In his youth, he’d been content with the quick in and out. Then an older woman had shown him the joy to be found in taking one’s time. He wanted to gift his duchess with that elation, as he was fairly certain she’d never had it. Not all men were well versed in the art of fucking. Many had an aversion to sins of the flesh, but the need for surcease drove them to it and they wanted to be done as quickly as possible, as though sinning for a short time might be overlooked while a lengthier transgression was certain to send one to the eternal flames of perdition. But if a man was destined to go to hell anyway, which children born of shame were, he might as well make the most of the journey.
He took his time walking around the table, watching as the rise and fall of her bosom increased in tempo as he neared, how her breaths became more shallow, her blinks less frequent. Taking the cue from her, he placed his fingers where hers had been, noted the slight dampness there, couldn’t decide if the sign of her nervousness pleased or bothered him. He certainly didn’t want her to be fearful of what was to come. He was tempted to throw it across the room like a large dart, but the clatter would destroy the mood he was striving to create.
So while tension and anticipation built within him, he casually ambled over to the rack and slipped the cue into place. When he turned around, it was to discover she hadn’t moved, not even an inch. If she didn’t appear to be on the verge of regretting her request to the point of possibly bolting, he might have taken a few more minutes to simply appreciate the beauty of her. Instead, he sauntered over, threaded his fingers through hers, and drew her over to one of the narrow ends of the table.
“You’re going to do it here?” she asked, her voice a bit thready, breathless, higher pitched than usual.
Quirking up a corner of his mouth, he glanced around. “This is as good a place as any.”
“Would a bed not be better?”
“Not for what I have in mind. Besides, the setting will make for a singular memory. I’ve little doubt you’ve had numerous encounters on a bed. I want to give you something different, something you’ve possibly never had before.”
She swallowed, the delicate muscles of her throat working as she simultaneously nodded and licked her lips.
Placing his hands on either side of her waist, he lifted her and placed her gently on the table, hovering on its precipice, her legs dangling over the edge. With his gaze holding hers, he skimmed his hands over her hips, along her outer thighs—
Guided them over her thighs until they were nestled in the valley between her legs and then parted them with a quickness and distance that had her eyes widening, her nostrils flaring, her lips parting. He stepped between them, her knees on either side of his hips, latched on to her arse, and pulled her forward until that honeyed spot he intended to torment was pressed up against him so she knew how desperately he wanted to possess her.
A farther widening of her eyes, flaring of her nostrils, parting of her lips—and now added to that a clutching of the front of his shirt as though she feared dropping into the abyss. It was his hope she would dive into it, unfettered and free.
Slowly, because he wanted none of his time with her rushed, wanted to sear every aspect of her into his memories, he began easing the pins from her hair, tossing them toward the far end of the table so she could easily find them if she wished to gather them to secure her hair later—although if he were successful with his plans, the last thing she’d be thinking about was tidying up. He wanted her completely undone and dazed.
The long heavy strands broke free of the few moorings remaining and tumbled down around her shoulders, revealing more of the strawberry coloring that so fascinated him. With one hand he gathered up the abundant tresses, buried his nose in them, and inhaled deeply the fragrance of strawberries.
“Did you eat strawberries as a child?”
“Yes. And now. They are my favorite. Especially the plump ones. I like when I bite into them and the juice begins to escape my mouth and I have to dart out my tongue to catch it before it gets away.”
He growled low. “You’re killing me.”
“Am I?” An innocence to her tone belied her earlier words.
Releasing his hold on her hair, aware of it falling around her like silken draperies stirred by the wind, he met her gaze. “You know you are.”
“I’ve never been called a minx before. It seems I should do something to earn the title.”
He skimmed his thumb over her chin, then followed a path from the center of the rounded curve up to her bottom lip. “One day I shall feed you an incredibly plump strawberry and lick away any juice that manages to escape.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
In spite of her position, he still had to dip his head to reach her lips, and he imagined he tasted strawberries rather than the brandy she’d sipped earlier. She wasn’t as shy tonight—or as inexperienced. She welcomed the thrust of his tongue with eagerness, taking hers on a journey through his mouth that had him growing all the harder. Christ, she was a quick study, turning the tables on him, making him want to shove back her skirts and have his lower body imitating the motions of his tongue, plunging, withdrawing, rolling over velvet and silk.
Her sighs echoed around him, her moans seemed to inhabit his soul, created a symphony of pitches that put the very finest musicians to shame. Until he drew his last breath, he would be able to recall the little noises she made. There was a sweetness to them, but also the hint of discovery, as though he were expanding her world.
God, he hoped so. Arrogant bugger that he was, he wanted to give her what no one else ever had. He wanted his to be the name on her lips as she drifted into her final slumber. Selfish on his part, to wish for her a life that was never more exquisite than what he delivered. But only fair because already he knew that the women who followed after her would pale in comparison.
He didn’t know why she was different from the others, why with her he was breaking all his own rules. Why he knew once with her would not be enough. Why he was determined to leave her wanting so he would have more than the once. Eventually she would grow weary of him—his siblings might have lucked out by falling for aristocrats who were willing to embrace them, but he knew that most of the nobility tired of playing in the muck after a time. She’d been honest with her purpose in coming here. His performance might cause her to return but her presence in his life was temporary. He understood that and intended to make the most of it.
Breaking off the kiss, he trailed his mouth along her chin, the ivory column of her throat, her collarbone, then a detour up to the sweet curve where her neck eased into her shoulder. There he lingered, suckling and soothing, while her head dropped back, her moan deepened into a groan, and her fingers tightened on his shirt, more fabric gathered within her grasp. Her skin was so silky and smooth, heated alabaster marble beneath his tongue. He could spend the entire night feasting on her inch by delicious inch.
But other inches were in need of his attention.
Pulling back, he took pleasure in her languid gaze. He’d seen the same expression in a thousand eyes—intoxication at its very finest before one toppled over the edge into obliterating drunkenness. But she would be saved from that fate as her lethargy was spurred by sensation not drink.
“Free my buttons,” he ordered on a rasp of desire that nearly unmanned him.
She’d thought he’d never ask, although considering the tight hold she had of his shirt, the manner in which her knuckles were turning white, she was surprised to find the cloth not yet shredded into pieces. His kiss hindered her ability to think, to reason. All she could do was feel—the softness of his lips, the roughness of his tongue, the gentle abrading of his short whiskers against her skin. She might be red and a bit chapped in the morning, but she didn’t care. It all added to the incredible sensations pouring through her.
The way his gaze seemed to darken and smolder as he watched her only added depth—very much like an aria as it reached its crescendo.
She
wasn’t surprised to find her fingers shaking as they attacked his buttons. She was trembling all over, but it was in a most pleasant way. His patient, slow mannerisms didn’t transfer to her. Instead she worked quickly, shoving each button through its hole, watching the material part to reveal a thin V of flesh, lightly sprinkled with hair that would tickle her fingers if she found the courage to skim them over it.
She’d freed only three buttons from their mooring when he stretched his arms up, grabbed the back of his shirt, and tugged it over his head, a wider expanse of skin coming into view to delight her as he tossed the shirt aside. By inches, it missed the chair where his other clothing had been relegated earlier.
Without thought, merely giving in to her instincts, she flattened her palms against his chest, so warm, so firm. She flicked a finger over one of his erect nipples. He groaned low, grabbed her hips, and pressed her more solidly against him. She’d been shocked the first time to feel the hard length of him, to know he was well and truly prepared to possess her. But it seemed now he was even more ready.
Then his mouth once again claimed hers, with fervent devotion. Each time she thought he’d given all he had to give, he gave more. She glided her hands up his chest, around his neck, up into his hair, relishing the feel of the thick strands curling around her fingers. Pressing her knees against his hips—feeling power in his accompanying growl—she wrapped her legs around him, bringing him ever nearer. In spite of the layers of silk and satin separating them, she could feel the strength and heat of him. He caused her to burn for him, to experience wild and incredible sensations she hadn’t even known were available to her. He made her feel alive, as though lightning rather than blood coursed through her veins.
She became aware of his hands at her back, of those long, nimble fingers making short work of her lacings, causing her bodice to loosen and fall forward slightly. Leaning back, he dipped his gaze to his fingers as they slowly trailed along her skin at the edge of the fabric, easing the gown off her shoulders. The heat flaring in his eyes was an aphrodisiac in its intensity. She’d longed to have a man gaze on her just so, to see his want and need bared—raw and primal.
“Shouldn’t we douse the lamps?” Her voice sounded small, as though it were enthralled by him and didn’t want to be disturbed from the enjoyment he was delivering.
“No.”
So simple, yet so profound an answer. As a delicious shudder rippled through her, she considered it a miracle that she continued to find the wherewithal to draw in breath. The appreciation for her washing over his features held her captive.
Her bodice slipped away, and the heat in his eyes burned hotter, his nostrils flaring, his breathing going shallow. Using the side of a single finger, the one that bore the scar, he traced the path of her chemise where it lay against her skin, his finger deliciously rough against the soft mounds of her bosom. “Your skin reminds me of silk, only softer.”
Then his mouth followed the path his finger had forged, and everything within her went languid. If he weren’t standing there, if her legs hadn’t clamped more tightly around his hips, she might have slid off the table. Instead she closed her hands around his upper arms, clinging to him as her body fought a battle, needing both to implode and explode. She gazed at the top of his head, the brown locks feathered here and there with burnished amber. She was torn between sliding her hand beneath his chin and lifting that lovely mouth to hers and leaving it to continue on its journey.
He made the choice for her, doing neither, but separating himself from her just enough so he could untie her ribbons, unfasten a portion of her corset, and peel away the material to expose her breasts to the air, to the light, to his smoldering gaze. She was surprised the intensity of his focus didn’t ignite her.
“Beautiful.” The word came out on little more than an exhaled breath.
He cupped each one, and they filled his palms. He flicked his thumbs over her puckered nipples, much as she’d teased his with her finger. The sensations elicited were wonderful. When he lowered his head and closed his mouth over her areola, his tongue taunting, she cried out in pleasure and pain as the haven between her thighs tightened with needs, her entire body—head to toe—tightened with needs.
With his hands returning to her back, he braced her, bowing her slightly as though to offer up her breasts as a tantalizing feast—and, oh, how he feasted. With slow licks, hot kisses, and quick nibbles. A suckling here, a soothing there. No area was left bereft of his attentions.
Leaning back on one hand, she scraped the other through his hair, along his neck, over his shoulder. She’d never experienced such devotion, hadn’t known such sensations existed. Always something had hovered, but she’d thought it was merely a wantonness. Perhaps he did these things to her because he wasn’t a gentleman, wasn’t of the nobility, was a commoner. If so, she now understood why women whispered about wanting a bit of the rough. His groans and moans were animalistic in tone, uncivilized—and she was so grateful he wasn’t of a tamed nature. That he ran free over her skin, that he dared to explore what had remained unchartered. She imagined when he was done, he’d be able to draw a map of her.
With a feral growl, he reclaimed her mouth, making it his, and she feared if she were to ever remarry, no husband would be able to satisfy her as he did. His kiss spoke volumes, made her feel as though he reached deep within her soul and touched her throughout. So absorbed was she by the conquering of his mouth over hers it took her a moment to realize he’d eased her down to the table. She’d only just become aware of the baize at her back when he began peppering kisses over her chin, her jaw, her throat, her breasts—
Then his hands were circling her ankles before gliding up her legs, shoving up her skirts until they were a pool of blue gathered at her waist. She gasped, having never been thus exposed.
He stilled, only his eyes moving as they came to hold hers. “Do you want me to stop?”
What she wanted had no bearing on the matter. It was all about what she needed. And she needed what he could provide.
Swallowing hard, she gingerly shook her head. “I want you to make me forget.”
His grin was wicked, filled with promise. “When I’m done, you won’t even recall your name.”
He disappeared behind the pile of her skirts and petticoats. His fingers danced along her thighs, his palms spreading her legs farther apart, separating the slit in the crotch of her undergarments. She felt the stroke of one long finger journeying down, then up.
“So juicy.” His voice was hoarse and rough. “As juicy as a plump strawberry.”
And she had little doubt she was even juicier now.
Her knees came into view as he placed her feet against the cushions that surrounded the edge of the table. She had a strong desire to cross her legs even as she wanted to part them wider.
A cool breath stirred her curls. A leisurely lick nearly had her coming up off the table. Her hands clenched. She reached for him. His fingers folded over hers.
Another lick that journeyed up, going side to side like the lacings on her gown. A circle. Yearning for something, she thrust up her hips, so she was closer to that luscious mouth.
He chuckled low, darkly. “Do you even know what you want?”
“No.” Her breathing was shallow, quick. “I’m scared I’ll find it, terrified I won’t.”
“Don’t be frightened. It won’t hurt. And don’t fight it, sweetheart. When it comes, let it engulf you.”
She almost asked what the it was, but his mouth closed over the swollen sensitive bud, and she cried out from the pure bliss of it. She tightened her hold on his fingers as the sensations built with each suck, each swirl, each kiss. Everything within her called to him, to what he was offering. He was between her thighs, but it was as though he’d somehow managed to encompass all of her. No part of her was unaware of his touch.
Every nerve ending was shooting sparks. And when she might have fought to contain it, she followed his advice and gave herself over to it, to the pass
ion, the stirring, the sin. The wickedness of allowing this man to whom she was not married perform such an intimate service. To know the very heart of her womanhood and to take possession of it as though it belonged to him, as though it were his to do with as he pleased.
But of course it was. She’d granted him permission. She’d won the wager, named her prize. How was she to have known that in the end the price would be to give herself completely over to him?
Yet she knew no regrets. Knew naught but pleasure, as it spiraled unmercifully through her until she did forget her name, until she forgot everything, was aware of nothing other than the ecstasy that overtook her until it alone remained, filling her, spilling out of her, conquering her until it was everything and she was crying out in elation as though she’d ascended into heaven.
And then she burst into tears.
Chapter 8
It was as though everything had come to a head. The years of longing for passion—discovering it was more profound and exquisite than anything she’d ever imagined. The sorrow over losing Lushing—in spite of what he’d not given her, he’d gifted her with other things. The burden of seeing that her sisters were well situated when she hadn’t the means to assure it without the dukedom behind her. The weight of striving to ensure that her brother’s title and estate did not fall over the precipice into total ruin. Her own disappointment of not having a babe to cradle in her arms. The fear that the fault rested with her and not Lushing, that all this was an exercise in futility.
And her deception, her horrid deception, that if this man got her with child, she’d never tell him that he had a son—or daughter—because it was imperative the entire world believe the boy or girl was Lushing’s. Otherwise the child was as doomed as she was.
“Shh, shh. It’s all right, sweetheart,” Aiden Trewlove crooned as he gathered her into his arms.
Don’t be kind to me, she wanted to scream. I don’t deserve it.
But she seemed incapable of forming words. All she could do was blubber as he carried her several feet, lowered himself into a chair, and cradled her on his lap, pulling her clothing down here and up there, returning to her a semblance of modesty.
The Duchess in His Bed Page 9