Duke of Debauchery

by Scott, Scarlett

Their kiss deepened. He found her waist and hauled her atop him, rolling to his back. He was not going to lose himself anywhere other than in his wife’s sweet cunny. But if she wanted to learn, who was he to deny her?

  Her legs opened for him, her sex nestled against his rod.

  She broke the kiss before he did, sitting up with a gasp as she found herself suddenly atop him. Her hair was a decadent curtain falling all around them. Her breasts were lush and full, her nipples hard. Her hands flew to his chest as she regained her balance from this new position.

  “Ewan, what are you doing?” she asked, her voice low and husky.

  She was not displeased but surprised. What great pleasure he would take in introducing her to the pleasures to be found between a man and woman. Just as long as he was the only man with whom she indulged in such pleasures.

  But he would not think of that now, for they were promised to each other until she gave him an heir. Which meant he had a duty to bed her as many times as possible until she was increasing. And making love to his wife would not be a hardship. Not at all.

  “I am showing you how to give me pleasure,” he told her, his hands on her waist. Her skin was so soft. So luxurious. Her hair fanned over the backs of his hands in a delicious whisper of sensation.

  Her curious cat’s eyes searched his, so bright, so vibrant even in the dim light of the morning. Just when he thought he had learned all the hues hiding within their depths, he spied another color. Like all the rest of her, the beauty of his wife’s eyes was a source of amazement to him.

  “Oh,” she said. “How can I…how will this work?”

  He would show her. With great pleasure.

  “Lift yourself, pet,” he said. “Get onto your knees.”

  She obeyed, rising to her knees, hovering over him in the golden dawn light. “Like this, Ewan?”

  “Yes, darling.” He released her waist with both hands then.

  From this angle, he could see the flushed, pretty lips of her cunny, glistening and ready beneath the shield of silken curls. He wanted to haul her to him, to settle her over his face, and to lap up all her juices until she came, just as he had teased her the day before. But such indulgence would have to wait.

  He had all the time in the world to devour her. To teach her the heights of passion. To seduce her and make her body sing with the pleasure only he could bring her.

  He gripped his cock with one hand and her waist with the other, guiding her down upon him. Wetness and warmth greeted him, along with a grip so tight, he almost spilled immediately. But he ground his jaw and forced himself to maintain his control. He wanted this moment to last. Wanted to bring them both to a delicious crescendo before spending inside her.

  He drove upward while grinding her down upon them, until he was deep, so deep. They sighed as one when he was sheathed in her cunny.

  “God, Hattie.” The words were torn from him. Moan, plea, benediction. His hips having a mind of their own. They surged. Driving himself deeper still. The angle was incredible. And she was so damned slick.

  Elysium. She was perfect. So perfect. Far more than he had ever hoped to have in every way.

  Hattie’s hands were upon his chest once more, seeking purchase. Her expression was one of amazement. She looked like a woman overcome by desire. She looked wild and ravishing. He wanted her to fuck him to oblivion, to take control.

  “How shall I…” Her question trailed off as she moved, lifting herself until he almost slid free of her body. “Oh.”

  Yes, oh. But not enough.

  He gripped her waist and guided her back down upon him. Her breasts bounced. The sight was so unbearably erotic, he could not resist taking the peak of one into his mouth. She rewarded him with a moan and a fresh rush of dew bathing his cock. He sucked harder, gripping her waist with one hand and guiding her.

  She undulated her hips on a gasp, and then instinct took over. She moved over him, taking him deep, then lifting, only to bring him deep again. The rhythm she began was maddening. His heart pounded furiously as the early signs of his impending release took over.

  He caught her nipple between his teeth and tugged. She cried out, arching her back, tilting her head back until her dark hair brushed over his thighs, gliding whisper-soft over his tightened ballocks. It was the single most sensual moment he had ever shared with a woman.

  A furious rush of need to possess her claimed him then. He surged upward, hips thrusting from the bed, and she took him deep. They both turned frantic. They moved as one, chasing ecstasy, faster, higher, harder. He reached between their joined bodies, unerringly finding her engorged pearl. He stroked her there, hard and desperate.

  She came on a choked cry, her cunny clenching on him with such sudden power he lost the ability to withhold his seed. Her fingers were in his hair, grasping, holding his head to her breast as if he were hers to command.

  Because he was hers to command.

  If he had wondered before, he had his answer now. He spilled into her, losing himself, losing control. And it was good, so damned good.

  So damned good, it hurt.

  So damned good, it terrified him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The day had been good. So good, in fact, it terrified her.

  Trying to distract herself from such inconvenient fears and emotions, Hattie strolled along a wall of books in the Hamilton House library following dinner. They had spent the morning making love before getting dressed separately. Aside from their brief parting, they had spent every minute of the day together. Her husband was not just a charming, flirtatious rake.

  He also possessed a wicked sense of humor, glimpses of which she had only seen on rare occasions in the past. She had discovered he could make her laugh until she cried as they spent their breakfast inventing more nonsensical oaths.

  Satan’s handkerchief, the devil’s petticoats, and ruffian’s slippers were some favorites.

  But that was not all. He kissed her as if she were the most glorious woman in the world. He looked at her as if he could not wait another moment to have her in his arms. And when he held her…

  Any defenses she had once mustered against him had been effectively banished. One day of his skillful seduction, his ardent attention, and she was as helplessly in his thrall as she had ever been. More so, of course. She loved him too much.

  “If you wish to make any changes to the library, you must do so, darling,” he said, his low voice far nearer than she had supposed.

  Her nipples were already hard, merely from being in the same room with him. Cursing herself, she turned around, only to find herself lost in those sumptuous brown eyes. How was she ever going to survive being married to this man?

  His gaze was lazy, appreciative.

  For an indeterminate span of time, she forgot what he had even said to her.

  Ah, yes. Books. Library. Changes…

  “Perhaps we could add some more poetry,” she suggested, though she had scarcely taken in all the titles she had passed by. Her thoughts had been far too preoccupied with him.

  “Anything you want is yours.” He reached out and swept a stray tendril of hair from her face.

  She resisted the urge to nuzzle his hand as if she were a cat. His touch had fast become an obsession for her. She could not get enough of it.

  “Anything?” she asked teasingly.

  In truth, she knew the one thing she wanted more than anything—his heart—could not be so easily attained, if at all. But she had no wish to ruin the tenderness of the moment with such heaviness.

  He drew her into his arms, then lowered his forehead to rest against hers. “Anything.”

  The gesture was so tender, so loving. She inhaled deeply of the scent of him, her arms going around his waist as if it were the most natural thing. Because for her, it was. She had loved him for so long. Today seemed as if it had been ripped from her dreams.

  “What if I want something that cannot be bought?” she dared to ask.

  Oh, she was not fool enough that
she would ask for his heart, or that she even believed a mere day of accord between them was enough to suggest he had feelings for her aside from the obvious physical connection they shared. But at some point during the course of the day, she had realized she was going to fight for him. The notion of them going their separate ways after she bore him an heir grew increasingly unpalatable.

  If they could spend their time together, laughing, talking, and making love now, why should it not always be so? Why did this paradise ever need to come to an end? Because he had decreed it so? Because he was too afraid to follow his heart? Because he was doomed to be an inconstant lover?

  Surely, she could scale any wall he attempted to build between them. Surely there was hope for their marriage, for their future. It was that belief which propelled her forward now. Headlong into bliss or misery—that much would be determined over time.

  He raised his head and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “And what is it you want that cannot be bought, pet?”

  Your love.

  No, she could not say that. Did not dare.

  “What I want more than anything is to know more about you,” she said instead.

  He stiffened in her arms, and she wondered if she had somehow misspoken.

  “What a deadly, boring subject, darling,” he drawled at last into the silence that had descended.

  At least he had not withdrawn from her. His arms were still firmly around her.

  “I do not find you boring at all, Ewan,” she told him seriously.

  She did not. She wanted to get to know the enigmatic man she had married. Not the Duke of Debauchery. Not the wicked rake. Not the devil-may-care friend of her older brother. The true man hiding behind the mask he wore for society. She wanted to know the reason for the shadows in his eyes. Why he had so oft steeped himself in drink. What he was running from. What secrets he hid.

  Earning his trust would take time, she knew. And effort. But she was determined, persistent. She had time and love on her side, and she was not afraid to use either to her advantage.

  “There is not much to tell, pet.” His jaw was a sharp, ridged line, so taut, she fancied she could cut her fingers upon it if she dared to touch him there.

  She cupped his face. His flesh was soft and warm and giving. So very human. The sole roughness on him was the prickle of his dark whiskers. “Whatever there is, I want you to tell it. We are husband and wife now, and I scarcely know anything about you.”

  Aside from all the rumors.

  Aside from what she had witnessed herself.

  “On the contrary, darling, I think you know everything you need to know about me.” He gave her a slow, wicked grin, and pressed a kiss into her palm.

  In true Ewan fashion, his tongue slid out to graze her skin, sending sparks of fire up her arm. They danced through her and settled low in her belly. Lower still, between her thighs. But she was not going to allow him to distract her with lovemaking just yet, despite the desire he awoke.

  She was smiling in spite of herself. He truly was charming when he chose to be. “Do not tell me this is another form of palmistry?” she asked, referencing the day he had asked her to marry him, and she had finally said yes.

  It seemed like a lifetime ago already, but in truth, it had not been long ago at all.

  “It is indeed,” he said against her palm, his grin deepening. He traced a path on her palm with his tongue. “This line says you will allow your husband to settle you on the chair by the hearth, lift your skirts, and lick your pretty cunny until you spend all over his greedy tongue.”

  Oh, wicked, wicked man. He said the most vulgar things, and they never failed to fill her with heat and desire.

  “Where is the line that says my husband is a sinful scoundrel?” she demanded, resisting the frisson of need rolling through her.

  This was serious. He could distract her with lovemaking later. Tonight, she wanted to learn more about him.

  He licked another path, his stare intense upon hers. “I could not find that line, but this one says you love his big cock sliding deep inside you.”

  Of course she did, the knave. And he knew it. But that was all beside the point.

  Her cheeks went hot. “Ewan, stop this game. I truly want to know about you.”

  He kissed her wrist. “Very well, pet. I will tell you my boring life history. In return, you must tell me yours.”

  There was a bargain she could manage. “Of course.”

  He nibbled on her inner wrist. “And you must promise to let me have my wicked way with you when our conversation is done.”

  Another bargain she could easily manage.

  She smiled. “I would not have it any other way.”

  “Wicked, darling.” He kissed the top of her hand, then laced their fingers together and tugged her across the chamber, to a seating area. “Come. Let us have done with it.”

  He settled in a chair, and when she would have seated herself at his side, he hauled her into his lap. The position was indecent, and she loved it.

  She loved him.

  Oh, stupid heart.

  She shifted, trying to situate herself as gracefully as she could, and felt the unmistakable ridge of his cock beneath her. Her gaze shot to his, and he was watching her with a heavy-lidded, hungry gaze that told her she would need to begin this discussion soon, before he devoured her.

  “You are truly the Duke of Debauchery,” she said.

  Instantly, she regretted mentioning the sobriquet he had earned in far more nefarious manners. Manners which did not involve her.

  The grin fled from his lips. “Yes, I am, and you would do well to recall it, Hattie darling.”

  She searched his gaze and tenderly brushed a rakish forelock from his brow before settling her hand over his heart as he had once done to her. “But you have a heart, though you try your best to pretend you have none. Here it is, beating beneath my fingertips.”

  “A black one to be sure,” he quipped. “Hardened, jaded. Nothing more than a husk of what a heart truly ought to be.”

  “Why?” She had to know.

  His expression changed, hardened. “I have seen far too much. Do not ask questions you do not truly want the answers to, pet.”

  But she did want the answers. Only, it would seem he was unwilling to give them to her. Fair enough. She could not expect him to reveal all to her on the third day of their marriage. She had time aplenty to discover more. Instead, she would proceed slowly. With great caution.

  “What were you like when you were a lad?” she asked.

  “Troublesome. My father despaired I would ever make a proper duke, and he was right.” Ewan gave her a wry half smile then. “I was fond of playing all sorts of horrid jokes upon him. Adding paste to his inkwell, pouring sawdust in his shoes, that sort of boyish nonsense.”

  She could envision a small, adorable Ewan, playing tricks upon the duke. For a brief, spellbinding moment, she imagined what their child would look like, should they be so blessed.

  “You have always been troublesome,” she said, smiling and stroking his hair. The freedom to touch him was such a delicious luxury. How beloved he was to her. How precious.

  His lips quirked into a full smile. “I invented troublesome, darling.”

  Somehow, she found troublesome far more alluring than staid and proper.

  “Tell me more,” she urged him. “Did you ever play any tricks upon Her Grace?”

  “But of course.” He winked. “I would tangle her necklaces together, hide her earbobs. Put pepper in her pearl powder, a frog in her chamber pot. And neither was poor Cat safe from me. She was terrified of spiders, so naturally whenever I discovered one, I hid it in her bed.”

  “Oh, you wretched boy,” she said, laughing. “Tell me more.”

  He shook his head. “It is your turn. I want to hear about you. What was sweet little Hattie like? Just as angelic as you are now, I have no doubt.”

  “I was forever reading a book, much to my mother’s disgust,�
�� she recalled. “I thought Torrie was the finest brother in the world. I followed him everywhere whenever he was home. He doted over me quite sweetly as I recall it now.”

  The reminder filled her with sadness.

  She wished she had not offered the recollection, for once more, her husband tensed beneath her.

  “Christ, Torrie.” Ewan’s eyes slid closed, his expression tightening with pain that could not be feigned. “I wish to God I had never agreed to race him that night. That I had not been so deep in my cups I failed to realize neither of us should have been driving a damn thing…”

  There was no denying the agony in her husband’s voice. Nor the regret.

  “You never meant for either of you to get hurt,” she said, still combing her fingers through the thick strands of his hair. “I know that, Ewan. I have always known that.”

  “But you resented me for what happened,” he guessed.

  Correctly. She had been furious with him when she had first discovered his involvement in her brother’s nearly fatal accident. But she had known, all along, that in his heart, the Duke of Montrose was a good man, in spite of his predilection for sin and scandal. He had loved Torrie like a brother, and he would have never intentionally wanted to see him so gravely injured. In time, her anger had waned, washed away by the relief that her brother had recovered—at least physically, if not mentally—and her own foolish love of Ewan.

  The way she felt for him, even in the depths of her anger, had never changed.

  “I resented losing the brother I knew and loved.” She kept her voice gentle, soothing, as she explained. She had no wish to ruin the intimacy of this moment, so unlike the intimacies they shared with their bodies and every bit as cherished and important. “I was angry with the both of you for having been so reckless with your lives. Because I care for you both, so much.”

  He stilled. “You care for me?”

  How could he believe otherwise? Her heart ached at the hesitance in his tone, almost as if he could not believe she would possess tender feelings for him. Or worse, that he was not worthy.

  She did not dare confess the truth. Not yet.