“The rags Mrs. Nero uses in the kitchen look better. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“I like my old one. When it’s thinned out, it feels comfortable.”
“The only thing your ratty shirts have going for them is I can see the outline of your nipples when you’re not wearing your bra.”
“While you don’t own any ratty shirts at all because you go around the condo without them all the time.” She gave a pointed look at his bare chest.
“Shut up and put out, Imogen.”
What the hell was he doing seducing Imogen with sex? He was supposed to talk to her first. Present his case. But he found out he couldn’t wait. His good sense had flown out the window, like her shirts would if he had any say in the matter.
His hands were trembling. She was wearing a cherry-printed bra and he reached behind her to unclasp it, but she stopped him. She undid the clasp herself in front.
“Putting out, Your Grace.” Bloody hell. She was all sass and sweetness.
He was supposed to ask her something first, but all coherent thought fled his brain as soon as he glimpsed her breasts. He stilled, his weight braced on his forearms as he looked his fill. Breasts that had no right tormenting him in his dreams.
He took one hard bud in his mouth and nearly came as she moaned and tugged at his hair. Julian didn’t know how long he nipped, suckled, and plumped up her lush mounds, so lost was he and aroused by the sexy gasps and cries that filled the room. He was not going to last long at this rate. He lifted his head and his breath seized at the passion-drugged expression on her face.
“I’m going to kiss you between your legs now, Genie.”
Her thighs trembled. “Just shut up and deliver, Your Grace.”
Oh, damn right he would. Julian stripped off her jeans impatiently. Her knickers were a serviceable white cotton and it made him unbelievably harder. He divested it efficiently. He gripped her thighs, parted them, slid a finger in, and located her sweet spot. She threw her head back and bit her lip, trying to stop herself from making any sound.
“Let go, darling. I need to hear how you want it.”
“Oh God, Julian,” she gasped. “It’s too much.”
He pinned her with a heavy-lidded stare. “There’s more, Genie,” he said before he bent his head and his tongue joined his finger. She bucked and he laid a hand on her gently rounded belly to pin her down and take the pleasure he was giving her. He saw her hands fisting on the covers. Her breathing was growing labored and she was making small mewling sounds. She was close. With a flick of wrist and tongue, she arched off the bed and became undone.
“Don’t move.”
“I can’t even lift my finger,” she said weakly.
Julian went to his room to get protection and was back in her room in a flash. He was so hard his fingers shook slightly as he tore the foil packet. Imogen was watching him wide-eyed, her jaw slack as he tried to sheath himself. “Imogen,” he gritted out, “you’re not making this easy. Could you look away for a moment?”
He caught the flash of hurt on her face. “I’m so goddamn ready to burst. You watching me is not helping my self-control.”
Mollified, she turned her head away. A few seconds later, he was covering her body with his. He felt her grow taut against his shaft.
“Genie,” he said, and she turned her face to him. “I promise to make it good this time, alright? Trust me.”
She nodded and drew his head down for a brief kiss. “It’s not supposed to hurt the second time around, right?” she said with what sounded like forced conviction.
Second time? He was already poised to enter her when her words penetrated his sexual haze. He knew his mouth was working, but it took several tries to manage to get the words out. “When you say the second time, you mean the second time around with me, right?” Alarm filled him even before she confirmed his suspicion.
“Er,” she hesitated, peering at him under her long lashes, “it’s second time around in general.”
He reared back in shock, bracing his hands on his forearms. Her second time. Ever.
Julian took a moment to wrap his brain around this fact and then white hot possessiveness streaked through his gut. Mine alone, he wanted to crow. He didn’t even want to examine that dark, perverse gratification he felt for being the only man who had ever touched her. And then the logical, sane part of his mind reasserted itself. Hell, she had probably been so traumatized by her initiation to sex she hadn’t been able to engage in intimacies with other men. That was the reason. He flopped beside her and stared at the ceiling bleakly. How could he have forgotten what an arse he had been that night?
He felt her slipping her hand into his. He turned to her and saw her smiling, a wobbly little smile filled with encouragement directed at him. Full of trust for someone who was probably going to hurt her again. A tight knot formed in his chest.
A finger stroked his palm. He felt the knot easing, unraveling. Before it could be fully untangled, he had Imogen under him again in one smooth and sudden movement.
“You can’t back out on your promise, Your Grace,” she said, her eyes dark and luminous. “You did promise to make it good this time.”
“I lied,” he whispered as she gazed up at him uncertainly. “I’m going to make it spectacular.”
* * *
Fireworks exploded. Multiple times. Imogen swore she heard Beethoven’s Ode to Joy that last time she almost blacked out. And still Julian held back.
“Get on with it,” she demanded, limp as a noodle. “Are you waiting for me to go into a coma?”
“All good things come to those who wait,” he grinned between her legs. His hair was in total disarray. A girl had to have something to hang onto in the grip of such an explosive release, after all.
Imogen’s heart, already overworked, threatened to up and die at that grin. “I say carpe diem−” Before she could finish what she had been about to say, he rose above her with one graceful movement and sheathed himself inside her.
Her initial gasp finished on a throaty moan.
“Am I hurting you?” he rasped, not moving. His weight was resting on the arms flanking her head.
She tilted her hips up experimentally, letting him slide deeper.
“Fuck,” he ground out the same time she cried, “Oh God.” He whitened around the mouth, misinterpreting her, and began to withdraw.
Imogen clamped her hands on each of his butt cheek and held on tight. “You are not going anywhere, Your Grace.”
His laugh sounded strained. “Looks like I have no choice.” He thrust back inside her and sat on his haunches. He hooked her thighs over his and nudged them farther apart, moving in a slow, sinuous rhythm, palming her breasts and rolling her nipples between his fingers. Imogen saw him observing her and she knew he was gauging her reaction, whether he was hurting her.
“Good?” he said in a sexy drawl.
“Mmm,” she replied, barely coherent as he started paying attention to that little spot between her legs, flicking it in time with his increasing thrusts.
“If you could only see yourself now,” he murmured. “I can’t wait anymore.” He slammed into her, and Imogen cried out at the delicious sensation of being invaded so deep and so full. She wrapped her legs around his waist and grabbed his arms as he rode her faster, harder, and deeper. She could hear the wet, slick sounds their bodies made, smell the earthy scent of sex. And then she felt it coming. Another one. She grabbed the sheets as her torso bucked off the bed, and she gave a keening cry followed by a grunt as Julian’s face contorted into a rictus of pleasure and pain. He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, careful not to crush her. He didn’t speak and Imogen grew worried.
“Julian?”
He pulled away and rolled to one side of the bed, his eyes squeezed shut. He pressed his temples with a thumb and middle finger.
“What is it?” Did he relapse? They probably shouldn’t have had sex while he was still recovering.
“Just a headache.” His
eyes popped open and then that slow, sexy smile broke out. “It’s better now.”
She sighed in relief. “Now that’s what you call mind-blowing sex.”
Julian laughed, drew her into his arms, and flung a leg over her hip. He had sufficiently recovered indeed that he was able to repeat his performance several times during the night. Imogen drifted off to sleep, wearing an exhausted but satisfied smile on her lips.
Chapter 13
Imogen registered the sounds of a door slamming and the thud of heavy footsteps. Mrs. Nero, she thought groggily. She flipped to her side, wriggling to find a more comfortable position. A hand snaked around her waist, pulling her against a warm, hard chest. She smiled sleepily.
“Genie?” The voice that called her name sounded confused. And young.
She surfaced to wakefulness reluctantly. She blinked and spied the blurry figure by the doorway. Even without her spectacles, she recognized the tall, willowy form immediately. Her heart slammed in her chest.
It was Maggie. Shit!
Imogen bolted upright on the bed like a resurrected cadaver in those horror B-movies. Her elbow poked Julian in the stomach. He grunted but went back to sleep. She clutched the duvet to her chest tightly, unintentionally revealing her bed partner’s smooth bare buttocks to his sister’s gaze. She saw Maggie’s brows slash together in a confused frown. She stepped back out of the doorway as if checking she had the right room. Julian chose that moment to squirm. The sunlight filtering through the crack in the heavy curtains was shining directly on his face. He moved to turn his face away, and the light bounced off his golden, storybook prince hair.
Imogen saw the moment Maggie’s uncomprehending stare turned to shock. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes dilated with horror. Her mouth worked but no sound came out.
“Maggie−”
But Maggie had already started backing away. The door banged shut violently. Julian lifted his head.
“What was that?” he mumbled, squinting from the early morning sun as he scanned the room. Seeing no one, he flopped back on the pillow.
“Your sister,” Imogen hissed, trying desperately to unravel herself from a tangle of limbs and bedcovers, “is here.”
“She always had great timing,” she heard him mutter grouchily. She was finally emerging from the linens, one foot already on the floor.
“Not so fast,” Julian’s hand shot out to wrap around her ankle, preventing her from making her escape. She crouched like a loaded spring, hopped on her free foot, and tried to shake off the hand manacled to her leg. In doing so, she inadvertently delivered a sharp kick to his nether regions.
“Fuck,” he groaned, abruptly dropping her ankle.
She stumbled but managed to remain upright. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” She rushed to his side.
“I’m fine,” he said, taking deep, slow breaths. He looked a bit green.
“Are you sure?” She kicked her torn shirt under the bed to be dealt with later.
He nodded, not as green as a few seconds ago. “Before you go out of the room, we need to talk.”
Something in his tone warned Imogen she wouldn’t like what she was going to hear next. This was the morning-after talk that was supposed to have gone down two years before. “Er-can we do it later, preferably when your sister is not out there waiting?”
“This can’t wait.” Even sleep-roughened, his voice managed to be imperative. ”I should have discussed it with you last night − before things got out of hand.”
There had been more than hands involved. There were fingers, and lips, and tongue, and teeth…
“Look, last night was great, mind-blowing sex. It was the best I’ve ever had.” His brows knitted together. Imogen tried not to be distracted by the well-delineated anatomy that was splayed on her bed. “God knows I don’t have much to compare it with and I’m not an authority like you on the subject,” she studiously ignored his deepening frown, “but it was great.” She raised her fisted hands and did a small pom-pom cheer wave.
His face grew more ominous as Imogen blabbered. “I think I know what you’re trying to say, so I’m just going to make it easy for both of us. It will spare us the awkwardness, and I can get out of the room and be right in another awkward scene with your sister,” she finished in a rush.
He got out of bed, stalked to where she was midway to the door, and stood in front of her with his feet planted wide apart, arms across his chest in a confrontational stance. “What is it you think I’m going to say?”
“Before I answer your question,” she croaked, “could you please, please put on your clothes first?”
Julian just quirked a maddening brow.
“Fine,” she snapped. He smirked. She dashed to the side of the room, yanked open a drawer, and grabbed a shirt and yoga pants. He remained quiet, drumming his fingers on his arm with a long-suffering look. “Now I’m decent.”
Julian’s gaze dropped to her chest. “Barely,” he drawled.
Imogen followed his gaze. Her nipples were poking through her thin, ratty shirt. This time it was her turn to fold her arms across her breasts. For self-defense.
“Last night was great. I’ll never forget it. Thanks.” His eyes narrowed, so she hastened to add, “So much. Er-I mean, thanks for a spectacular, sexual experience.” The words were quite a mouthful, but then his mouth had been everywhere too. She squeezed her legs together.
It was a seemingly endless few seconds before he spoke. “It won’t be your last spectacular, sexual experience, Imogen,” he said smoothly, “if you agree to become my wife.”
Wife?
She was hearing things. She had heard too much sex did that. “Your what?”
“I’m asking you to marry me.”
Imogen tried to make her mouth work. Finally it did. “You want to marry me?” She dug a thumb onto her chest. “Me?”
Julian made a show of glancing around the room. “No one else is around, so I guess that means you.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Imogen burst out hysterically, like one of those women in Maggie’s Spanish telenovelas. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“I’m not joking.” True enough. Julian wasn’t smiling, nor laughing. In fact, he looked dead-serious.
Imogen stumbled her way to an accent chair by the window, sinking into it with legs like jelly. “Wh-why?”she stammered.
He began pacing the length of the room, raking a hand through his hair. Imogen just observed him, stunned. She was immune to the sight of his magnificent physique for the first time. What caught her attention was how unsure he looked, a far cry from his usual self-possessed manner.
He paused, then swung to face her. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“To produce brats.” He scanned the room, stooped by the foot of the bed, and retrieved his trousers. “I need to marry. Have an heir. I’ve delayed long enough. If I wait longer, I might not live to see the brat when he goes to university.” He pulled on his pants with impatient movements.
To produce his brats. How…romantic. Served her right for asking when she could have just leapt at the opportunity and said yes so fast his head would’ve spun.
“Maggie can’t inherit. The title and estate will go to Gray if I don’t have a son.” His lips twisted to show how much of a disaster it would be if that happened. “Idiotic, anachronistic laws,” he muttered in disgust.
The only reason Imogen was getting a proposal from Julian was because of a feudal rule that managed to survive despite present-day gender equality. How it warmed her foolish, stupid heart that an antiquated custom was now working to her advantage – she was to become a brood mare to the Duke of Blackmoore.
She strangled her disappointment. “You can have your pick of accomplished, beautiful women to be the mother of your children, like Princess Alexandria. Why me?”
He stopped short and impaled her with his laser beam gaze. “How long have you known about the betrothal?”
There was no use prevaricatin
g. “A long time ago. It wasn’t Maggie,” she quickly added when Julian started glowering. “It was Gray.” His brother had gleefully imparted the information with a cruel sneer. Julian is going to marry Princess Lexie, not some porky, four-eyed nobody like you.
He swore softly. “So that night…?” His eyes held a question.
“I knew that you were engaged, but just for that night I pretended you weren’t,” she admitted truthfully. “The alcohol made it easy.” The lie helped her save face.
Julian’s eyes darkened, the ring of black around the irises more visible. “You aren’t easy to forget, Imogen.”
“After that disastrous hook-up? I wouldn’t forget me either,” she derided.
“It wasn’t all disastrous.” He searched her face. “I wasn’t completely honest that night.”
She frowned.
“I was such a hypocrite.” He reached down, tilted her chin, and ran a thumb across her bottom lip. “Virgin or not, I wouldn’t have stopped.” Imogen’s lips parted, and his thumb slipped inside. She sucked on it and saw his eyes flare with heat. “I would have slowed down but make no mistake, I wouldn’t have stopped.”
His thumb slipped out. He grasped her shoulders, yanked her up, and swooped down for a devastating kiss. “I never stopped wanting you, Genie,” he said raggedly a few bone-melting minutes later.
Ha. So it just wasn’t the jetlag, her sex-addled brain scoffed. But wanting wasn’t the same as loving. “You can’t just ask someone you ‘want’ to marry you, Julian.” What was she doing trying to convince him otherwise?
“Why not?” His brow lifted arrogantly.
She refused to say the L-word. “It’s just not done.”
“You mean I have to wrap my proposal up in hearts and flowers?”
“It would be nice.” Her flippancy hid the ache in her heart.
“Imogen,” he exhaled heavily, “some people get married for other reasons. Valid reasons other than-” he faltered, “the usual one.”
Her heart sank. To hell with those other reasons for getting married. She just wanted the usual one – the one Julian wasn’t marrying her for.
The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) Page 12