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“He thinks I look like a witch because of my black veil.”
“He is absolutely right, you do,” he agreed.
She unexpectedly yanked the pillow from beneath his head and walloped his face with the soft plumpness. He gave a shout and grabbed her, rolling them both so she ended up trapped beneath him.
“So, my son and I are agreed that his mother, my wife, is a witch, therefore, I decree it must be so,” he drawled.
She gasped, struggling, attempting to smack his cheek, but he caught her wrists, holding them high above her head.
“Yet looking down upon this fair lady, with her halo of golden hair and wide blue eyes, I realise that surely I must be mistaken? For what witch has the face and hair of an angel? I think I am actually holding something unusually precious, a woman who possesses the face of an angel yet has the delightfully skilful mouth of a strumpet.”
“Mon amour, you have not changed, you still enjoy combining beautiful words with a baser meaning; you who are named for an archangel are indeed a wicked man.”
He chuckled. “And you love it when I amwicked,don’t you, my minx.” He tickled her ribs.
She snorted gleefully.
He stilled, casting her an expression of intense lust. Laughter died in her throat. They stared at one another for a long, drawn-out moment.
“Angele,” he finally whispered huskily, before lowering his mouth to cover hers.
A turmoil of emotion ripped through him as he crushed her to him. His lips seared hers. Her arms wrapped sinuously about his neck. She murmured his name against his lips. The deep kiss, succour to them both, continued for an eternity, each whispering occasional words of love in a confused jumble of French and English.
The heat built between them, the kiss becoming prolonged, their tongues mating. The tangy musk of her arousal hit him. A great need to taste her enveloped him. He pulled away from the nectar of her lips to kiss his way down her throat to her breasts, where he made a greedy meal of the ripe fruit that tipped her softly rounded flesh.
She made small delightful sounds while he sucked and nibbled her budding nipples. He noted the changes that the birth of their son had caused—the fuller orbs of her breasts, the slight paunch of her abdomen, crisscrossed by tiny silver scars. He drew his tongue over each thin line, and she fussed a little. Gabriel gently assured her that he viewed them as battle scars from her fight for the safe delivery of their son. She quietened; he hoped she digested his words.
He finally reached his destination, her honey-thatched mound, once so familiar, yet today her body felt like a fresh discovery. His own excitement was evident in his erect member which had recovered from her earlier ministrations. His cock now reared, throbbing, demanding attention and a return to home port. Well, his shaft would have to wait; he was on a mission, irresistibly drawn to her uniquely female scent, a heady mix that smelt to him of musky, scythed grass.
He had no need to part her thighs; her knees dropped open, allowing him access. Her folds were of a deeper hue than he recalled. Her labia were thicker, no doubt due to childbirth. He deftly explored the soft petals of her flesh with his fingers, revealing a familiar sight, unchanged and just as alluring to him as it had always been. Her pearl peeked shyly from beneath the pale protection of its little flesh cap. Licking his lips, he groaned at the provocative sight.
Making himself comfortable between her thighs, he leaned in to feast. First he licked her slit then rolled his tongue into a small, hardened shaft and penetrated her channel, repeating the action rapidly. She bucked, and he placed restraining hands upon her trembling thighs, continuing to pillage her. As he ran his tongue in hard circles about her inner folds, she cried out to him. He made soothing sounds deep within his throat, finally touching her hardened nubbin with his rasping tongue.
Her reaction was so violent she nearly unseated him. He sucked the miniscule scrap of flesh into his mouth, pressing it against his upper teeth. Her heels arched, her toes curled. She keened her completion shrilly. He felt certain the upper house servants would know he was pleasuring his wife. A smile of smug satisfaction slid briefly across his face—brief because he was soon back to using his mouth on his wife, bringing her to yet another crest, and a powerful wave of euphoria overtook her small frame.
He waited until the aftershocks were over before shifting up her body. Elbows either side of her head, he positioned himself at her entrance, nudging, tormenting, until she begged him to take her.
It was what he’d hoped for, how he’d loved it when she had pleaded for him to ravish her just as she did now, her voice husky, sexily raw from recent release. He ground his hips against her pelvis, and without a guiding hand, his cock found its way home. He gasped with pleasure at her hot sheath enveloping him, drawing him into the heated ingress of her body. He muttered an expletive under his breath.
“Hmm?” she queried dreamily.
He snapped his hips, sinking into her, his full length and girth sheathed to the hilt. She fell silent. Her legs lifted, clasping him eagerly about the waist. He anchored her and, grasping her buttocks, plundered her furrow, until the only sound he was aware of was the succulent resonance of their mating.
Suddenly she clenched about him. Her legs gripped him like a vice, hands clawing his shoulders, her sheath sucking his length greedily. He knew she was about to succumb to a powerful orgasm. He drove himself home with renewed vigour and felt her shudder as her world imploded.
Her cries echoed about the chamber, and with a shout, he joined her in release. He roared, his emission rose from his sac, up through his straining cock, and he spilled with exquisite pleasure. Gabriel thought he might expire. He recalled the French eloquent description which covered exactly this moment.La petite mort.
Chapter 11
The following day was spent together in the drawing room, playing whist before the fire, fully catching up on the last five years they had spent apart. Gabriel answered her questions about friends, family, and staff members. In return, Angele answered his questions about her daily life in Italy with Christopher.
Although they were both anxious to be reunited with their son, the inclement weather prohibited them from sending for him. There had been some snow melt, but not nearly enough to allow such a journey.
As the day wore on, Angele became more and more despondent. Her heart was heavy with regret at her decision to play dead. She now realised how foolish she had been to put them through such torment.
The previous evening when Ivy had helped her to dress for dinner, Angele had gone downstairs without her veil. She had not thought about her scarred face after Gabriel had taken her to bed that afternoon.
She’d witnessed no cringing from the household staff nor from her devoted husband. In fact, she forgot all about the very thing she had spent the last five years obsessing over. She had been a complete fool, and her guilt felt palpable.
