Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy. Diane Gaston

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style="font-size:15px;">      She laughed and it felt good. It had been so long since she had laughed. “We shall make love together, Gabriel.”

      He grinned. “Très bien.”

      She unhooked the bodice of her dress and pulled the garment over her head. While Gabriel removed his boots and stockings, she made quick work of removing her corset, easily done because it fastened in the front. She tossed it aside. Now wearing only her chemise, she started removing the pins from her hair. As it tumbled down her back, she looked up.

      He stood before her naked and aroused. His was a soldier’s body, muscles hardened by campaign, skin scarred from battle.

      Still kneeling on the bed, she reached out and touched a scar across his abdomen, caused by the slash of a sword, perhaps.

      He held her hand against his skin. “It looks worse than it was.”

      â€œYou have so many.” Some were faint, others distinct.

      He shrugged. “I have been in the army for over eighteen years.”

      Her husband would have been in longer, had he lived.

      He’d been rising steadily in rank; perhaps he would have been one of Napoleon’s generals, preparing for this battle, had he lived.

      She gave herself a mental shake for thinking of Remy, even though he’d been the only man with whom she’d ever shared her bed.

      Until now.

      A flush swept over her, as unexpected as it was intense. “Come to me, Gabriel,” she rasped.

      He joined her on the bed, kneeling in front of her and wrapping his arms around her, holding her close. His lips found hers once more.

      He swept his hand through her hair. “So lovely.” She felt the warmth of his breath against her lips.

      His hand moved down, caressing her neck, her shoulders. Her breasts. She writhed with the pleasure of it and was impatient to be rid of her chemise. She pulled it up to her waist, but he took the fabric from her and lifted it the rest of the way over her head. With her chemise still bunched in his hands he stared at her, his gaze so intense that she sensed it as tangibly as his touch.

      â€œYou are beautiful,” he said finally.

      She smiled, pleased at his words, and lay against the pillows, eager for what would come next.

      But if she expected him to take his pleasure quickly, she was mistaken. He knelt over her, looking as if he were memorising every part of her. His hands, still gentle and reverent, caressed her skin. When his palms grazed her nipples, the sensation shot straight to her most feminine place.

      Slowly his hand travelled the same path, but stopped short of where her body now throbbed for him. Instead, he stroked the inside of her thighs, so teasingly near.

      A sound, half-pleasure, half-frustration, escaped her lips.

      Finally he touched her. His fingers explored her flesh, now moist for him. The miracle of sensation his fingers created built her need to an intensity she thought she could not bear a moment longer.

      He bent down and kissed her lips again, his tongue freely tasting her now. Her legs parted, ready for him.

      She braced for his thrust, a part of lovemaking always painful for her, but he did not force himself inside her. Wonder of wonders, he eased himself inside, a sweet torture of rhythmic stroking until gradually he filled her completely. The need inside her grew even stronger and she moved with him, trying to ease the torment.

      More wonders, he seemed to be in complete unison with her, as if he sensed her growing need so he could meet it each step of the way. The sensation created by him was more intense than she had ever experienced. Soon nothing existed for her but her need and the man who would satisfy it.

      The intensity still built, speeding her forwards, faster and faster, until suddenly she exploded with sensation inside. Pleasure washed through her, like waves on the shore. His grip on her tightened and he thrust with more force, convulsing as he spilled his seed inside her. For that intense moment, their bodies pressed together, shaking with the shared climax.

      

      Gabe felt the pleasure ebb, making his body suddenly heavy, his mind again able to form coherent thought.

      He forced himself not to merely collapse on top of her and crush her with his weight. Instead, he eased himself off her to lie at her side.

      As soon as he did so she flung her arms across her face. He gently lowered them.

      She was weeping.

      He felt panicked. “Emmaline, did I injure you?” He could not precisely recall how he might have done so, but during those last moments he’d been consumed by his own drive to completion.

      She shook her head. “Non. I cannot speak—”

      â€œForgive me. I did not mean to distress you.” He ought not to have made love to her. He’d taken advantage of her grief and worry. “I did not realise …”

      She swiped at her eyes and turned on her side to face him. “You did not distress me. How do I say it?” He could feel her search for words. “I never felt le plaisir in this way before.”

      His spirits darkened. “It did not please you.”

      Tears filled her eyes again, making them sparkle in the candlelight. She cupped her palm against his cheek. “Tu ne comprends pas. You do not comprehend. It pleased me more than I can say to you.”

      Relief washed through him. “I thought I had hurt you.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, resting her head against his heart.

      Gabe allowed himself to enjoy the comfort of her silky skin against his, their bodies warming each other as cool night air seeped through the window jamb.

      She spoke and he felt her voice through his chest as well as hearing it with his ears. “It was not so with my husband. Not so … long. So … much plaisir.”

      The image of a body in a French uniform flashed into Gabe’s mind, the body they had been forced to abandon in Badajoz. Now he’d made love to that man’s wife. It seemed unconscionable. “Has there been no other man since your husband?”

      â€œNo, Gabriel. Only you.”

      He drew in a breath, forcing himself to be reasonable. He’d had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s death. And three years had passed.

      He felt her muscles tense. “Do you have a wife?”

      â€œNo.” Of that he could easily assure her. He’d never even considered it.

      She relaxed again. “C’est très bien. I would not like it if you had a wife. I would feel culpabilité.”

      He

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