Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

distance, engorged

bite battling the air. “I had never seen a man prior to my unemployment. Five months ago I saw one on a

street corner. I didn’t realize his trousers were open. I thought he had a sausage dangling out of his pocket.

”

Gabriel halted in front of her. There was no mistaking the flesh that stabbed the air in front of her for

anything but what it was. “There is a French term called andouille a col roule.”

Victoria threw her head back. “What does that mean?”

“Sausage with a rolled down collar,” Gabriel said solemnly.

The twin leathery pouches beneath his manhood were tight.

“What are a man’s”—Victoria swallowed, recalling English street slang—“a man’s ballocks called in

French?”

“Noisettes. ” Hazelnuts. “Noix.” Nuts. “Olives. ” Olives with an accent. “Petite oignons.”

Victoria’s eyes crinkled in sudden laughter. “Little onions?”

An answering laugh glimmered inside the depths of Gabriel’s silver eyes. “Croquignoles.”

“Biscuits,” she translated.

The laughter abruptly leaked out of his gaze. “Bonbons. ”

Victoria’s glance involuntarily sought out the twin objects of their discussion. “I enjoy the flavor of

bonbons.”

Tentatively she reached out a curious finger. Gabriel’s testicles were ridged, as rough as the hair-studded

leather they resembled.

Pure, raw energy slammed into Victoria. It did not come from her.

Slowly Victoria lifted her hand. Holding Gabriel’s gaze, she tasted her fingertip, a deliberate swirl of her

tongue. “You do not taste like petite oignons, sir.”

Victoria had never before seen naked need inside a man’s eyes; she saw it now, in Gabriel’s eyes.

“What do I taste like, Mademoiselle Childers?” he asked hoarsely.

Victoria tasted her finger again. “I would say you taste of... les noix de Gabriel.” The nuts of Gabriel.

The laughter immediately sprang back into his eyes, light dispelling the darkness.

Immediately she dropped her hand, feet primly together on the floor, breasts hot and heavy. “Thank you.

”

“For what?” Gabriel asked tautly, every muscle inside his body tensing as if to ward off pain.

“For allowing me to be a woman.”

And not calling her the whore that every gentleman would have called her.

One second Victoria sat before Gabriel, the next second she was airborne. The squeak of springs

surrounded her. A bounce of mattress found her sitting between Gabriel’s legs, muscled thighs gripping her

hips.

“Don’t ever thank me, Victoria.”

Gabriel’s voice was harsh.

Victoria opened her mouth to retort. Ivory teeth tugged through a knot of tangles.

Deliberately she grasped hard, hairy thighs, fingernails digging into muscled flesh, sharing her pain. The

ivory teeth of the comb worked through the knotted tangles.

Victoria did not move, overcome by sudden recall. Her mother had brushed her hair.

But she didn’t want to think about her mother.

Heat radiated from the V of Gabriel’s legs.

“What are a woman’s breasts called in French?” she asked abruptly.

“Melons.”

“Melons,” Victoria translated. “That’s very . .. quaint. Much better than apple dumplings, I’m sure.” A

popular slang on the streets of London.

Tears abruptly pricked her eyes. The small hurt inflicted by the unknotting of another tangle instantly

disappeared in a glide of ivory.

“Miches,” Gabriel murmured.

Victoria smiled wryly. “Loaves of bread.”

The staple of every diet.

“Ananas.”

“What is that?” she asked with a catch in her breath.

“Pineapples.”

Victoria’s nails dug more deeply into Gabriel’s thighs—he did not flinch. “I’ve never eaten pineapple. Is

it sweet?”

“Sweet.” The knot in her hair yielded to ivory teeth. “Tart. Prickly on the outside. Juicy on the inside.”

The governess in Victoria surfaced. “A woman’s breasts are not prickly.”

“Your nipples, Victoria, are very hard. They prick my skin.”

So, she imagined, did her nails. She unsheathed them.

The comb glided effortlessly through her hair. Victoria’s head fell back.

“I used to burn and throb between my legs.” She stared up at the white enameled ceiling. “I didn’t know

that the button of flesh between my thighs was called a clitoris, I only knew that it was wrong to touch

myself there. But then, when I had no place to go, I did touch myself. I didn’t see light when I touched

myself, Gabriel.”

Victoria waited for condemnation, confessing what no lady should confess.

“What did you see, Victoria?” Gabriel’s voice was hot and moist, there against the side of her head, her

ear . ..

“I saw darkness, Gabriel.”

The gliding ivory stopped; hard fingers found the top of Victoria’s thighs. A single finger worked

between her legs, her lips ...

“I saw cold and hunger and loneliness . ..” Lightning bolted through Victoria’s clitoris, the seesaw motion

of Gabriel’s finger; she bit back a gasp. “But I didn’t see any sin.”

Prickly skin nuzzled aside her hair—Gabriel’s cheek. Scalding heat licked her ear—Gabriel’s tongue . “

Remember, Victoria.”

The bedroom tilted.

Victoria lay on her back, mounded velvet indenting her buttocks, linen sheets smooth against her spine.

Brass glinted out of the corner of her eyes, the bed rails.

The mattress shifted; Gabriel reached for the tin on the night-stand, his hip abrading her hip. Metal

scraped metal, thudded against wood.

Victoria tensely waited, unable to breathe past the scent of his heat and the closeness of his body.

Mattress dipping, Gabriel straightened, a rolled up sheath of rubber between his thumb and forefinger.

Anticipation squeezed Victoria’s lungs.

Dark lashes shielded Gabriel’s eyes.

Victoria stared at the jagged shadows gouging his cheeks, at the thick stalk of blue-veined flesh he held

in his right hand, glanced back up at the shadow of his face, down again to the engorged purple crown that

was swallowed by a cap of rubber. He