Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  “Darling boy,” Cecilia said, leaning close for a kiss.

  “Not a boy,” he rumbled into her mouth. “A man.”

  “Foolish of me not to remember that.” She palmed his cock through his buckskins, and his eyes rolled back. “I have abundant evidence right here.”

  She bent and nuzzled her face against the length of his erection. Power coursed through her to hear him hiss in pleasure.

  “Have you ever had this before?” she murmured.

  He shook his head. “Read about it.”

  God, how she adored leading him on this journey. When she had taken her first lover years ago, she had been the one without experience, learning at the hands and mouth of a man who made his living as a sculptor. Fortunately, Georges had been gentle and patient, explaining the mysteries of desire and bodies. Not all of her lovers since had been as careful or attentive to her needs. Not all of them had respected her as a person, and she had vowed she would take men to her bed only when she desired it. There was strength in her sexuality, and she claimed all of that for herself.

  She could guide Owen and show him that one could be fully in command and still respect the needs of their partner.

  “What did you read?” she asked him.

  “That it doesn’t just feel good, but it also makes a man feel powerful.”

  She gave him a knowing smile. “Those books were written by men. You’ve much to learn.”

  Her voice was steady but her hands were not as she undid the placket of his breeches, then reached in and wrapped her fingers around his cock.

  “Goddamn it,” he growled. Another sound, this one wordless with need, tore from him when she sank onto her knees, the blanket beneath them serving as a cushion. A gleam of moisture shone in the slit of his cock.

  She held his erection and angled it toward her mouth. “Watch me,” she breathed. He needed to know who gave him pleasure, and who could take it away.

  His gaze fastened on her as though he could not look anywhere else. She dipped down, her lips drawing the crown into her mouth.

  “Oh, fuck,” he burst out.

  She pulled him from her mouth to say in wry admonishment, “Language.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Holme.”

  She gave him a smile. “I like it. I want to hear how much pleasure I’m giving you. But never forget that your pleasure belongs to me. It’s mine to bestow and mine to take away. Your cock in my mouth puts you in my power. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Miss Holme.”

  Her heart pounded at his words, and she reveled in their forbidden roles as teacher and student.

  He swore again when she took him fully into her mouth, sucking him deep. With her hand, she stroked his shaft, timing it with bobs of her head, careful that there was no part of him that went unattended.

  A steady stream of profane language spilled from him with each swirl of her tongue and pump of her hand. Her student couldn’t keep his hips still, thrusting into her mouth. Yet she sensed his hesitation, as though he feared his own untamed response.

  He gasped, “I’m sor—”

  Before he could finish apologizing for his brutish behavior, she grabbed hold of one of his hands and guided it to the back of her head.

  She drew back. “Remember how I’m the one with the power? I’m giving you permission to do this—because I desire it. Hold my head so I can take you in as deep as I can. Then I want you to fuck my mouth. Do not forget, though, that in this moment, you have never been more vulnerable, which is its own ecstasy. No book written by any man will ever tell you that.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded.

  She felt his control slip away as he did as she directed. He cradled the back of her head, allowing her to swallow the entirety of his cock. His hips moved, steady at first. Then it was as though he couldn’t stop himself from going faster and faster. Through it all, she stayed with him, her cheeks hollowing, the small schoolroom filled with the sounds of her sucking his cock.

  “Going to…come,” he gasped.

  She didn’t pull away. Her efforts redoubled as she drew on him harder, loving the taste and sensation of his cock in her mouth, and his yielding to her command.

  He clamped his jaw tight as he climaxed. Swallowing his seed, her gaze stayed riveted to his face. In his surrender, he was never more beautiful, and more power pulsed through her to know that she gave him this.

  When his last shudders of release faded, she tucked his softening cock back into his breeches and did up the buttons.

  He seemed to struggle to open his eyes. With a voice drunk on pleasure, he said, “I understand the lesson now. The one on their knees can hold power, too.”

  She chuckled softly, pleased he’d understood her intent. “Good students are suitably rewarded.”

  “Miss Holme,” he said, “I will be the best student you’ve ever had.”

  She straightened, and after setting her person to rights, stroked a finger over his chin. Tenderness swept through her, as well as a protectiveness she hadn’t anticipated. Inconvenient, those feelings, when they could only be passing amusements to each other. God knew that a governess had no business developing an attachment to her ducal lover.

  “Have you ever taught anyone else the ways of pleasure?” he asked.

  “Never.” Once, she had been the student. With Owen, she could educate him in the ways of being a considerate—as well as skilled—lover.

  He’d take some other woman to his bed. A wife, someday. A mistress, perhaps.

  Did she educate him for that unknown woman’s sake, or his?

  Or her own?

  The thought made her pause. She could not form an attachment to him, for so many reasons. Yet…he had been so focused on following her guidance. And the way he looked at her now, as though she were not merely an object of desire, but a person who was worthy of care… She battled the call of her heart, the foolish piece of her that wanted more than physical pleasure.

  “Would it matter if I did?” she asked, striving for distance. She moved away from him, picking up the blanket and setting it back into the chest, as if that task were vitally important. “Would your opinion of me decay?”

  He was on his feet and beside her in a moment. “Nothing could make that happen. But I suppose if there had been others…” He took her hands in his. “I can’t deny that I would have been jealous.”

  She didn’t want to be pleased. Jealousy had never been a quality she encouraged in prior love affairs. Even so, there was something gratifying in his possessiveness—that he, too, wrestled with feelings that went beyond attraction.

  But she ought to discourage it to protect them both. She had to end this now, before the seed of affection began to sprout roots. The tender growth could not be allowed to flourish and flower.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. She and Owen froze, both careful to keep from moving lest the slightest creak of the floorboards give away their presence. Her pulse was an anxious throb within her.

  “Just left a book up here, the one about the wife who poisoned her husband,” Ellie said, her voice muffled by the closed door. The doorknob rattled. “Strange. Miss Holme doesn’t lock the door.”

  “Maybe she left something valuable inside,” Maria answered. “Wager we could get Mrs. Baines unlock it for us so you can get your book.”

  “Good idea. Let’s…”

  Their voices faded with the sounds of their retreat in the hallway. As soon as they were gone, she and Owen exhaled. Yet he didn’t let go of her hands, and she didn’t step away from him.

  “We should go,” she said reluctantly. “It’ll take them all of ten minutes to find Mrs. Baines and come back.” She started to slide her hands from his. “This can’t happen again.”

  He looked on the verge of protesting. And then he nodded. “If that’s what you desire.”

  Relief—of a sort. Because they would never know what more they could give each other. “We nursed a mutual infatuation and yielded to it. But it�
�s never to be repeated.”

  She slipped from his grasp and moved quickly to the door. After unlocking it, she paused for a brief moment, her back to his. Then she opened the door and walked out without looking back.

  Chapter Four

  Cecilia’s emotions swung like a pendulum the rest of the day and through the night, alternating between horror at what she’d done and the glow that came in the wake of astonishing pleasure. How could she have crossed that line with Owen, the duke? True, he was no longer responsible for her employment, and he was a grown man—but lusting for him and acting on that lust were still forbidden, no matter how he’d made her feel.

  She did her best to avoid him the next day, but cruel and sardonic fate kept putting him in her path.

  In the morning, she nearly collided with him in the corridor outside the breakfast room. He stared at her with what seemed like hunger and longing, until he smoothed his expression into one resembling indifference.

  “Miss Holme,” he said.

  She curtsied, praying that her own face didn’t reflect her pleasure and agony in seeing him again. “Your Grace.”

  Before either of them could do something regrettable, she hurried away. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from looking back at him.

  He remained where she’d left him, standing in the hallway, watching her avidly.

  She rushed to the schoolroom, seeking refuge from the pull between them. But it was haunted by the remembrances of yesterday. She could barely look at the desk where he’d eaten her cunt so superbly. And sitting at her own desk only brought back the feel of his cock between her lips, his taste, and how readily and beautifully he’d fucked her mouth.

  Still, she managed to collect herself enough to give her students their morning lessons. Perhaps she could conquer her desire for him and go on, as she had before he became the duke. They could live under the same roof and be cordial strangers.

  By midday, when the girls were out for their afternoon ride, she fought the impulse to run to his study and demand that he fuck her, kiss her, touch her, anything.

  She went quickly to the library. At this hour of the day, doubtless he’d be sequestered with his men of business and immersed in the work of being a duke. There would be no danger of running into him in the hallways, or anywhere else.

  Stepping into the cool, dim library, she drew in a ragged breath, as if the scent of paper and leather could calm her sensitized body. Moving toward one wall covered in bookshelves, she studied the titles printed on their spines. One of the benefits of her employment at Tarrington House was the liberal policy regarding the use of its vast collection of books.

  She trailed her fingers over them, attempting to ground herself in their feel. As she did, she searched for something that could keep her mind from returning to thoughts of Owen. Governesses always benefitted from learning new things, but today none the history texts, natural philosophy treatises, and tales of faraway places could hold her. And she’d no desire to read accounts of fictional people’s trials and triumphs.

  There was no hope for it. Nothing could distract her.

  She was halfway to the door when, unexpectedly, he strode in.

  They stared at each other. It had been mere hours since the encounter outside the breakfast room, yet excitement jolted through her to see him again.

  His gaze was bright and hungry. Wordlessly, drawn by undeniable force, they narrowed the distance between them.

  “I need to see you again,” she whispered urgently. It took all her strength to keep from reaching for him and pulling him to her so they could kiss.

  Owen’s hands flexed as if he, too, wanted to hold her. “Anywhere,” he answered, low and fierce.

  “Not here in the house.” She glanced toward the open library door. Anyone could walk by and see them standing too close, hear them speaking in passionate murmurs.

  “The gamekeeper’s cottage.”

  The little house stood some distance from the main house, sheltered by the woods. Mr. Lytton had retired from service five months ago, and once a month the housekeeper dispatched a handful of maids to clean and tidy it for his eventual successor.

  “Midnight,” Owen said.

  Voices came from the hallway—two footmen, by the sound of it. They came nearer.

  Alarm shot through her. “Go,” she urged him.

  “Tonight?” he pressed.

  “Tonight.” Her heart knocked with excitement and terror. “Now, you must leave.”

  He shot her a yearning look before striding from the library. As his retreating footsteps grew fainter, she pretended to examine the bookshelves on the chance that the footmen might peer into the chamber and see her.

  It was imperative to maintain the illusion that she and the duke had simply a polite relationship, yet the truth was she’d never wanted anyone as badly as she wanted him.

  Cecilia slipped into the corridor, careful to shut the door to her room quietly. She shared this wing of the staff quarters with Mr. Vale and Mrs. Baines, as well as the girls’ nanny and the duchess’s maid, and while none of them kept the later hours of the footmen and kitchen staff, she had to be as careful as possible to ensure no one was about. She had an excuse at the ready—she’d forgotten some papers in the schoolroom—but hopefully she wouldn’t encounter anyone while creeping through the house at eleven thirty in the evening.

  Her heart pounded with each step, and her stomach fluttered with a combination of excitement and nervousness. More than anything, her feet demanded she run the distance between her room and the gamekeeper’s cottage, but until she left the actual house, her steps had to remain sedate and, most importantly, quiet.

  I cannot believe I am truly doing this.

  Yet she could believe, because yesterday’s encounter with Owen in the schoolroom had embedded itself deep within her. Her first affair with Georges had ended by mutual agreement, and after they had parted ways, she used what she’d learned from him, including understanding the measure of her power in seeking her own pleasure.

  She’d been so brazen, so bold—but even in her most sophisticated trysts, she’d never behaved so audaciously as she had with Owen.

  For all their sophistication, the men she’d fucked had still wanted her to receive their amorous, erotic attention, and not be the instigator and pursuer of her own pleasure.

  Owen was different. He’d been with her every step of the way, gladly following where she led, and in the process, giving her the most incredible pleasure of her life.

  And if their meeting in the library was any indication, he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  She hurried down the narrow back stairs, keeping her footfalls light so the steps didn’t creak. Fortunately, her vision at night was good, and she didn’t need the betraying light of a candle to illuminate her way. When she finally reached the ground floor, she eased into a hallway. This was part of the house where she might encounter not just staff, but members of the family.

  The girls always went to bed early, as they were active young ladies and wore themselves out with their energetic activity during the day. The duchess hadn’t lost her Neapolitan habit of keeping late hours, but since the late duke had passed, she mostly kept to her rooms after supper.

  Cecilia herself occasionally indulged in a late-night ramble. It was hard to lose the free-roaming habits she’d acquired on the Continent, and she was somewhat familiar with the house at this late hour. But now every spill of moonlight threatened to expose her, and every shadow could hide an unwanted observer.

  Finally, she was outside, down the terrace, and onto the long, sloping lawn. Dew soaked the hem of her skirts, and cool air tried to weave its way under the shawl draped over her shoulders. She ignored these slight discomforts as she took long strides across the grass, pausing briefly to look over her shoulder toward the house.

  There was no sign of anyone on the terrace, or standing at their window watching her, so she hurried on. A carefully tended wood bordered the lawn, and as she slip
ped into the shelter of the trees, she permitted herself a sigh of relief. No one would be able to spot her now.

  The cottage was quite private, and it took Cecilia a good quarter of an hour to reach it. She caught sight of a single light ahead and headed toward it. When she emerged from the trees, a lone candle burned in the window of the snug little house, and her heart leapt.

  He was here, waiting for her.

  It was unseemly how much she wanted him. And yet she didn’t try to slow her steps as she raced forward, and up the short set of steps. When she reached the front door, she hesitated. Should she knock, or simply go right in?

  She opened the door.

  He stood on the other side of the threshold. His gaze on her was ravenous, yet he held himself still. Barely leashed excitement poured out of his body in invisible waves.

  As she entered, he took a step back. She shut the door behind her.

  His chest rose and fell, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides. The force he used to restrain himself was palpable, and she thought of the farthing in his pocket, and the hold it had over him.

  “Kiss me,” she said. “Show me how much you want this.”

  Her words seemed to break the tether he had on himself. He pressed his long, solid body against hers. His mouth on hers was hungry and searching, and she sank into the limitless depths of his kisses. She didn’t care about the rigid door at her back—all that mattered was the way he kissed her, as if she contained his next breath, and the one after that, and the one after that.

  Her hands roamed over him, soaking in the heat of his body and its delicious strength. She could spend hours, days, years learning all the ways in which he was fashioned, discovering taut muscles and how they shivered beneath her touch.

  She arched, snug against him, the hard length of his cock curving into her belly. It wasn’t enough, not with all the fabric between them.

  “I want your cock in my hand,” she breathed, and he shuddered with desire.

  Their fingers tangled and snared as they fumbled with his clothing. Impatiently, she tore open his breeches and plunged her hand down to wrap her fingers around his cock. Her mouth watered at the feel of him, thick and eager.