Chapter Three
Max lounged in the darkness of his study, legs angled toward the fire as he sipped the most expensive brandy his vast amounts of money could buy. He’d long lost track of the time, the chime of the clock forgettable since he arrived home. His plans for the evening were ruined, and he hadn’t been able to do much of anything except sit and brood.
I could be fucking her right now.
He shouldn’t think it, shouldn’t even let the hint of it cross his mind. He should imagine screwing Louisa instead, with her bold caresses and wicked tongue—not a girl barely out of the schoolroom.
And yet.
The brandy lowered his defenses, and Violet crept into his mind like a vine that burrowed under his skin to hold and drag him down. He couldn’t resist wondering and speculating, his mind storing a mental list of all the depraved things he’d do to her glorious body if but given the chance.
This had to stop. Lusting after her like this caused him to feel like a filthy old man. Many dukes in their twilight years married young girls, but Max had secretly sneered at those pathetic louts. Yes, they all needed heirs—Max had already scaled that particular mountain—but there were plenty of seasoned women who could bear children. One need not marry a girl barely more than a child herself.
His eyes drifted to the mound of paperwork on his desk. His nights with Louisa were necessary diversions, an escape from the responsibilities of his life. To pleasure and be pleasured in return, to let his mind focus on something other than numbers.
You’re lonely.
He snarled at the fire, as if the voice had come from the flames. The idea was ludicrous. He was invited everywhere, had his pick of bed partners, and there was Will, his sixteen-year-old son and heir. Will was away at school, off to Eton as all young aristocratic males did at his age.
Will had been the center of Max’s world for so long. Since the boy’s birth, Max had kept his son close and made certain to spend time with him, to show Will how much his father loved him. Then perhaps Will would not hate him when he came to learn the circumstances of what happened to his mother. How Max had utterly failed as a husband.
He didn’t want another wife or any more children. Ever. He had an heir and, thanks to Max’s proficiency on the Exchange, Will would inherit more money than God when Max died, not to mention a dukedom. Ducal duty had been fulfilled. Max never needed to go through that again.
He did, however, need another mistress. This required an immediate search, though there were some options. Such as the viscountess who had propositioned him at the opera last month, or the Spanish princess he’d flirted with at the palace dinner weeks ago. As well, his former mistress, Georgina, had written recently in the hopes of reestablishing their association.
None of them caused his blood to race, unfortunately.
That’s because you want her.
Christ, this had to stop. He downed the rest of the brandy in his snifter and debated pouring a fourth. He had a meeting with his estate manager in the morning and a hangover would only make the bloody business take longer.
The scrape of metal caught his attention. Someone was slowly opening his study door.
No servant would dare to enter without knocking. This could only be one person, and Max’s mood picked up considerably.
Louisa. She’d found a way to sneak off from her husband after all. Fortunate that he’d unlocked the side door earlier, despite Underhill’s warnings.
Relief flooded him. A distraction was exactly what he needed, and he should reward her a bit for coming. Louisa liked when he ignored her and she had to beg for his attentions. Max didn’t mind. What man wouldn’t want a beautiful woman begging him to fuck her?
Playing coy, he focused on the glass in his hands, twirling the empty crystal in the firelight. Slippers moved across the carpets, skirts rustling, and lust sparked in his belly as he contemplated what was to come. Louisa rarely wore drawers and kept the hair on her mound trimmed short. Was she already wet and eager for him?
The outline of a black cloak caught the corner of his eye. She’d come prepared like a thief in the night. Underhill wouldn’t like this, but one last time as a way to say good-bye properly wouldn’t hurt, would it? Max wasn’t fully hard, but it wouldn’t take much to excite him, not after his encounter with Violet.
Because I wished to take her place, Your Grace.
No, not now. He could not think of her now.
Louisa stopped just out of his reach, her face turned away from him, toward the fire. She trembled slightly, anticipating his touch, and he relished the reaction. It made him feel more powerful than any man on earth. “I see you escaped,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Are you here to play?”
The hood moved as she nodded.
“I like that you couldn’t stay away from me. Needy little thing, aren’t you?”
Another nod.
In deference to Underhill’s request for an heir, Max said, “I cannot fuck you tonight, sadly, but I do plan to enjoy you in every other way possible.”
She was quiet, but he could almost feel her vibrating with excitement. Normally, Louisa would break character about now with a giggle or urging him to hurry. She was showing incredible restraint . . . and he meant to honor that effort by giving her unimaginable pleasure.
“Bend over that chair,” he said, pointing to the plush armchair opposite his. “Fold yourself over the arm.”
For a second, she hesitated. Then she walked over and draped her front over the side of the chair, arse in the air, with her face hidden.
“Such a good girl,” he praised, unfolding from his seat and rising. “Now, lift your skirts.”
She struggled awkwardly with her skirts, almost as if she were shy. Or innocent.
Lust unwound in Max’s groin, a slow warmth that traveled along the backs of his legs and through his bollocks. He didn’t care to question as to why her performance aroused him—he was terrified of the answer—so he just accepted that it did.
“Higher,” he barked when she paused. “Show me.”
Damn, it was as if they’d switched and were now catering to his fantasies. His cock lengthened, pushing against his underclothes. Her calves and the backs of her knees were already bared to his gaze, and he saw the lace of her drawers peeking out to tantalize him.
His skin hummed with a familiar sensation, one he’d experienced at the ball, but he forced it away. This was no time to let those thoughts intrude. That particular young woman wasn’t here and he needed to focus on the woman in front of him, to continue their games until they were both exhausted and dripping with sweat. “I see you are a tempting little minx tonight,” he growled, dragging a finger along her spine.
She moaned softly and he couldn’t wait a second more. Dropping to his knees behind her, he shoved her skirts out of his way. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, and hurriedly stripped off his waistcoat. Gripping her inner thighs, he pushed her open further. He couldn’t see much in the dim firelight, but the lips of her quim glistened with arousal, causing his mouth to water. Leaning in, he dragged his tongue through her folds.
The heavenly taste, a sweet and musky flavor, exploded on his tongue just as bells went off in his head, a clamoring that something was very wrong. The feel of her body was different. The smell of her skin was not the usual vanilla and lavender, but rather lemon. The hair on her mound was longer. The drawers . . .
Bloody hell.
Shoving himself away from her, he fell back on his arse, skittering on his limbs like a bloody crab, desperate to put distance between them.
No, no, no. She hadn’t. He hadn’t. This could not have happened.
“Turn around,” he choked out, dread pressing on his chest. “Turn the fuck around, right now.”
Legs shaking, she slowly straightened and let her skirts fall. Then she faced him . . . and Max’s stomach dropped.
Violet.
“You.” Blood rushed in his ears as he stared up at her, unable to believe it. “Wh
at in God’s name have you done?”
Red bloomed on her cheekbones and she stared at his shoes. “Is it not obvious?”
“Not to me. Spit it out, Violet. Why have you come here tonight, sneaking into my house and making me believe you were someone else?”
“I never said I was her.” Her head snapped up and she straightened, almost defiant. “And I thought you saw my face.”
Fury raced through his veins like a lit fuse, sending flames to every part of his body. He nurtured it, grateful to replace the other unwelcome emotions from a moment ago. “A lie if I’ve ever heard one. As far as you knew, Louisa was coming tonight and you tried to take her place.”
“I knew she wasn’t coming. I overheard her husband telling her that she could no longer see you.”
“So you draped yourself in a cloak, thinking I wouldn’t know the difference between you and her. One cunt is just as good as another, is it?”
She flinched, but he would not apologize. Just having her taste on his tongue, picturing her bent over his armchair, had him balancing on a precarious edge. He wanted her too badly for politeness.
“You were able to tell the difference just from . . . that?”
God save him from innocent virgins. “We men are simple creatures, but yes. Even we are capable of recognizing the woman we are currently fucking from behind.”
“Were fucking,” she corrected with a knowing smirk. “Seeing as how her husband has now forbidden it.”
The little she-devil was entirely too pleased with herself, and he liked this brazen side of her. A lot. Which meant he had to distance himself from this young woman at all costs. “Get out, Violet. Before we both do something we will regret.”
“Did I . . .” She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Did I not taste acceptable to you?”
The conscience he’d long forgotten chose that moment to rear its ugly head. He could have cut her down with a few simple words, destroyed her newfound confidence and probably sent her from the room in tears. But he couldn’t do it. Nor would he lie, not about this. “You tasted like the sweetest ambrosia. I could spend a week doing nothing but licking you to orgasm and not tire of it.”
Desire darkened her eyes and she swayed on her feet, a tiny gasp escaping her lips. Goddamn, she was magnificently responsive. So easily affected by him. More blood pumped to his groin, his cock hardening further beneath his clothing. He wanted nothing more than to dive beneath her skirts once again, hear her cries of delight ringing in his ears.
She is Charles’s daughter.
Only eighteen.
He will never forgive you.
You cannot marry her.
With her taste in his mouth and the image of her naked quim in his brain, the usual reasons why he should stay away from her weren’t working. He resorted to pleading with her. “Please, Violet. You should—”
“Did I cause that?” She pointed to the obvious erection between his legs.
“Yes,” he answered without thinking. “But you should not know of such things, little mouse.”
“May I see it?”
Every muscle froze and all the moisture fled his mouth. Oh, Christ. What was she trying to do to him? He’d end up in an asylum before the end of the night at this rate. Why was she not fleeing his house in terror?
Because she’s far stronger than you’ve imagined, you dolt.
He swallowed. “If you cannot even say the word, then you are not ready to see it.” His voice came out husky and teasing, not the biting tone he’d imagined in his head.
Violet must have sensed his weakness, because she took one step closer. “May I see your cock, Your Grace?”
His lips parted, his breath sawing out of his chest, short and swift. The question and the honorific uttered in her pliant, pleasing voice were his undoing. He’d tried so hard, but he wanted her too badly. Craving sizzled in his veins, like an addict denied his pipe, and Max could deny it no longer, whatever the consequences.
He let his lips curve into a sly smile full of wickedness. “You may, but you must take it out first.”
Chapter Four
Violet had never been so scared in her whole life. But there was something underneath the trepidation, an emotion that emboldened her and turned her into a wanton creature worthy of Ravensthorpe. Perhaps it was longing or passion, or the ravenous desire he inspired in her. Whatever it was, he seemed to appreciate it.
Even while angry with her, Ravensthorpe made her feel safe. Protected. Like she could say or do anything and he’d not judge her harshly for it. Which was probably why, despite her inexperience, she wasn’t afraid of whatever was happening between them.
He remained sprawled on the study floor, his long limbs akimbo as he studied her, the erection in his trousers enticing her to come and play. Firelight danced off the sharp angles of his face, the glow reflecting off the silver strands at his temples. He was irresistible and shameless, and the darkness only enhanced his appeal.
Ravensthorpe said nothing, his chest rising and falling with the force of his breaths. Though he was on the ground, he was clearly still in control of the room, like a jungle cat taking a momentary break to tease its prey, daring her to approach him.
Did he believe she wouldn’t follow through?
Flicking open the clasp on her cloak, she shrugged off the heavy cloth and let it fall. Then she lifted her skirts and dropped to her knees, the carpet soft beneath her stockings. Without a word, he widened his legs, making room for her between them, so she shuffled forward, her heart pounding behind her corset.
When she reached his thighs, he growled, “Unfasten my trousers.”
With trembling fingers, she reached to do as asked. Her nail traced the edge of the wide black button before slipping it through the hole. There were more buttons underneath, so she carefully undid each one around his bulging erection. Her fingers brushed his belly, the brief contact making him jump. She pressed her lips together to keep from grinning. I affect this gorgeous man with a simple touch.
“Now the braces.”
He made no move to assist her, only held perfectly still as she slipped one brace over his shoulder, then the other. When she finished, she sat back on her knees and waited for him to continue with instructions.
“My shirt.”
His collar and necktie had already been removed, so she leaned in once more and set to work on the small buttons on his chest. His lean muscles rippled beneath her fingers, the carefully leashed power betrayed by his rapid breathing.
When enough buttons were loosened, she dragged the expanse of fabric over his head, Ravensthorpe lifting his arms to help. The thin garment he wore underneath was of the finest cloth, and it outlined the thick muscle and sinew, the flat planes and elegant grace. Another wave of heat rolled through her, centering between her legs.
More.
She was greedy when it came to this man. Dark need buzzed beneath her skin, a yearning to see every bit of him.
When she stared too long, he said, “The undergarment, Violet.”
Instead of unbuttoning the garment at his chest, she reached for his groin. After all, they both knew what she was after, considering she’d asked to see it.
Behind the opening in his trousers, she found small buttons and began working them open. He didn’t speak but she could feel him watching, his intense gaze like a caress over her breasts, along her center. Would he lick her again? Because that one swipe of his tongue between her legs had felt like heaven.
Bare skin appeared as she continued, her first peek at the man underneath the polished exterior. She could hardly breathe for all the excitement coursing through her.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice a silky whisper, and her body shivered under his encouragement.
More.
She purposely paused, just so he would start talking again.
“Keep going. Just one or two more, my little mouse.”
Oh. She pressed her thighs together, nearly groaning under the weig
ht of her longing. She would do anything if he kept speaking to her like that and calling her his. Her hands moved faster now, following his direction as if she’d been born to do it.
Reclining onto his elbows, he lifted his hips slightly as she tugged his trousers low on his hips. Fabric shifted on his stomach, and his erection emerged from between the open sides of his undergarment. His penis sprouted proud and thick from a patch of dark, coarse hair, and she stared at it, fascinated by its reddish cap and smooth, tight skin.
Their breathing and the pop of the fire were the only sounds in the room. Was he assuming she’d run screaming from the house? Hardly. The sight of him made her mouth water. If only she had her photography equipment. . .
She licked her lips, uncertain but definitely eager. “What do I do?”
His dark eyes glittered from underneath his long lashes. “You worship it.”
Yes, yes, yes. Indeed, that she could do.
He watched carefully, every bit of his attention on her, and she vowed not to disappoint him. She dipped to press a kiss to the head of his shaft, not looking away from his eyes. His lips parted and she heard him give a swift intake of breath. Emboldened, she touched her tongue to the same spot, and he hissed a very creative curse.
He reached down, gripped the base with his elegant fingers, and angled his cock toward her mouth. “Suck.”
She wrapped her lips around the plump head and drew him in. His entire body tensed. “More. Take me deep.”
Pressing down, she slid him as far back as she could manage. He tasted clean and musky, so firm and silky on her tongue. It was much better than she’d ever imagined. She repeated the journey, noticing how his cock jerked when her tongue glided over the skin underneath the head. The next pass was slower, with more attention paid to that sensitive spot. His muscles clenched, and the reaction felt like a victory.
She worked hard then, moving faster to show him without words how much she wanted to please him. He grunted and rocked his hips, lost in the moment, until he suddenly lifted her up and away from his erection. In a blink, she found herself on her back, Ravensthorpe leaning over her, pressing her into the floor an instant before he sealed his mouth to hers in a punishing kiss.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 46