She’d like to taste it. Did people even do that? Tasting someone else’s throat had not been covered in the belowstairs discussion of general intercourse. And now she certainly couldn’t ask, what with her supposed to be a lady and all.
But she was still standing at the door, gawking at his strong, powerful throat.
“Yes, thank you,” she said nonsensically, walking into the room.
It was mostly empty save for a few items of furniture at the edges. The walls were covered with some odd material, chosen for something other than decoration, while the floors were dull, making Ana Maria itch to polish them.
Those days are over, she reminded herself.
“Do you want anything to drink before we begin?” Nash said. He sounded so awkward it made her feel slightly less so.
“I don’t think I should.” Alcohol would make her even less sharp, and she might accidentally say something that she should not.
“I mean water,” he replied with a chuckle. He strode over to a bureau against the opposite wall, upon which a pitcher and glasses sat. He poured two glasses, then returned to her, giving her one of them.
Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Or perhaps it was that throat.
She took a swig from the glass, drinking so quickly she started to choke. He immediately began to pound her back, which made her whole body shake, so the remaining water in the glass sloshed out and spilled on her gown and the floor.
He stopped pounding her back as they both stared down at the widening puddle.
“Well,” Ana Maria said in a sprightly voice, “this is getting off to an excellent start.”
His expression froze, and then the most startling thing happened—he began to laugh.
Not only that, he was laughing so hard he’d flung his head back, showing even more of that damnably handsome throat. He had his hand to his chest, as though it hurt to laugh so much, his other hand still holding his own glass. Which had not spilled, despite all of his movement.
So she stepped over to him, snatched the glass from his hand, and poured all the water out onto the floor.
His eyes widened, and then he laughed harder. This time, she joined in, not quite sure what they were laughing at, but pleased to see him so joyful, for once.
She didn’t remember ever seeing him laugh. She’d seen him smile on a few rare occasions, but not outright laughter.
“Anything amiss?”
Nash’s manservant Finan popped his head into the room, his perplexed expression revealing that, yes, Nash’s laughter was a rare occurrence.
“You all right, my lady?” Finan continued, addressing Ana Maria.
“I am fine. But perhaps a mop would be of use?” And some cloths to dry the wood adequately so that no one would slip later on, but she bit back the words because she wasn’t the maid in charge of cleaning this room. Or any room.
“Right away,” Finan said, his face disappearing as the door shut again.
“Stay there,” Nash ordered as she began to move. “I don’t want you to fall.”
“I’ll be fine,” she replied, lifting her now-damp shoes from the worst of the spill.
“Why do you always tell me you’ll be fine? When I am just trying to help?”
Her chest tightened at the sincerity of his tone.
That is why he demanded he teach her self-defense. He is a protector, he knows no other way. It had nothing to do with her, the person, Ana Maria; it was because she was in his orbit, and he cared about people in his orbit.
Just like he had hired so many of the bastards his father had scattered around the country. Not that he’d ever told her that, but she’d heard him and Sebastian speaking about it.
It should be a relief it had nothing to do personally with her. It was his need, nothing more or less. So she couldn’t deny him his basic need to protect.
“Thank you. I know I should be more grateful—”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he interrupted. “I just want you to agree that there are certain things that I am more knowledgeable about than you.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Such as—?”
Such as. For a moment, Nash couldn’t think of anything. Well, besides not talking. But he’d gotten better at talking, which must mean he’d gotten worse at not talking. Not that he was good at talking; just take a look at, for example, now.
He couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I suppose you’ll say self-defense and fighting,” she said, obviating the need for him to think of a response. “And that is true. But I believe that once you teach me the essential elements I will be as good as you are, albeit starting from a different place. What with being a female and all.”
And that was why he found himself in the confounding position of not being able to speak.
She was a female. A female he’d realized was far too attractive for him to spend any amount of time with, and yet here he was, alone in a room in his house. With only his assorted family members who were also servants. And Finan.
So. She was a female, and he was an idiot.
“Fine,” he said instead of saying anything that might reveal the extent of his idiocy. And his awareness of her as a female instead of just as the sibling of his best friend. “I don’t want to talk. Let’s spar.”
“You are better than I am at changing the subject when you know you are wrong,” she muttered.
He chose to ignore her.
He went to the bureau with the linens, drawing two lengths of linen from the drawer. “We’ll need to wrap your hands.”
She glanced at the linens, then held her hands out in front of her. As though she were submitting to him.
Holy hell, the thoughts that went through his mind—and to his cock—at the sight of it.
Her, holding her hands out as he slowly unwrapped her, taking his time to reveal each inch of perfect golden skin. Her, holding her hands out for him to guide her to where he wanted her. His bed? His desk? The carpet?
Her, holding her hands out, reaching for his body, sliding her palms over his skin.
That was the one he craved the most.
Though he would gladly take any of them.
“Nash?”
He jerked his thoughts away from all of that, clamping his jaw as he began to wrap the linen around her hands.
Once again, he was touching her ungloved hands. Her skin was smooth, not marked by scars and calluses like his.
“I won’t be wearing linen like this if somebody accosts me on the street,” she pointed out.
“No, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“You are very sweet,” she replied.
Well, thanks to her words his concern that he would embarrass himself because of a poorly timed erection was no longer a concern, at least.
“I am not sweet.”
Her mouth curled into a wicked smile. Concern back on board, given what thoughts that smile conjured in his mind.
“Oh, but you are. You insist on rescuing damsels in distress—even though I was not in distress, mind you—and you’ve hired people who most men in your position would prefer to ignore.”
He scowled in reply.
“And you are taking time from whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing—”
At which he grunted.
“—to train me in self-defense. Although, presumably, once you train me you won’t have to spend time rushing to my aid. You can stay home, safe in the knowledge I can take care of myself.”
That’s not going to happen.
“I am not sweet,” he repeated.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Not sweet. Can we get to the training portion now?”
The training portion. Where he’d be touching her. Not just her hands, which had already inspired images that he would be revisiting in the privacy of his bedroom. But elsewhere, adjusting her stance, demonstrating what a straight and true punch looked like. Making certain her shoulders were relaxed as she moved so the tension wouldn’t make her
lose momentum. Pretending to be an assailant who might want to get her into a prone position.
Goddamn it.
Was that why he seemed to be procrastinating in doing the one thing he had insisted they do together?
“Nash.”
“Yes.”
He nodded, then stalked behind her.
“All right. The first thing will be to gauge your reaction time.” He took a deep breath, then placed a hand on either side of her waist. Holding her still.
She shrieked and leaped away, spinning to face him, her expression one of astonishment.
“Well. Reaction time is good.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
He frowned. “If I’d warned you, you’d have had time to prepare your reaction. That wouldn’t make sense.”
She rolled her eyes again. “You are the most irritatingly pragmatic man I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t even know what that means.” He held his hand up when she opened her mouth. “Nor do I care to. We need to work now. We can spend time tossing barbs at one another later.”
Her eyebrows rose, and that wicked smile returned. Damn it. “Tossing barbs? As though that is a thing you actually do?” She shook her head, that smile still in place. “I believe you would rather do a thing than say a thing.”
Well, yes. If that meant he’d rather punch a scoundrel than reason with him. Or drink a whiskey rather than talking about how it tasted.
Or kiss a woman who was just beginning to come into her own gloriousness.
The door swung open, and Finan returned along with Bertha, a young woman he’d found when making what he called his Bastard Tour of the villages near his father’s estate. Now his estate.
Bertha carried a mop and pail, while Finan held cloths in his hand.
“Oh good. I was hoping there would be a mop,” Ana Maria said in satisfaction.
The two stepped between them, Finan getting on his knees to wipe up the water as Bertha mopped.
“How’s it going?” Finan asked, his expression and tone almost offensively banal.
Nash grunted.
“Good. As I’d expected,” Finan replied, grinning.
“The duke has wrapped my hands and has tested my reaction time,” Ana Maria said. “Thus far, he has not shown me how to do anything that would possibly help me in a difficult situation.”
Finan raised his eyebrows as he looked pointedly toward Nash.
“It’s preparation.”
Finan nodded. “Of course. Preparation.”
Why did that sound like such a loaded word?
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Finan said as Bertha put the mop back into the bucket, nodding in satisfaction. “Don’t forget the dowager duchess requires you at tea. Dressed appropriately,” he added with a wink.
“Thank you.” Ana Maria spoke before he had the chance to. Not that that was unusual, of course.
“Thank you,” he echoed as the two left the room.
“Well. Shall we get back to it?”
“If you’re actually going to show me something, then yes.” That wicked smile.
He liked it when she smiled like that. Too much. He also liked it when she needled him, which was something he should ponder later, but likely wouldn’t.
“Let me show you several things.”
Chapter Nine
“Let me show you several things?”
When she repeated his words, she lifted her voice at the end as though it were a question. And she accompanied that question with a raised eyebrow as well as a slight tilt to her mouth. As though she were in on a secret joke.
He swallowed. The Ana Maria with the question and the wicked smile was not the Ana Maria he knew. Had known for most of his life.
This Ana Maria was more like a siren, an alluring maiden whose very expression made it impossible to resist.
He froze in place, not quite sure what to say. What did one say to the sister of one’s best friend when one wished that she were anything but a best friend’s relative? When one wished she were, in fact, a woman with no personal ties to him that he could fuck with abandon?
Far better to stay frozen. Though one part of him, at least, had not heeded the warning. His cock was stiffening in his trousers, an aching reminder of what he was beginning to believe would end up a full-blown never-realized desire. He couldn’t give in to what he was feeling because that would be to betray both his best friend, his next closest best friend, and his own determination not to care for any person of the female persuasion. Her especially.
But he had not counted on what she might want.
“I do want you to show me things,” she continued, sounding both hesitant and alluring. An intoxicating combination. She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about what I want you to show me. And now, for example, I want you to show me how to kiss.”
And before he could react, she was leaning up on her toes, putting her hands on his biceps to steady herself, and placing her mouth—her luscious, soft, sweet mouth—on his.
His hands went automatically to her waist, curling his fingers around her body. He felt her shudder, and he froze again, but then she slid her hands down his arms all the way to his fingers and placed her hands on top of his, squeezing them in reassurance.
And then she took her hands away, but immediately put them at his waist, giving a tiny tug so he inched toward her.
Their bodies were nearly—nearly—touching.
And still, her mouth stayed pressed on his. Just there. Not moving, not doing anything.
She wanted to know how to kiss? She was asking for his help? For his instruction?
He’d give it to her.
He pressed his lips more firmly against hers, then slid his tongue across her mouth, making her gasp. Which resulted in her opening for him, and his tongue, which slid in slowly as she shuddered some more.
He kept still for a moment, letting her grow accustomed to it.
All the while his cock was thickening, lengthening, straining against the fabric of his trousers. If their bodies were touching she would be able to feel it, too, and he fought the urge to yank her against him so she could feel what this was doing to him. And he could feel her.
She made a tiny noise in her throat, and then her tongue met his, cautiously sliding against it, the only noise in the room their breaths and the faint whisper of fabric as their fingers clenched the other’s body.
Her hands were exploring his back, her palms spread wide against the thin fabric of his shirt.
Thank God he wasn’t wearing a jacket.
The only thing standing between his upper body and her fingers was his shirt. A shirt he wore to box in, a shirt that didn’t matter at all, he likely had hundreds more just like it in one of his numerous wardrobes.
It took seconds to remove one of his hands from her waist to reach to the neckline of his shirt, yanking it down so it shredded with a satisfying noise. She jumped, breaking the kiss, and he took advantage of that moment to shrug out of the shirt and toss it over his head. Standing absolutely still so she could decide what she wanted to do now.
“Oh,” she sighed, and there was so much emotion in that one sound he nearly staggered. Curiosity and desire and passion and a certain hesitancy.
“Do you want to touch me?” he asked. He didn’t move. Her lips were redder than before, and her cheeks were flushed. Her dark eyes glowed with a heady sparkle.
He didn’t allow his gaze to go lower than her face.
“I do.” She stepped forward so they were nearly touching again. “I want to kiss you some more, too. I liked it.”
He released his breath and took her hand, placing it in the middle of his chest. Her fingers twitched, and he resisted the urge to hold her hand down. She wasn’t a dog to be soothed. She was a woman who needed to know her own mind.
Her fingers tangled in his chest hair, and then began to explore, sliding across the planes of his chest slowly, her eyes tracking her hand’s movement.
&nb
sp; And then she looked up into his face, that maddeningly sensual smile on her mouth again.
“Your skin feels very different from mine.”
He swallowed.
She kept her gaze locked with his, moving her hand across his chest, her palm grazing his nipple, making him gasp. She tilted her head and paused then. “You like that?”
He nodded, since he couldn’t speak.
“Hm.” She moved her hand to his side, clamping her hand on him and urging him forward with the pressure of her fingers. He came willingly, hoping there would be more of this, but hesitant to do anything that would make her feel obligated.
She raised herself up on tiptoes again, her lips an inch away from his. “I liked what you were doing before. When you were kissing me. Do it again.”
And he exhaled in relief, clasping his hands at her waist again, pulling her body into his so he could feel every delicious curve as he placed his mouth on hers.
This was possibly the best idea she’d ever had, and that included when she’d chosen magenta silk to cover the wall in her salon.
After all, she was determined to discover things she liked and didn’t like, on her own terms, and she definitely knew she wanted to find out if she liked kissing.
Asking him to kiss her was perfect; he would not expect anything more, nor would he expose her. He was the only one she could experiment with without consequences.
She should know how to kiss, shouldn’t she? Along with being able to punch gentlemen she most definitely did not want to kiss. This was just more instruction, albeit completely inappropriate instruction.
She wanted more of that achy feeling that came when he’d—surprisingly—put his tongue in her mouth. She hadn’t gotten very many specifics when learning what happened between men and women when she’d been a servant, because the focus then had been what to do to prevent that.
Thank goodness for that, since if she’d known it felt so glorious she might have wanted to start sooner. And then she would have missed having her first kiss with him.
His tongue was in her mouth again, and she nearly groaned at how delicious it felt. He was licking her lips, sucking her tongue gently into his mouth as his fingers tightened on her waist.
Tall, Duke, and Dangerous Page 9