“Undoubtedly, he was.” She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself, feeling suddenly bereft. “The males in my life all have a penchant for leaving me, so why should a squirrel be any different than the rest?”
Kit stilled, his jaw clenched. “We have trod over this tired ground before, Georgie. My duty necessitated that I leave you.”
“On our wedding day?” she could not help but demand, for the wound was old and deep and bitter, and it did not want to heal.
His eyes flashed. “Would it have been any bloody better the next day?”
“Of course not.”
Kit’s arm slid back around her waist, yanking her into his hard, delicious chest, and his possessive grip felt at once familiar and right. She found herself leaning into his heat, her palms flattened on his pectorals. It was at that particularly inconvenient moment that her mind chose to recall what his chest looked like bare, each rigid slab of muscle on his abdomen. Her mouth went dry.
Why did he have to smell so masculine and divine? And why, oh why, was his mere presence so intoxicating? She inhaled, captivated by his nearness, the quiet strength he exuded, the aura of danger. Even his throat enthralled her, the delineation of his Adam’s apple, the scruff of his day-old whiskers stippling his skin.
He lowered his head until their noses almost brushed. “How about the next day?”
What was he asking her? Good heavens, she’d become so ensnared that she couldn’t even remember. She felt like an orator who had lost her place and was now foundering before a crowd, frantically attempting to seize the next sentence she’d been meant to say.
She wet her lips. “What next day?”
“Georgie. The point is that I would have had to leave you anyway. I had an obligation to carry out, an oath I swore long before the vows I exchanged with you. But that has changed now, and mayhap I have too.” He closed the last small distance between them, pressing his forehead to hers and inhaling. “Hell, it seems I don’t know anything any longer, but one thing I do know is that I want to begin anew. Let me make amends.”
Push him away. Guard your heart. Do not allow him to woo you. Above all, do not think about how persuasive his lips can be. Or his tongue. Or his fingers.
Oh dear.
It was too late. The twin threads of reluctance and caution inside her snapped. She slid her hands over his chest, twined them around his neck, and hauled his mouth to hers.
odding hell, she took his breath.
Her lips moved under his, and he angled his mouth, opening, demanding. His tongue traced the seam, keeping him from claiming her as he wanted to, and she opened for him without hesitation. She tasted of her morning chocolate. Sweet, unexpected, and decadent. Her full lower lip thrust against his. He caught it between his teeth, tugging and nipping until a moan tore from her. And then he kissed and soothed away the sting.
His hands found the tempting dip in the small of her back before traveling lower. Her generous derriere’s delicious curve burned his palms through her layers. He settled her more firmly against him, his hard cock nestled into the billow of fabric between her thighs. She was lush where it mattered, fine boned and delicate, and how had he not seen her for the goddess she was when they had first wed? How had he not done everything in his power to stay with her for one night, even if it was all he could have?
The Kit that held her in his arms and took her mouth now could not reconcile it. Had he been so caught up in the League? Had he been too distracted by his resentment? Why had he never taken the time to see her? To know her? To taste her, make her body ache and quiver, to wring soft, breathy sighs and moans from her?
Time to do penance for his past failures, in more ways than one. And he meant to make up for every way he had wronged her. Kit could still hear her husky voice saying that every male in her life had a penchant for leaving her, and it killed him to realize that he had been one. She had been hurt before him, and he had added to that hurt.
The knowledge cut through him with a physical pain to rival the ache in his healing thigh.
And so, he kissed her as if his next heartbeat depended upon it, long and lingering. Deep and slow. Hard and fast. They were a commingling of wildly beating hearts, wandering hands, open, seeking mouths, and tangling tongues. He could not get enough of this. Of her.
He wanted to devour her. Consume her. Inhale her. He wanted to lick and kiss and bite every creamy ivory and delicious pink swath of her skin. Especially the pink bits. He wanted to strip her out of her navy morning gown, haul down her chemise, and suck her nipples until they were hard in his mouth as they had been before and she cried out with need. He wanted to taste her, to run his tongue over her pearl and lap her up like the finest delicacy. His cock wanted inside her. He wanted to fuck her so hard and so deep and so many different ways that she would never forget him. So that no other man would do.
But he had a healing wound in his thigh that reminded him with a sharp twinge of discomfort that he could not take things as far as he would like, not to mention a bloody conscience that called him all manner of epithets. What sort of man would make a woman as softhearted as Georgie give up her squirrel—even if it was for the ridiculous creature’s own good—and then take her on the floor as if it were his due?
He tore his mouth from hers, drowning in her. Long, dark lashes fluttered open to reveal the arresting vibrancy of her eyes. Her lips were stained the dark red of a ripe strawberry, swollen from his kisses. A chestnut tendril had worked its way free from her elegant coiffure to linger on her cheek, and he tucked it tenderly behind her ear. She was fierce, his duchess, but she was also vulnerable. She had never seemed more accessible to him than she did now in this moment, dazed and quiet, emanating the innate appeal she alone possessed.
Fuck, she was beautiful.
He kissed her again, because he could not resist. Could not stop. Could never get enough of her. The first time their mouths had met, he’d been ruined. She was all he wanted. All he could think about. When he owned her mouth, everything else fell away. The League, the double-crossing, his leg…it all fell away, leaving him free in a way he had never felt.
She made a soft sound of need, and he almost spent in his trousers right then and there. That kittenish mewl was his undoing. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her tight against him, and without breaking the kiss, he led her across the chamber.
He was going to make her come again.
It was a necessity as fierce as the need to breathe. Everything within him swirled and roared and swelled. He was like the components that made dynamite. One wrong move, and he would explode.
The need to bring her pleasure was all-consuming. He fed her kisses, guiding her as he went. Kiss, step. Kiss, step. Kiss, tongue. Damn it all, he would not drag her to the carpet regardless of how much his baser instinct called for it. Kiss. Step. Step. Kiss.
As they approached the bed at last, he stopped in his progress, realizing how fully clothed they were. And how nothing would proceed as he wished until the endless layers of fabric and boning between them were dismantled. He was not ordinarily so slipshod in his seduction of a woman, but this one—his wife—had him at sixes and sevens.
“Your gown,” he muttered against her lips. “I want it off.”
She stiffened in his arms, and he could hear the warnings firing in her agile mind. He kissed her longer, harder, persuading her as best he could without words that he was trustworthy, that he only intended to bring her pleasure. They were husband and wife, after all. What would be the harm in exercising their mutual rights? In taking solace and pleasure in each other?
He could not, for the bloody life of him, fathom a reason why they should delay their inevitable conflagration a moment longer. It was long overdue. She needed him every bit as much as he needed her.
“Leeds,” she protested. “I do not think it wise.”
And then she made a liar of herself by kissing him again. By making that soft, feminine sound that never failed to arrow its way d
irectly to his shaft. His groin pulsed and ached, and every part of him clamored for more. More of her. More of everything.
But he was also aware that she was an innocent and he had not begun their relationship as he ought to have done. She had every right to tell him to go to the devil, for it was precisely where he belonged.
He needed to hear that she wanted this—whatever it was, whatever it would become—as much as he did. That she too felt the mad spark that threatened to consume him whenever he touched her. That regardless of the duress under which their marriage had begun, it was not too late for them.
He broke away from her for a moment, breathing heavy, staring down into her heavy-lidded gaze. “Tell me to stop.”
She said nothing, only stared at him. His fingers found the fastening at the back of her gown. Hooks and eyes, perhaps a few buttons, some expensive silk. That was all that stood between Kit and what he wanted more than anything else in the world.
“Tell me you do not want this,” he urged, kissing her deeply once more for good measure before withdrawing again. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I will stop this very moment, never to importune you again.”
Georgie surprised the hell out of him then by cupping his cheek. “I cannot tell you any of those things, for they wouldn’t be true.”
It was all the encouragement he required. Kit ripped a handful of hooks from their moorings. He kissed her as if he was starving for her. Because he was. Hungry, open-mouthed, harsh. There was little finesse in the way he slanted his mouth over hers, the way he bit into the succulent fullness of her lower lip.
Fabric tore. He shoved the sleeves and bodice down to her waist without ever removing his lips from hers. His fingers landed on the bare skin of her upper arms. Heaven. She was so smooth, so warm, and he did not want to let go.
Ever.
But then she would remain clothed, and he couldn’t have that. He needed her naked. The last few, interminable weeks of longing ate away at him, urging him onward. He dragged his mouth over her jaw, kissed to the hollow beneath her ear and inhaled the sweet, perfect scent of her. Lavender and woman, with hints of vanilla and rose. His fingers found first her petticoat, sending it to the floor before attacking the lacing on her corset. He plucked open the knot, tugged until it loosened.
“Your corset,” he whispered into her ear, running his tongue over the delicate whorl there until she shivered against him. “Take it off.”
She moved, and he felt the scrape of her knuckles against his chest as she undid the line of closures until the undergarment fell with a soft thud to the carpet. He ran his mouth down her throat, kissing over her wildly fluttering pulse. Here was proof that she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her.
He caught the fullness of her skirts and pulled until the silk slid from her hips and landed atop her discarded corset. And then he ran his hands over her newly liberated form, memorizing the curve of her waist before gliding to the lush mounds of her breasts. Rigid nipples poked into his palms, asking for his mouth.
God, she was responsive.
As he cupped her, she moaned and arched. He gave her a gentle squeeze, rubbed his thumbs over the stiff peaks, gratified when she gasped his name. He sucked on her neck, knowing it would leave a mark. Tomorrow at breakfast, he could see the evidence that this moment had been real and not a figment of his imagination. And anyone who looked upon her would know she was his. That he had staked his claim as he ought to have done on their wedding day.
“Take off your chemise, love.” He spoke the order into her collarbone as he kissed her there. Even this bony protrusion was beautiful and fashioned for his mouth to worship.
“Kit.” Her voice was breathy. Uncertain. “I have nothing on beneath it.”
He cocked his head to meet her gaze and smiled. “That is rather the point, darling.” He fingered the lace- and ribbon-trimmed décolletage, allowing his touch to linger in the valley between her breasts for a beat longer than necessary, just to tantalize the both of them. “Now off with it.”
Wordlessly this time, she did as he asked, gathering bunches of the fabric and hauling it over her head, tossing it over her shoulder.
And just like that, she stood before him in nothing other than her drawers, stockings, and shoes, her glorious breasts on display. His mouth went dry at the erotic sight she presented. Her hair was immaculate, not a tendril out of place, twisted into an elaborate Grecian coil that had been pinned at her crown. From the neck up, she could have been gracing any drawing room. But the rest of her was pure, unadulterated siren.
Her breasts were perfection. Full and round and creamy, tipped with pretty pink nipples the color of an English rose. As he stared at her, a flush stole over her cheekbones, creeping down her throat. Fidgeting, she attempted to shield herself from his gaze with her arms. Baring herself before him was still new to her.
But he reached for her, staying the movement, his fingers curling round her wrists in a grasp that was gentle yet demanding. “You are so damn beautiful. Never hide yourself from me.”
He looked his fill, allowing her to see just how glorious and riveting he found the sight of her bared upper body. For it wasn’t just her breasts that ensnared him. It was the sum of her, parts he’d not had the time to notice in their last, frantic interlude—from her lovely oval face to her elegant throat, the long arms, the hands that had seen their share of work on her papa’s farm, to the exposed swath of skin above her lacy drawers, which were still buttoned snugly at her waist.
He could remedy that.
His fingers snared the waistband, thumb flicking the button from its loop.
“Kit,” she protested once more, her fingers clasping his.
“Georgie.” He kissed her, long and deep and hard. “Very well, I shall let you do it. Take off your drawers for me. I want to see you. All of you.”
He also wanted to taste her. To run his tongue over every secret, sensitive place on her body. But he didn’t wish to scare her off, so he wisely kept that knowledge to himself.
She still hesitated, cheeks flushed, her indecision written on her face.
“Off, Georgie.” He kissed her again, because he couldn’t resist owning that too-wide mouth. So ridiculous and full, and he could not get enough of it. Her allure was more potent than the most seasoned, sought-after courtesan, for she was artless and guileless and gorgeous all at once.
“It is only fair that you do the same,” she dared to say when he had released her mouth.
Holy hell, this woman. She would be his undoing if he would let her.
“Fair enough.” He stepped back from her, raising his brow in challenge, his gaze never wavering from hers. He shrugged off his jacket, toed off his shoes, stepped out of his stockings as he unbuttoned first his waistcoat, then his shirt. He shucked both, unfastened his trousers, allowed those too to fall.
He stood before her nude, for he had eschewed smallclothes since his wounding because of the way the tighter fabric tended to abrade and irritate his healing skin. Though he remained self-conscious of his vicious scar, he made no effort to cover it now. She had seen it when she had tended him, after all.
“Oh,” was all she said as her wide eyes traveled him up and down. When she lingered on his rampant erection—proof that not every part of him had been forever damaged—her brows rose, her mouth falling open. A furious flush stole over her cheeks. “Oh.”
He bit back a grin. His cock was large, and he knew it. “The drawers, Georgie. Drop them.”
She hesitated, and her blush deepened. “But you’re…good heavens, Kit. I know the mechanics of this, and I do not see how…that is to say, it seems utterly impossible for…you know.”
She ended her rambling, embarrassed deluge of words in a whisper.
Christ, she was endearing. And so bloody arousing that he would lose his mind if he could not see and touch and taste and claim all of her.
“Remove your drawers,” he repeated, dipping his head to kiss her briefly. “Fair is fair, l
ove.”
“I grew up on a farm, Kit.” She blinked, her long lashes fluttering over her cheeks before rising to reveal the gleaming depths of her emerald eyes once more. “A farm-dwelling American dowd, I believe you called me. And I know how this is meant to work. But you…I do not see how it can possibly…this is a mistake, I think. You do not even care for me, and neither do I care for you.”
Too much thinking. He frowned and kissed her again, wanting to erase the reminder of his cruel jibe from both their memories and mouths. He wished he could recall every bitter word he’d uttered in her direction, replace them with seductions and endearments instead. How had he failed to savor her for the rare delicacy that she was, a creature of heart and substance as well as beauty?
His lips moved over hers, long and lingering, slow and persuasive, taking his time to delve into her mouth and cajole her until her tongue stroked his. Making certain to remind her that she wanted this. That she wanted him. And by God, he wanted her. He had never wanted another woman more.
His reaction to her should appall him.
She was the most ludicrous female he’d ever met. She had not been born to privilege, and she was no stranger to dirtying or roughening her hands. She had amassed a ridiculous menagerie of creatures in his home—kittens in his library, for Chrissaskes, dogs in his chamber, a mouse that shit in his bloody shoe—and yet she was also the woman who had nursed him back to health. Who had slept in a chair at his bedside. She was the woman who wore her heart on her sleeve, who cared for strays and unfortunates that could not have a hope of making it without her.
She was the woman he’d walked away from on the day he’d married her, and everything in him wished he had not gone. That he had stayed and used his hands and mouth to ease the frown from her face, the stiffness from her posture. She had been ethereal in her ivory gown begging him not to leave, and he’d been so consumed by his mission that he hadn’t bothered to notice her as anything more than an impediment.
Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4) Page 22