But still, she could not stop kissing him.
It seemed that the place where their lips collided was the center of her being. If she had known a man’s kiss could be so wondrous, she might have spent less time toiling over inventions with Papa in his workshop and paid more attention to the business of being courted. Or was it only this man whose kisses moved her? Was it only Hudson who brought her so wickedly to life?
She could not be certain. All she did know was that she was filled with a wildness. An ache. A need to have more without comprehending what that was. Dimly, she became aware that they were moving together. He was guiding her away from the lake, toward a patch of grass not far from the bank, in the shade of the trees.
“Elysande,” he murmured against her lips before raising his head and gazing down at her. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the promise of passion glittering in their depths. “Shall I stop?”
“Not yet.”
Somehow, the breathless entreaty belonged to her, though she scarcely recognized her own voice.
On a low sound, he took her lips again in a kiss that was even more voracious than those which had preceded it. They kissed until she was dizzied by the combination of his mouth and his hands on her and the warmth of the morning. And then, they were on the grass together.
One moment, they were standing, kissing. The next, they were side by side, mouths fused, bodies straining together. Later, she would likely think she had made an error in judgment in walking by the lake, in not retreating when she saw her husband swimming. But now, she did not have a care for such thoughts.
She was awash in sensation. The cushion of the blades of grass beneath her, the gentle breeze stirring the trees overhead, the coolness of the shade juxtaposed with the wildfire overtaking her. They were pressed together from chest to hip, her breasts crushed into his bare chest. Her hands slid from his hair to venture lower, working their way across his shoulders and down the taut plane of his abdomen, seeking the slabs of muscle she had admired earlier. He was so vital and masculine, a light dusting of dark hair on his chest resulting in the most delightful tickle to her fingertips. His body was hers to discover.
And discover it, she did.
She traced over the puckered skin of his scar, over his flat nipples, down his shoulders and back. All the while, their mouths remained fused, lips and tongues teasing, learning. Elysande had been kissed by a handful of suitors. Stolen moments in alcoves or darkened terraces or corners of Talleyrand Park where no one else would see. But every prior kiss was a bland, pale comparison to Hudson’s.
He kissed her as if he revered her.
As if he could not possibly have enough.
As if she were the air he required to breathe.
And she was helpless to resist. Caught helplessly in the thrall of the handsome stranger she had married.
At last, his lips traveled to her ear, his hot breath as ragged as hers, cascading over her eager flesh and unfurling more desperate yearning within her. “I heard you in your bath last night, and it drove me mad to think of you in the water.”
His admission emboldened her. She kissed his neck, glorying in the scent of him, part fresh earthiness of the lake water, part uniquely him: shaving soap and man. She inhaled deeply, kissing lower, to where his pulse hid, beating as frantically as hers. He was every bit as affected by this interlude. How powerful the affirmation made her feel.
He desired her, the woman who had never drawn the interest of a suitor for anything more than her dowry. Oh, he had married her for her dowry as well, and no mistake about that. But there was hardly a need for him to feign an interest in her this intense the day after they had married. He no longer had to persuade her. The vows had been spoken.
He hummed in approval, then explored the whorl of her ear with his tongue before catching the fleshy lobe in his teeth and delivering a gentle nip. She nearly swooned. He had not been wrong when he had warned her that he was nothing like Old Wycombe.
New Wycombe was a force. He was enough to make her wish to drown herself in wickedness rather than her experiments. The second day of her marriage, and she was rolling about with him in the grass like a strumpet. But she did not care. Not when his clever mouth devoured her throat, licking and sucking and dragging his teeth over the tender cord there.
Her hat had fallen away, and so had the rest of the world. Along with them, all the reasons why she must not indulge in such reckless behavior with her husband. Those knowing fingers of his were on the hidden hooks of her gown, finding them with ease and plucking them open until her bodice sagged, and his hand slipped inside her corset and chemise, cupping her bare breast.
She inhaled, shocked at the power of his touch, the way it sent a lightning strike of pleasure straight to her core. Elysande pressed her thighs together to ease the ache, but the action only seemed to make it worse. He teased her nipple into a stiff point, and a moan escaped her as she arched her back. She had never known she was sensitive there, that a man’s touch could do this many things to her at once.
“You’re so silken and soft,” he murmured, finding his way to her shoulder and nuzzling her chemise aside to lightly bite her there. “Will you let me see you, Elysande?”
He was asking for permission. She could deny him. Her every interaction with him thus far had proven to her that he was a man of honor. But the trouble was, she did not want to put an end to this interlude now that it had begun.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Thank Christ,” he groaned, and then he was peeling her bodice down, working her arms out of the fabric, undoing the hooks on the front of her corset.
One, two, three, four.
The undergarment popped apart, her breasts springing forward, and the relief was palpable. Until he opened two more and pulled her chemise away, leaving her breasts bare. She lay on her back, the coolness of the grass reminiscent of the long-ago days at Talleyrand Park when she had run wild with Izzy. There had been a hill they adored rolling down every summer as many times as they could until they were watching the clouds swirl overhead, giggling, grass in their hair and staining their gowns.
How far removed this was from those innocent times.
“Perfection,” Hudson praised her.
His dark head bowed, and he sucked one of her nipples into the hot, velvety recesses of his mouth. Exquisite sensation blossomed. He released her with a lusty sound and then flicked his tongue over the tightened bud, torturing her in a new way. She was helpless to do anything but clutch his upper arms and arch her back, offering herself to him.
He took what she gave, moving to her other breast to lick and suck as well. Just when she thought she could bear no more, he caught her nipple in his teeth and tugged. She cried out, painfully aware of her body in a way she had never been before. It was as if he had brought her to life, awakened her from sleep, and now all she could do was seek more.
He kissed the curve of her breast and glanced up at her with a hooded stare. “There are ways I can pleasure you without chance of a child.”
His words restored some of her capability for rational thought. How could she have forgotten? She had so many important tasks to accomplish. Her design was in its infancy. And here she was, weak and willing after one day of marriage.
But another part of her, a previously undiscovered side, was curious. Trusting. She wanted to know more and was not ready to so hastily put an end to the interlude.
“I do not know what came over me,” she said, tamping down the wicked impulses. “This is quite unlike myself, I assure you.”
“Frankly, I hope it is not.” He cupped her breast, his thumb unerringly finding the peak and toying with her until she shifted, luxuriating in his touch.
“You cannot approve of—”
He kissed her swiftly, stopping the flow of her words. Ending her thoughts as well as his lips worked their blissful magic. He nipped her lower lip as he had her nipple and her ear, and she moaned as she struggled to contain another wave of desire licking t
hrough her. How could she resist him?
He broke the kiss, his gaze searing and insistent on hers. “I hope that answers your doubts.”
Doubts? Had she possessed them? Her mind was a thousand tiny jagged shards. Her body was his for the taking. And they were married, were they not? What was the harm in more? More pleasure, more kisses, more touches, more Hudson?
“It does,” she agreed, surrendering to her needs.
Surrendering to him.
“I promise you I will honor your wishes,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of each breast.
He did not linger, however, much to her disappointment. Instead, he rolled her to her back with the gentlest care. And then he moved down her body, rising to his knees at her feet. She took a moment to allow her hungry gaze to greedily drink in the sight of him, still shirtless, his broad chest on vivid display, his trousers tight against his thickly muscled thighs thanks to the dampness which lingered. His abdomen was lean and taut. Those sensual lips called to her, slightly darkened from all their kisses and more alluring than ever.
His hands settled on her skirts, his gaze commanding. “Yes or no, Elysande?”
She was not certain what he was asking. But for him, she could not help but to think the answer was yes. Regardless. Perhaps that was the haze of desire fogging her mind. Perhaps it was the newness of their marriage, the natural hopes of every new bride. She could not say.
“Yes,” she told him.
“You can trust me.”
She knew she could, instinctively. New Wycombe could not be more different than Old Wycombe, and she could not be more relieved. He was an honorable man; who else would have risked his own life in the name of justice?
Slowly, he raised her skirts. Inch by inch, her gown and petticoat and chemise traveled. Over her calves. Above her knees. All the way to the tops of her thighs.
“Hold your hems,” he instructed.
She obeyed, wondering what he could possibly be about, but grasping the layers of fabric anyway. It pooled around her waist. Her breasts were still bare, pushed up from her corset, and she thought she must look like the world’s greatest doxy. But then she forgot to think altogether when his big hands settled on her hips, pulling her drawers down until he found the fastening and undid them.
Down her legs went her drawers. Until she was wearing nothing but sturdy country boots and stockings. His hands were on her bare skin, caressing her tenderly. She forgot to worry about how she must look. Forgot anything and everything but the place where his hands met her skin.
He caressed the seam between her thighs, where they were still pressed tightly together in an effort to subdue the ache at her center. “Relax for me, Elysande.”
There was something so very erotic about the command when issued in his low voice. She allowed him to urge her legs apart, and his hands swept over the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, then caressed a path of fire over her hips.
He was seeing her. Every part of her. And she did not care. She knew no shame. All she felt was the mad beating of her own heart and the pulse of desire threatening to be her undoing.
“So beautiful,” he rasped, his head lowering.
His mouth followed his hands. Kisses rained everywhere. Her ankles. Up, up, up her calves. Her shin bones. The insides of her knees. The hollows behind, one by one. Places she had never imagined would prove so susceptible to his lips and touch. The tops of her thighs.
All the while, his hands were on her, kneading and caressing, smoothing over her flesh. Setting her further aflame. Her breasts were aching, the peaks still painfully stiff. Without thought, she cupped them in her own hands, squeezing. But nothing could quell the hunger. She only wanted more.
Somehow, he knew what she was doing. Perhaps he had stolen a look when she had been too preoccupied to take note.
“Yes,” he said, “touch yourself. Feel how lovely you are.”
There was no shame when he gave her his approval. He made her astonishingly aware of a part of herself she had kept sternly locked away for so many years. Desire had been something she could control. Longing after handsome gentlemen had never been for her. But this man…
This man was different.
This man was hers.
Impossible to believe until his lips set fire to the skin of her inner thighs. Then higher still. His mouth settled over her most sensitive place. A gentle kiss first. Just the brush of his lips against her eager bud. And then his skillful tongue, lapping at her slowly, then faster. And then he sucked.
Hard.
Oh God, oh Lord in heaven. She was going to die. She planted her boots in the terra firma and surged into his face, seeking more as stars exploded behind her eyelids.
It was…beyond exquisite. In fact, there were no words.
What is a word?
Who am I?
What has he done to me?
He hummed his appreciation and licked down her seam, his tongue wet and hot and so wicked and so wonderful and so everything. So everything she could have ever imagined, plus one hundredfold more. He licked into her, and the precipice she had been occupying disappeared. Elysande toppled from the mercurial cliff.
She lost control, bliss crashing over her, stealing her breath. She was helpless to do anything save undulate against him, give herself to the crescendo, ride it until she was limp and sated and boneless.
Chapter 5
The single, most deliriously delicious moment of his life had been followed by a furtive dash for clothing and a hasty return to his chamber.
And ultimately, a subsequent hand frigging as well.
From himself, not from his wife.
Therein lay the disappointment.
Hudson was in the privacy of his chamber, sunk deep in the bath that had been awaiting him on his return from the lake, along with his correspondence. Greene, the sedulous manservant who had been catering to his needs, would be getting an increase in salary commensurate with the change in funds Elysande’s massive dowry had brought.
Elysande.
His wife.
He could still taste her on his lips. Musky and delicate and mysterious, just like she was. On a groan, he wrapped his hand around his aching cockstand. The untimely interruption of Saunders and the prospective new head gardener at Brinton Manor had left Hudson in a state of cruel frustration. It could have been worse, he reminded himself.
Fortunately, their voices had carried in the morning’s peaceful silence, piercing the sensual haze that had enveloped Hudson and Elysande as they dallied in the grass by the lake. He still was not entirely certain that the unusually efficient Saunders had not suspected what was afoot and made certain his voice carried, thus giving them enough time to frantically spring apart, right their clothing, and attempt to play the proper role of duke and duchess on a harmless morning walk about the lake.
The dialogue with Saunders and the gardener had been steeped in polite formality. All the while, Hudson had kept his coat draped over his arm in an effort to hide the erection which refused to completely abate. The blood had still been roaring in his ears, the need for completion as fierce as any sensation he had ever known.
But he had stood there making small talk as if he had not just had his tongue buried in his wife’s perfect, wet cunny. As if he were not a rutting beast who had rolled about with his new duchess in the grass at the first opportunity. As if he were not thoroughly disgusted with himself for his behavior and yet simultaneously completely cognizant of the fact he would do it again when he had the chance.
His desire for her was quite shameless, and whether it was the novelty of having a wife or merely the woman herself, he could not say. He ran his tongue over his lips, searching for more of her although she was gone. Likely, he had frightened her away, and he could not blame her if he had. She had stood at his side dutifully, her hat slightly askew, her hair escaping its confines to curl around her face, looking like a rumpled, debauched goddess.
After a few minutes, she had excused herself an
d returned to the manor house alone, winding along the path as his gaze hungrily followed. He had been painfully attuned to each sway of her hips. Paying attention to Saunders and the gardener as they made tentative plans for which overgrown roses might require thinning and what dead branches ought to be removed from this or that tree. He had never intended to be responsible for an estate as vast as Brinton Manor. Or, hell, for any estate. His life in London, his simple bachelor’s quarters, had contented him well.
And he had been still too overwhelmed by lust and self-castigation—a cruel, curious mix, that—to give a damn about the crumbling terrace wall or the bloody syringa. When his wife’s luscious form had disappeared from view, he had remained, shifting weight from one foot to the next, feigning interest in the conversation. Yes, the row of beech might be shaped up properly, and indeed, some daisies and shrubbery about the malfunctioning fountain would be good form after the thing was working once more.
Then, he, too had excused himself and returned to his chamber.
There had been no sound from the room next door, and he imagined she was hiding away in some far-flung corner of the house. Perhaps in the library or the leaky-windowed salon. Part of him had felt the need to find her and apologize for losing control. Part of him had wanted to find her and finish what they had started.
But he was a man who clung to honor, if little else. And so instead, he had stripped himself of his damp clothes and lowered his body into the warm, oil-scented waters. The oil was a luxury he had never previously allowed himself. But he had to admit that the addition of scent was one nod to unexpectedly acquiring a dukedom he could accept.
The aromas swirled around him now as the warm water lapped at him, and he surrendered to thoughts of what might have happened had he returned to the house in time to locate Elysande. His hand tightened on his cock and he stroked beneath the water, knowing he was already close. He laid his head against the rim of the tub and closed his eyes, imagining a different end to their morning at the lake.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 7