was me. I didn't want you to ruin the painting. You love your niece. She loves you. Don't look at me like that, Gavin. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine. I'm fine."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispered, his voice hoa.r.s.e and raw. "I would never hurt you."

"I know. You didn't. I swear."

He hauled her to his chest and crushed his lips to hers.

She clung to him and opened her mouth to his. He tasted like shock, like fear, like desperation. She gripped his forearms, dug her fingers into hard muscle. His tongue swept across hers, needing, searching. She licked, bit, suckled. He growled and held her closer, tighter, as if afraid to let her go, as if afraid she would would go. She welcomed the pa.s.sionate fury of his kisses, tried to tell him with her tongue and her mouth and her body that she could never leave him alone and hurting, that she couldn't bear to see him in pain. She needed him, trusted him, loved him. go. She welcomed the pa.s.sionate fury of his kisses, tried to tell him with her tongue and her mouth and her body that she could never leave him alone and hurting, that she couldn't bear to see him in pain. She needed him, trusted him, loved him.

Her breath caught. She loved loved him. him.

As if she'd spoken the thought aloud, his embrace gentled, his kiss became sweeter, less demanding. After a moment, he gave her lips a final soft kiss and rested his overly warm forehead against hers.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was...scared."

The admission sounded as though it had been tortured from his lungs.

"I'm sorry, too," she said, leaning her cheek against the rapid beating of his heart. "I didn't mean to scare you."

He scooped her up, reached the portrait chair in two long strides, cuddled her onto his lap. He kissed her again, hungrily, urgently, as if he couldn't bear not not kissing her. She hoped he never stopped. His hands cradled her face, stroked her hair, nestled her closer. His shaft was hot and rigid against her thigh. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached above her stays, the nipples chafing against the unyielding cloth. kissing her. She hoped he never stopped. His hands cradled her face, stroked her hair, nestled her closer. His shaft was hot and rigid against her thigh. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached above her stays, the nipples chafing against the unyielding cloth.

"Touch me," she whispered into his mouth.

For a moment, she thought he would refuse, that she'd been too forward, that he was shocked at her request.

Half a heartbeat later, he sucked in a deep shuddering breath and slid his hand from the back of her neck to her shoulder.

"Here?" he asked, his voice teasing, his eyes dark with pa.s.sion. "Should I touch you here, on your shoulder?"

"No." Her nipples tightened in antic.i.p.ation. "Lower. Please."

His palm slid downward, coasting from her shoulder, to her forearm, to the side of her ribs. His fingers splayed there, his thumb tantalizingly close to the swell of her breast.

"Here?" he asked. "Is this better?"

"You know it's not." It was all Evangeline could do not to rip her bodice open herself and force his hands to her chest. "I want you to touch my breast."

"Oh, your breast, breast," he said, his rakish grin stealing her breath and quickening her pulse. "I would love to touch your breast."

Slowly, slowly, his fingers slid from her side, the heat from his palm burning through her gown. His hand cupped her, stroked her, caressed her. He claimed her mouth with a hot, wet kiss. His fingers rolled across her nipples until she arched into him, silently demanding more. And when her aching, needing body didn't get everything he could offer, she voiced her demands out loud.

"Touch me," she said, "like you were going to touch me in the summerhouse."

He arched a brow. "Do you know what I was going to do?"

She shook her head.

"But you want me to do it anyway?"

She nodded eagerly.

His eyes crinkled as his mouth curved into a slow sensual smile that left her trembling with need. "Then I would love to."

His head bent over hers, his breath becoming her breath. She threaded her fingers through the back of his hair and kissed him back. His teasing fingers left her nipple, slid down her breast, her ribs, her waist, her hip, her thigh. Cool air tickled her skin as he lifted her gown higher, higher. His warm knuckles brushed against her ankle, the curve of her calf, the back of her knee.

She whimpered against his mouth as his warm palm coasted up her inner thigh. His fingertips brushed against the damp hair hidden beneath her chemise. She was fairly certain she was getting damper by the second. Her entire core heated, moistened, swelled. She s.h.i.+fted, tilting her pelvis toward his taunting fingertips, desperate to feel them against the throbbing ache between her legs.

Ah! She sucked in a breath. There. There There. The curve of his finger stroked against her flesh. Her thighs tightened around his hand. He did it again, over and over, his knuckle warm and slick against her, forward, backward, rubbing, nuzzling, teasing. Her thighs tightened again as muscles she didn't even know she had began to wake, to tense, to yearn.

She gasped when he nudged the tip of his finger inside her body and stroked her with his thumb. He slid his finger the rest of the way inside, slowly, relentlessly, the entire time making delicious circular patterns with the pad of his thumb against her burning flesh. With one finger fully inside and the other coaxing her to an ever-building pressure, he bent his head to her breast and suckled her through the thin silk of her gown, grazing his teeth across her tender nipple.

Her entire body spasmed. Her muscles clenched around his finger, kneading him. His thumb continued stroking her until the tremors subsided and she fell face forward against his shoulder, panting.

"That," he murmured into her hair, "is what I wanted to do in the summerhouse."

Her muscles contracted again at the thought.

He slid his finger from her gently, smoothed down her gown, cradled her to him. His cheek rested atop her head. Evangeline wrapped her arms around his chest and held tight. His heart was beating as fast as her own. His shaft still throbbed against her.

"May I touch you?" she asked.

He seemed to grow even harder against her thigh.

"Not here," he said. "Too messy."

She lifted her head until her gaze met his. "When can I?"

"Evangeline," he said, his voice hoa.r.s.e and unsteady, his gaze smoldering with restrained pa.s.sion. "You don't have to touch me just because I-"

"I want want to touch you." She stroked his cheek with her palm, nipped at his mouth. "I want...everything." to touch you." She stroked his cheek with her palm, nipped at his mouth. "I want...everything."

He swallowed. "Everything?"

She pressed her lips to his and nodded. "Will you?"

His shaft leapt and swelled. She smiled. He may not have realized it, but his body had already given his answer. She opened her mouth and kissed him.

"Tonight," he gasped between hot, demanding kisses. "I'll come to you tonight."

She licked his lower lip. "And you'll touch me again?"

He closed his eyes and shuddered. "I'll do anything you ask."

Chapter Twenty-Three.

He came to her through the bookcase.

Evangeline replaced the poker she'd used to stoke the fire and turned to face him. Gavin was in half dress. She wore nothing but her s.h.i.+ft. He looked splendid, as always. Das.h.i.+ng. Hungry. Hers.

Thumbs hooked in waistband, he lounged against the now-closed panel. The intensity of his gaze heated her flesh more than the fire at her back. Now that she'd invited the lion into her den, what was she going to do with him?

She took a tentative step toward him. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting."

"For what?"

"You." His mouth smiled, but his eyes suggested he wanted to devour her.

She glanced around her bedchamber. Bookshelf, bookshelf, fireplace, mirror, bed. Yet he continued lounging against the bookshelf, watching her, waiting.

"W-what are you doing?" she asked again.

"I told you." His eyes held wicked promise. "Anything you ask."

She wrapped her arms across her chest. "I have to ask ask for everything I wish?" for everything I wish?"

He inclined his head. "I'm yours to command."

Her arms relaxed. Hmmm. Put that way, she couldn't help but think of a dozen different things she could ask him to do. Everything he'd done in the studio. And then some.

Perhaps she should start with the "then some."

"Come here," she ordered. Her pulse raced when he immediately prowled closer, his dark eyes never leaving her face.