“You were coming to me?” he asked, just so he could be certain.
“No, I was off in search of your kitchens,” she said. “I have the strongest urge for a chocolate cake, and I thought to bake myself one.”
He could not be certain if she was teasing him or if she was speaking truth. If any of his acquaintances were to wander to the kitchen to bake a cake in the midst of the night, it would be she.
“Truly?” Even if she did intend to do as she claimed, he would not allow her to flee him so easily. He drew her flush against his body, sucking in a breath when her bountiful breasts met his chest, and his hard cock connected with the sweetness of her curves.
“Not truly,” she admitted. “I was looking for you.”
“Thank Christ.” He found her lips in the darkness, taking them in the kiss he had been longing to give her all damn day.
She opened on a sigh, her arms twining around his neck. At last, was all he could think as he moved them as one, back into the safe haven of his chamber. His mouth never left hers. Somehow, he managed to close the door before it occurred to him he did not know why she had been seeking him.
He ended the kiss and left her for a moment to turn on a lamp. Now that he had her where he wanted her, the darkness was not good enough. He had to see her in the light. And what a sight she was, with her lustrous hair unbound, her smart dressing gown belted at her waist, and bare feet and trim ankles peeking from beneath the hem.
He swallowed, moved by the sight of her. She was different here in the glow of the lone lamp, bereft of her armor. Even her demeanor seemed different. More tender. Adorably uncertain. He did not know which he wanted more—to kiss her or to embrace her.
“Why were you looking for me?” he asked, realizing he could not simply continue pawing at her, regardless of how inviolably strong the urge to carry her to his bed and go about the business of making love to her all night long was.
She closed the distance between them, her gaze never leaving his. “I…I did not want to be alone tonight.”
The question his mind had been wrangling with—to kiss or to embrace—was decided. Both. He took her in his arms once more, drawing her close to him. Their bodies were flush, her curves melding to his sturdy frame. He dipped his head and brought his lips back to hers, kissing her thoroughly.
“Stay with me,” he whispered against her lips. “Please.”
She drew back, her bright eyes searching his. He did not know what answer she found there, if any. In truth, he had no answers for himself. He could not explain why or how he was so drawn to the woman in his arms. Lord knew he had never intended to be. Nor did he know what it meant, this all-encompassing need he had for her. All he knew was that it was there, a burning and aching thing.
“What happens between us, Lucien…” She halted, her words trailing off as she struggled to explain herself. “It can never be more than the physical, an exchange of pleasure. I do not allow myself to make the same mistakes twice.”
He knew she was speaking of what had happened with her betrothed. It had marred her, scarred her forever. Death had a way of doing that to a person. He knew all too well. Scars were reminders that though the skin had healed over, a wound had once existed, and the body would never be the same. Death was no different.
Her eyes were solemn pools, laden with a sadness he wanted to chase. He ran the backs of his fingers over the curve of her cheek slowly, gently. He would not argue with her words, because the physical was all he dared seek from a woman. He did not believe in love, and he had no intention of ever marrying or siring children of his own. His mother had left him a legacy he would not pass on to the next generation.
“Whatever you want, Hazel, it is yours,” he told her. “Take it. There need be no explanation.”
She exhaled, then gave a jerky nod. “Thank you.”
“Come to bed with me?” he asked, mesmerized by a tiny cleft in her chin, so small, it was scarcely visible to the eye.
He traced his thumb over it, wondering what other mysteries she hid. What facets he would learn. The prospect thrilled him. He had not taken her in the manner he would have had he known she was inexperienced. He had been too bold, then too abrupt. Tonight, he would make amends. He would learn every bit of her body, devote himself to what made her sigh, what made her moan, what made her lose control and spend.
“Yes,” she said simply.
He kissed her again, long and slow, taking his time. He explored the velvety insides of her lips, sliding his tongue against hers. Her mouth was meant to be savored. He would not rush this, he promised himself. He would bide his time. Cherish every second. She was a rarity, and he appreciated her in a way he had never before been grateful for another woman. Her honesty, her vulnerability, juxtaposed with her undeniable intelligence, determination, and drive, undid him.
No other woman like her existed, and he was certain of it. Just as certain as he was that no other woman would ever compare to her in his arms. No other woman could ever match the incredible compliment of her capitulation, her hands upon him. Her mouth beneath his.
She was real, and she was true, and she was smart and fiery and fierce, and in this moment alone, she was his. All his. He intended to keep her that way for as long as possible.
Her tongue moved, slowly at first, then with greater intent. Their grapple for control had begun once more, and it was the sweetest aphrodisiac. He groaned as he slid one of his hands up her spine to just beneath the heavy, silken strands of her hair. Her nape was soft. He cupped the base of her skull and angled her head toward his as his fingers gently tightened on a handful of wavy tresses. Holding her still, he ravaged her mouth.
She made a sound, half-mewl, half-moan. Pure sensual frustration. Anticipation sent an arrow of heat to his groin. The knowledge she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her was heady.
Hazel was not shy about her physical wants, needs, and desires, and he not only applauded her forthright nature…it made him so hard, he ached. She met him touch for touch, stroke for stroke, and kiss for kiss, thrust for thrust.
He could consume her as if she were the most decadent dessert ever laid before him. He wanted to bite her, to lick her, to fuck her, to kiss her, to own her. She overpowered his instinct, his sense of duty, his mind. He wanted her beneath him, atop him. He wanted her hair wrapped around his fist, her mouth on his cock. He wanted to spend his seed and watch as she swallowed it down.
But for now, he had to temper himself. To rein in his sweeping desires and intemperate longing. Control. He needed control. Coolness, calm. He could hold himself back. He could keep himself from blindly driving onward in full charge. They were not at battle, after all. They were lovers. She wanted nothing more than pleasure? He could give her that. Hell, it was all he could give her. They were two jaded hearts, finding mutual solace in each other.
He kissed his way down her throat. Smooth and taut, the cord of her neck a delicacy he nipped with his teeth before soothing with the blunt strokes of his tongue. Her pulse was fast. Beating like the wings of a butterfly. Delicate and intoxicating yet strong and sure, just as she was. He wanted more.
Proceeding slowly would be torture. His hands traveled over her body, shaping and molding her curves through the fabric of her dressing gown. After all they had shared today—the painful revelations of their pasts merging with the present—this intimacy seemed even more potent.
He took her hands in his then and led her. They moved as one to the bed, stopping just before it. For a beat, they stared at each other, neither one of them speaking. The first time had been wild and unexpected. They had clashed, exchanged words, and she had thrown out her challenge. Then take me. And he had accepted. The gauntlet had been tossed down. He had been helpless to resist.
This time was different. They were making a cognizant decision. A second night when there was to have only been one. A silent acknowledgment the passion burning between them could not be cooled after one delirious joining.
“
You are certain?” he asked her, because the gentleman within him demanded it even though he already knew the answer.
“Certain,” she said, fumbling to undo the knot on the belt at her waist.
He caught her fingers in his, moved them aside. “Let me.”
His hands trembled, ridiculous though it was. He was a man of experience, and this was not the first time he was about to see Hazel nude. Anticipation swelled inside him, along with a rising tide of want. It did not matter that they had made love before. He desired her more now than ever. She was glorious, this eccentric American warrior goddess, bold and brash and unique, this Athena brought to life.
The knot came undone. He wasted no time in pushing the wrapper from her shoulders. Beneath it, she wore a nightdress of soft white cotton. It was plain, unadorned by either frill or lace, but it suited her, clinging to her curved hips and full breasts. Her nipples were already hard, prodding the fabric.
His mouth went dry. She was not even nude, and he was hard, his cock aching to be inside her. He cupped her breasts through the nightdress, his thumbs finding her nipples and grazing them in steady circles. Slowly, he reminded himself. He had been mad in his need for her before. He would woo her with gentle care, show her the tenderness he would have, had he realized she was far more inexperienced than he had supposed.
She sighed, and then her hands were on his own dressing gown, undoing the belt, sliding inside to caress a trail of fire over his chest. He was entirely nude beneath it, and he was thankful for that now, as her clever hands traced over him, taunting. Tantalizing.
He took her mouth again, kissing her, luxuriating in the sleek suppleness of her lips beneath his, in the way she surrendered, opening, her tongue seeking his. And then she surprised him by nipping his lower lip, as if she, too, was overrun by the desire to claim. To mindlessly consume.
Her palm slid down his abdomen, making his muscles tighten and his prick spring higher. He groaned into her mouth, deepening the kiss. Every vow he had made to take things slowly with her was banished by the onslaught of her desire. She kissed him back ferociously, her enthusiasm unbridled, and he was awash in need. Aching for her. When her fingers gripped him, his hips jerked.
Her clasp was tight and sure as she worked over him, pumping his shaft. By God, it was all he could do to keep from grinding himself against her, from spending in her hand and all over her simple nightdress.
“Minx,” he muttered without heat.
He kissed down her throat, pinched her nipples lightly. A small row of buttons taunted him, keeping him from her bare skin. He could undo them, or he could tear, and with the violence of the need rising within him, spurred on by her hand stroking his cock, he gripped the modest neckline of her nightdress and tore it firmly in half. One line, straight down the center, until it hung from her in two pieces, and he was rewarded by a hint of pink-tipped breasts and the dark nest of curls shielding her sex from him.
“Arden,” she protested, releasing his painfully erect shaft and glancing down at the tattered remnants of her nightdress in shock. “You have ruined it.”
“Forgive me,” he said, quite insincerely. In truth, he would do it all over again. “It was in the way of what I wanted.”
That was the truth, undeniable, and he did not believe he had ever wanted anything or anyone more than he wanted Hazel Montgomery. His entire being pulsed with the desire to take her, to make her his. Slide home inside her welcoming, tight sheath. To lose himself in the depths of her wet cunny.
“It was a favorite of mine,” she chided. “I have had it for five years now, and it has held up with remarkable aplomb. I do not believe I will find another to replace it.”
“I will buy you a new nightdress.” He kissed her neck as he drew the nightgown—or what remained of it—from her body. “A finer one.”
He already owed her a bodice. He was making the destruction of her wardrobe a habit.
“No doubt you will,” she said, sighing when he bit at the skin over her clavicle. Her hands flitted to his shoulders, not pushing him away but holding him in place. “But I will not accept your largesse, and that was badly done of… Oh.”
He had kissed his way to the tip of one breast, and now he dragged hard on her nipple, gratified by the way her words trailed off as she forgot her pique in favor of the pleasure he had to offer her. He lapped at the bud, playing his tongue lightly over it, then released it and blew a stream of hot air over the distended peak. She had the most beautiful breasts he had ever seen. Round and full, creamy and pink, more than enough to fill his hands, and they were so gloriously attuned to his touch.
He had a brief, wild fantasy of stuffing his cock between them, fucking her there. But that would wait for another day. He could not debauch her in one night. And neither was he sure it was his right to do so, even if there was something about her that drew out the primitive beast within. He wanted to claim her body as his own, to fill her and mark her and pleasure her in every way he could. He wanted her with a desperation he doubted could ever be satiated.
But for now, she was within reach. She was warm and sleek and curved and lush, a rare creature he had somehow ensnared for the moment. She was so completely unlike every other woman he had ever known. There was no artifice in her.
She had not led a life of pampering but one of toiling. Even her body was stronger than a female’s ordinarily was, and he admired the muscles of her thighs, her buttocks as his hands swept over them anew, the taut sinews of her upper arms. No dainty, frail lady, Miss H.E. Montgomery. She was as graceless as a turnip, more beautiful than any woman he had ever met, and he reveled in her oddities and complexities, her blend of the masculine and the feminine, her uniqueness, so different, so refreshing.
Just, simply, her.
He released her nipple and laved the other one, listening for the hitch in her breath, for the mewls of pleasure he wrung from her throat. This woman was made for sin. Made for him. His fingers dipped into the inviting warmth blossoming between her thighs. He parted her folds to find her slick and hot and wet. So wet for him. The discovery made his ballocks tighten in anticipation.
Her hands were on him too, dragging the ends of his robe apart, pushing it down his arms. She glided her palms over his chest. Her nails rasped down his abdomen. She once more found his erect cock and squeezed.
Not hard, but with enough pressure to make him release her nipple and thrust his hips instinctively forward, seeking more of the oblivion she offered even when he was determined to do everything in his power to make the night last forever.
“Damn it, Hazel,” he ground out.
He did not want to know how she knew how to pleasure a man so well. She had been a virgin, but he could not fathom she would know how to touch him with just the proper amount of pressure and tenderness, how to stroke him and bring him to the brink.
She did. God, how she did.
And he knew a fire of jealousy, lit deep within him, and envy toward the man who had earned her heart, the betrothed she had loved and lost, before ever marrying. Some part of him, the possessive beast who had fallen beneath her spell, envied that man, who had been the first to teach her passion. Envied that man, who had won her heart.
Christ. What was he thinking? The pleasure was making him mad. He did not believe in love. Or in the fickleness of hearts. He did not believe in anything other than pleasure. Bodies. Nature. His cock in Hazel’s pussy. Yes, that was what he believed in. That was all he could afford to trust.
She stopped, either sensing the maelstrom within him, or uncertain of herself. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he bit out.
Yes, he thought. Yes, by God there was. Everything was wrong, because she was making him feel things. Things he had not felt in years. Things he had not believed himself capable of feeling any longer. She was…undoing him.
Slowly.
Surely.
Seducing him, transforming him, and he could not stop it, any more than he could stop the sun rising
in the east. It was elemental, inevitable. Just as she was. Some mad part of him wondered if she had been destined for him, if their bodies were meant to be joined. And then, he told himself that was foolish. Nothing was meant to be.
She stopped stroking him, but did not ease her grip. “Should I not touch you?”
“Fuck.” He muttered the epithet in a bitter tone, and he knew he ought not to say it before her, even if they were naked, and even if he was about to lose himself inside her body without the sanctity of marriage. “Always touch me, Hazel. Never stop.”
“Are you certain?” Her tone was hesitant, a reminder that, regardless of whatever knowledge she had obtained from her betrothed, she was still very much an innocent. A fact he could personally attest to, since he had been the one to take her virginity.
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he gritted. “Stroke me. Do what you like with me. I am at your command.”
As he said the words, a hot rush of excitement burned through him. It was what he wanted, he realized. What he longed for. He wanted Hazel to take control of him, to govern her own pleasure, and his. He wanted to be at her mercy, utterly and completely.
“At my command,” she repeated slowly.
“I am yours,” he said.
Her grip tightened on his cock. He nearly spent in her palm.
“Mine?” she asked, resuming her strokes. Up and down his shaft, her thumb finding the tip, rubbing over his sensitive head.
“Yours,” he growled.
“What if I want you on your knees again?” she whispered, leaning into him, her mouth close enough to claim, her breath hot and sweet as it skimmed his lips.
“On my knees pleasuring you?” he asked, getting harder at the thought.
“Yes.”
Suddenly, all his intentions fell away. Desire hit him like a locomotive, full in the chest, speeding down the tracks. There was no turning back.
“Tell me to do it,” he told her. “Order me.”
Shameless Duke Page 19