She resisted the urge to snap her legs closed, instead biting her lip as his mouth moved up her leg, kissing her on her thigh, then—
“Oh my God,” she said as his mouth made contact with her there.
It felt like too much, and she shuddered, rivulets of pleasure sliding over her skin. He chuckled softly against her, his hands now on her hips, holding her still for his mouth.
His tongue darted out to lick her there, and she shuddered again, her hands clamped onto his shoulders.
“You like this.” He murmured against her skin, and she shifted in exquisite agony against him.
“Mm,” she moaned.
“Tell me,” he urged, his words muffled. She could barely form words, but if she didn’t—would he stop?
“I like this,” she gasped out.
“What do you like?” he asked, his words punctuated by soft licks. “You like it when I kiss your sweet pussy?”
She gasped again, both at how amazing it felt and his explicit words. She swallowed, then spoke. “Yes, I want you to kiss my pussy.” She felt exhilarated by saying the word. By having him on his knees, literally, before her. Branding her with his tongue. Ruining her for anyone else.
As though she didn’t know that already.
“Mm,” he murmured, continuing his sensual onslaught. “Come for me, Ana Maria. Show me you like what I’m doing.”
She gripped his head, her fingers threading through his hair, every feeling focused on what he was doing, and how he was making her feel.
This was heaven. And hell, because it was torture to feel all of it, but she never wanted it to stop.
He grunted as he worked her, and she moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders so tightly he would likely have bruises.
And then—and then she fell apart, crying out her pleasure. It felt as though she had summited a mountain, albeit one she’d climbed with the help of his lips and tongue.
“Mm,” he said again, giving her one last tender kiss there before leaning up to press his mouth against hers.
She could taste herself.
He kissed her thoroughly, his hands cupping her face.
She slid her hands down his shoulders to his waist, pulling him into her. He was still on his knees, but shuffled forward to press against her.
And then she moved her fingers to his waistband, and lower, feeling the hard ridge of him through his trousers.
“Oh yes,” he said against her mouth. “Yes.”
“Tell me what you want,” Ana Maria replied, squeezing him.
She was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever tasted. He’d feasted on her pleasure, and he’d nearly forgotten he hadn’t climaxed yet, he’d been so focused on helping her find her own climax.
But now she had her fingers on his cock, and she was asking him to speak, to tell her what he wanted.
He wanted it all.
He wanted to thrust into her warmth, he wanted to bring himself to climax all over her gorgeous breasts, he wanted to have her put her mouth on him as he had done to her.
“What do you want, Ignatius?” she asked, rubbing her fingers up and down his length. It was awkward, through his trousers, and his hand went quickly to his waistband, undoing the placket so she could touch him directly.
“I want you to touch me,” he said, taking her hand and sliding it up and down his shaft, showing her what he liked.
“Like this?” she said, following his movement.
Nash buried his head in her neck as he groaned. “Yes, like that. Goddamn, Ana Maria.”
She learned quickly, gripping him tightly from the base of his cock to the tip, sliding her fingers around him, keeping the pressure on as she worked him.
“Are you going to fuck me?” she asked in a low tone.
He growled in response, biting her neck softly and then drawing back to gaze in her eyes. “Do you want me to fuck you, Ana Maria?”
Her eyes fluttered closed as she replied, “God, yes. So much.”
He grinned at her forceful reply, then got up onto the bench, straddling her legs on either side. She kept her hand on his cock, continuing to rub, only less urgently.
It was an uncomfortable position, and he knew his knees would pay for it later, but he didn’t care. She had asked him so nicely, after all. How could he deny her?
“Spread your legs wider,” he ordered as he moved her hand to his waist. “And hold on.”
She followed his direction, putting her other hand on the other side of his waist, holding him tightly as she bit her lip.
“Are you anxious?” he asked. He would stop, even if it was agony, if she was in any way unsure. “We can stop if you want.”
She shook her head. “No, I want this. I want you.”
He growled, taking himself in hand as he nudged the tip of his cock to her entrance. She moaned, and he began to press in, bit by bit, holding his breath as he worked himself inside.
She was so tight, but she was so wet it eased the way in. And then he was fully seated, her hands holding his waist tightly, one of his hands gripping the back of the bench, the other hand at her hip, holding her.
“I’m going to move. Is that all right?” he asked.
She gave a vigorous nod.
And then he withdrew halfway, feeling the slick heat of her, his cock as hard as it had ever been, pushing back inside slowly, clenching his jaw to force himself not to push too hard.
She slid her hand around his back to clutch his arse, pressing him in tighter.
“How does it feel?” he asked, barely able to manage the words.
“Good,” she said, looking down at where they were joined.
He followed her gaze, watching as the plump head of his cock moved in and out of her, the skirts of her gown draped around her waist, the only sound in the room the sound of the soft friction between their bodies.
He began to move faster and more forcefully, sliding his way back and forth, her channel gripping his length.
He put his fingers on her clitoris, rubbing gently as he thrust, rewarded by her moan as she began to shift under him.
He’d never brought a woman to climax while riding her—he would have thought it impossible, but now she was gasping, her fingers gripping his arse as if to dare him to try to stop.
“God, please, please,” she said, opening her eyes to meet his gaze. She looked dazed, and he likely looked the same—he had never felt this much pleasure in his life, and he hadn’t even climaxed yet.
He rode faster, thrusting in and out as he kept his rhythm on her nub, his breath growing shorter as the climax built, making his balls tighten and his entire body feel as though it were on fire.
She flung her head back and tightened even more around his cock, pulsing as she climaxed.
If he wasn’t on the verge of climax himself, he would take a moment to be exceedingly proud of his efforts.
He withdrew just as he came, spilling onto the bench, giving a hoarse cry that echoed around the gazebo.
Sated, he sagged against her, his whole body completely relaxed, every nerve ending awash in a wave of pleasure.
They remained there for a minute or two. Nash didn’t think he would ever want to move again.
She patted him on the arse. “Uh—I’m getting a cramp. Do you mind—?”
He shifted quickly off her, standing up and putting himself back in his trousers.
She looked up at him, a wryly satisfied look on her face. “Well. You’ve certainly taught me a lesson.”
He barked in surprised laughter. Of all the things to say directly afterward, he had not expected that.
“There’s so much more I want to teach you,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her softly on the lips.
Because if there were more lessons, then there would be more time for them to spend together.
Perhaps enough time for him to figure out the words he needed to say to persuade her to be with him always.
Because—because goddamn it, he loved her. Even though it terrifie
d him. Even though all those good reasons not to get too attached to her were still good reasons.
But he had no idea how to say it.
He’d have to show her.
Chapter Eighteen
Ana Maria wriggled in her seat, trying to get sensation back into her legs.
Wondering if her legs would buckle under her if she tried to stand up.
That was incredible. She wanted to do it all immediately again, only she wasn’t certain she could remain upright.
“Let me take care of that,” Nash said, gesturing to the bench. He picked his cravat up from the floor, then began to wipe up, stroking her thighs to clean them of his spill.
She knew what he had done, of course, and why he had done it; she hadn’t even thought to ask about preventing childbirth, idiot that she was, and she was grateful he had. Because there was no way she wanted to bear his child, not in their current circumstances.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, glancing up at him.
He arched an eyebrow. “For—?”
She felt her cheeks heat and was grateful for the relative dark. “For all of it. For this, and for making sure we don’t—”
“Of course,” he said. Did he sound disappointed?
But he was the one who was insisting there be nothing permanent between them.
Even though they’d just done all of this.
It was all very confusing. She was very confused.
She wanted him, more than ever, but she also knew that to take him now would be a compromise, and she was done with compromises.
“What are you thinking about? Don’t think it was a mistake,” he said, his tone urgent.
“No, no, of course not,” she replied, reaching for him.
But he was out of reach, since he was standing, and she was still on the bench, the skirts of her gown hiked up nearly around her ears, entirely exposed to him.
The distance felt as though it meant something, even though he had only moved away because she had asked him to.
Wasn’t she supposed to feel exhilarated after such an experience?
She still felt the remnants of the pleasure he’d brought her, but she also felt mournful, as though this was the start of their inevitable end.
“If you don’t think it was a mistake, is there something you want to tell me?”
She snorted in response. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. The one who never says how he feels.”
Instead of returning to his usual nonverbal arrogant stance—standing proudly inarticulate, arms folded over his chest—he stood in a very un-Nash-like stance, his hands hanging at his sides, his expression concerned, his gaze on hers.
“I don’t choose not to speak.”
His words were halting.
“I—I don’t always know how.”
She ached for him, for his closing himself off so thoroughly. This felt even more momentous than the time only a few minutes before, when she’d engaged in the most passionate experience of her life. Was he about to finally open up to her? Tell her everything that was in his heart?
“Tell me,” she said, patting the bench beside her.
He nodded, then came to sit on the bench, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.
She adjusted her skirts so they fell back toward the gown and shifted a bit to the side so she could see him.
“It’s hard to explain. Obviously,” he added ruefully.
“What would you say if you could say it?”
He gazed forward, clearly lost in thought. A few long moments of silence passed between them.
She was conscious of the noises from the party wafting toward them—people chattering, music playing, the occasional clink of glassware.
People living their lives a short distance away, completely unaware of what had happened here.
Thank goodness, of course. Because if they knew, there would be no choice but for them to marry. Or risk her disgrace forever.
Would she remain true enough to her own values to choose the latter?
“I tried to talk at first.”
She waited.
“But there were no words for how I felt.”
More silence.
“How you felt about what?” she prompted.
“My mother. The duke.” She noticed he didn’t say his father. “I was about ten years old when she left, and she didn’t say why. She didn’t even say goodbye. She couldn’t, I know that now, but I didn’t know that back then.”
Her chest felt tight with the ache for him. To be that young, to have your mother leave you—of course her mother had died when she had been just months old, but she wasn’t aware of any of that at the time.
“I knew not to ask him”—him clearly meaning his father—“but I asked anybody else. They all just gave me this frightened look, a look I’d seen on her face.” He shrugged. “Then it just became easier to demonstrate how I felt by showing people, not telling them.”
Had he just shown her how he felt about her?
But no. She had asked him for this; he was merely acceding to her wishes.
“And after a while it felt odd to say anything at all. I was a duke’s heir, I could do whatever I wanted. As long as my father didn’t notice.”
“What—what happened if he noticed?” she asked, dreading the answer.
“You have to know. You must have seen the bruises.”
Her throat got thick. Of course she’d seen the bruises, but back then she hadn’t realized what they meant.
“He was a monster.”
He took a deep breath. “He was—and so am—”
“Perhaps they are in that building there,” a voice said loudly. Octavia. “If only we could find the duke and Lady Ana Maria, I am certain they just came out here to take the air.”
Octavia warning them.
Ana Maria scrambled to stand, shaking her skirts out and trying to smooth her hair, even though she had no idea if it had gotten disheveled in the course of their—activities.
“We’re here,” Nash called, sounding casual even while he was frantically tossing his shirt back over his head, tucking it into his trousers. He eyed the cravat lying on the bench, met her gaze, and shook his head.
She grabbed it as she turned to face the door, clasping it behind her back.
The door swung open, and Octavia entered, her expression one of warning even though her words sounded entirely relaxed.
“Of course they are here, I told you that Lady Ana Maria felt a bit faint, and since the duke here is practically a relation, it only makes sense that he would escort her for some air.”
“Ana Maria!” Sebastian’s tone was unusually stern.
Not only was Sebastian there, but Thaddeus stood beside him, both of them radiating disapproval.
“You two,” she said, glancing from one to the other.
“Octavia, you should return to the party,” Sebastian said.
Octavia glanced toward Ana Maria, who nodded.
“Fine,” she said. She advanced toward Sebastian, poking her finger in his chest. “But don’t you dare hurt my friend.”
“She’s my sister!” Sebastian retorted.
“Humph,” Octavia replied. She gave Ana Maria a quick kiss on the cheek, then scampered back toward the ballroom.
“If you want to avoid a scandal,” Thaddeus said in a grim tone, “you will come with us, Ana Maria.” At least he sounded the way he usually did, since he always seemed to be issuing commands, even when asking someone something as innocuous as to pass the sugar. “Or you can tell us that you want to get married, given what you two have obviously been up to.”
Did she want to avoid a scandal? Did she want to marry him?
She’d just had the most incredible experience of her life—not just that, but also his confiding in her. Sharing some of the secrets that seemed as though they might throttle his soul.
If he could just speak to his emotions. Just say he wanted her completely, not as an interlude or a training lesson.
“You two,” she began, glancing between Sebastian and Thaddeus, “have spent a lot of time trying to decide what is best for me. And telling me what to do.”
Sebastian’s mouth opened as though to object, but she shook her head. “No. Not now. It is my turn.”
She straightened her shoulders and looked straight at Nash, whose face was unreadable.
Though his fists were not—they hung by his side, and she could see how tightly he was gripping them. So tightly that there were white marks around his knuckles.
Obviously he was agitated, but she had no clue what about—possibly being forced into a marriage he’d said repeatedly he did not want? Being chastised by his best friends? Regretting opening up to her as much as he had?
She wished she could read him better.
Or perhaps not, since maybe he didn’t want her, after all.
“Nash is my friend.” She saw a muscle tic in his jaw. “He should not be forced to save my reputation because somebody decides to gossip about us.” She flung her hands up in frustration. “Until six months ago, I didn’t have a reputation to worry about! Except for if I smudged the silver.”
She shook her head in frustration. “What is important to me is that the person I marry—whomever that person is—is able to say why he wishes to marry me. Not that he should, or that others think he should. Or that it just seems to make sense.” She planted her hands on her hips and spoke directly to Nash. “I want to know why.” I want you to tell me you want me in your world.
She kept her gaze locked on his face. She still couldn’t read it.
“Well?” Sebastian said, turning to Nash.
Who kept his mouth closed. And his fists clenched.
“Sebastian and Thaddeus are right,” he said at last, the words sounding as though they were being extracted from him by force. “I’m not worthy of you. But if you think I am, and we want to—” He stopped speaking, shaking his head as though the words were gone.
That was an even worse proposal than the one Lord Brunley had given her. At least Lord Brunley had pretended he wanted to get married. Nash’s words made it sound as though he were being pressured, and the one thing she absolutely did not want was someone to take her reluctantly.
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