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“Open for me.”
She did so. She had never felt more wanton. He had backed her against a wall, and the cold stone against her back was a sharp contrast to his hot touch. His fingers caressed her, stroked her, were inside her. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”
She knew what was coming and felt her body racing closer and closer.
And then he paused and withdrew.
She blinked, opened her eyes.
“Your skin is ice. Come here.” He took her hand and led her back to the blankets and his coat. “This is little better, but at least there’s some barrier.”
“You’re talking far too much,” she chided him, lying on his coat. She had been cold, and the coat was a relief. “And you’re wearing too many clothes.”
He had been about to kneel between her legs—and while she hated to stop him—she wanted his skin on hers. “Your wish is my command, madam.”
“Call me Gabrielle. You never do.”
His eyes were unreadable. Perhaps she was ordering him about too much, but this was not her husband. She did not have to be subservient. “Take off your breeches.”
He reached for the fall, and she could see how it bulged, how he wanted her. When he loosened it, she swallowed. He was magnificent. Her body was on fire for him.
He shed his breeches and knelt at her feet. She opened her legs for him, and he bent over her. “Gabrielle,” he whispered, touching his lips to her ear and making her writhe with pleasure. “My beautiful Gabrielle.”
She wrapped her arms about him, drawing his mouth to hers for a long kiss, but he didn’t oblige her. The kiss was too short—not that she could complain, as his mouth found so many other inventive things to do on her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, her belly…
He pushed her legs apart and kissed her inner thigh. Gabrielle held her breath. She had heard of this. Married women speaking in hushed tones of what they had read—or experienced. She wondered what else Ramsey could show her.
And then she wondered nothing at all because his tongue was on her, in that most intimate of places, and she could do nothing but clutch the coat beneath her to keep from sobbing with pleasure.
She’d known pleasure before, but nothing like this. Nothing like this white-hot spiral of sensation coiling in her belly and radiating out her arms to her fingertips, her legs to the smallest toe. She thrashed about, hearing her own hitched cries echoing in the catacombs, but Ramsey gave her no quarter.
She didn’t want his mercy.
Finally, the tight spiral exploded, and she arched and cried out. She feared half of Paris heard her. There was no question that Ramsey had. She closed her eyes, her whole body sated and exhausted.
She was lying on the ground under the city of Paris, naked, with a man—who was not her husband—between her legs. If these were her last hours, this was definitely the way to spend them. If she did escape Paris alive…well, she wouldn’t think about that right now.
She opened her eyes, and Ramsey was leaning over her, smiling. “You look quite satisfied with yourself,” she murmured.
“That was a rather enthusiastic response. How can I be anything else?”
“But you haven’t…” She gestured to his still quite obvious erection.
“No, but I take pleasure from your pleasure.”
This was a new idea. He was pleased simply because she had been pleasured? She didn’t believe him. “Then I suppose we can stop now.”
“I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. But…”
She raised her brows. “But?”
“I am still naked.”
“I see that.”
“And you’re naked.” He traced a finger down her cheek, sliding it down her neck to her shoulder.
“I am.” He made her smile.
