by Lavinia Kent
His movement became a series of circles, each one smaller and nearer to the center. Then he stopped and started on the other breast. In a moment she would be begging him to hurry.
He smiled as if sensing her thoughts. He brought his finger to his mouth, dampening it, and then finally traced her tightly peaked nipples, one at time. He blew after each touch; his hot breath on her damp flesh was almost more than she could take.
When he bent forward and took her breast into his mouth, her hips rose off the bed in response. She needed to move, to react. Her hands stroked down his back, fingers kneading into hard muscle.
She was so beautiful, so perfect. Mark buried his face between her breasts. He would have been content to die right here, right now. Life could get no better than this.
Her hands came around his shoulders, massaging him, urging him on.
He was wrong, life could get better—and better.
Keeping his lips moving over her breasts, he used his hands to slip her robe and gown farther down. She raised her hips so he could slide the fabric to her thighs. He nuzzled his way along the curve of her breasts and across her softly rounded belly. She shivered as he blew into her navel before beginning further downward exploration.
“What are you doing?” Isabella’s voice was hesitant.
He lifted his head to stare up at her. “What do you think?”
“If I knew, then I wouldn’t ask.”
“Then why don’t you wait and find out?”
Her breasts brushed the top of his head as she rose up on her elbows. “Are you sure that this is how it’s done? I am sure this wasn’t in any of the pictures.”
Pictures? That caught his attention, which, given what he was doing, was quite a feat. He lifted his head and looked up at her, giving himself a sightline right between those delicious breasts. Maybe he should move back to them for a while. He might have missed tasting an inch or two, and she did like it when he— Mark shook his head. Pictures—he was going to ask about pictures. “Who showed you drawings of such things?”
She blushed. It was quite something, given his current position, to watch the color spread up toward her face.
“Well,” she said. “Nobody exactly showed me—well, there was a footman who tried, but what he had were just nasty. I stayed with my older sister once and she had some books that had belonged to her late husband. They were beautiful Asian books with gilt covers.”
“Beautiful books with gilt covers. And that is, of course, why you looked at them.”
Isabella turned even redder. “Well, it was in the beginning. It was tempting to find out what they were—my sister did have them just lying on a desk—and then they were irresistible. Nobody tells girls anything. I’d lived in the country so I knew the basics of how things worked—but not with people. I had no idea there were so many possibilities. Do people really do all those things?”
He was lying with his head almost between her legs and they were having a discussion—a serious discussion. Mark would have laughed if—well, if it had not simply been so wonderful. And given the nature of their discussion, perhaps it was not quite so surprising. “If they are similar to books I have seen, I would have to say I think people, men and their mistresses, do most of those things. I have to admit I have seen some that do not seem either possible or pleasurable. I have never wanted to tie myself into a knot.” It was time to turn back to the matter at hand. “But you say there were no drawings of this?” He blew across her belly, causing the red curls to dance. “I find that surprising.” He blew again.
“Well, if you would tell me what you were going to do”—her voice shook as he blew lower—“then I would know for sure, but I think most of the books—well, I don’t remember exactly, but I don’t think that . . .” Her voice trailed off altogether as he used the fingers of one hand to separate her folds.
“There weren’t any pictures of a man simply admiring a woman, of him gazing enraptured at her most intimate places?” He ran his thumb over her, noting how she quivered at each spot. Ah, there was his target. He moved his thumb again, watching how her whole body jerked and moved.
“No, I don’t think there were any pictures of men just looking.”
“Then they must not have been very good books. I can tell you for a certainty that men do like to look, even if that is all they can do.”
She squirmed beneath his touch, trying to find either escape or ease—it was impossible to tell which. “But you do intend to do more than look?”
“Yes, I certainly do. Although you are so pink and pretty—and wet. It drives me wild to see how much you want me, want this.”
He started to lower his head.
“If only you would tell me what this is, then I would know for sure that—” Her words stopped completely as he made contact.
He had chosen his target well. He could feel every muscle in her body tighten as he found that hard nub with his tongue.
She had never even imagined such a thing. Isabella felt her world dissolve in the midst of sensation. Mark’s mouth, his tongue, controlled her. As the feeling grew and tightened she pressed herself up on her elbows so that she could look down at him. She expected to see only the crown of his head, but to her shock she found him gazing up at her.
Their eyes locked. She could see his pleasure in her desire, see his eyes glow with delight as each twitch of muscle revealed her ecstasy to him. And then it was too much.
She tried to hold herself up, to meet his gaze, but as her whole body clenched in ultimate pleasure she could do nothing but cry his name—and then collapse.
She lay there, almost numb, as he slowly kissed his way up her belly, around her breasts, and finally up to her lips.
She could taste herself in his kiss.
His skin was damp with sweat, and tension still held his muscles tight. He might have enjoyed her pleasure, but it was clear that he had not found his own.
“Mmmm,” she murmured against his mouth as she turned on her side toward him.
“What?”
“That was wonderful. I don’t know why it wasn’t in Violet’s books. It clearly should have been.”
“Everyone has their own tastes.”
“I must say I like this one.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly.
“I do too,” he answered.
“Only—only there were other pictures, pictures of women doing something very similar to men. Is that also to your taste?” It was her turn to trail kisses down his neck and chest, pausing to lick at his hard brown nipples, so different from her own. “And do you think I’d like it?” She reached the waistband of his heavy silk knee breeches. “I thought you were going to undress first. How did I end up naked while you are still covered?” She pouted up at him, but ran a finger over his hard arousal.
His whole body jerked in response. Catching her hands in his, he pulled her up toward him. “Yes, I would confess a taste for that, but not now. Now I have something different in mind. Something much more usual, but still I trust pleasurable—for both of us.”
Trying to pull her hands free, Isabella grinned at him. “I do trust it will require you to remove your breeches. I still maintain that your not being naked is most unfair.”
“If you will be still for a moment, my wiggling wench, I will see what I can do about that. I do believe it was my task to strip for you and despite some distraction”—he licked his lips and grinned back at her—“I am more than willing to comply.”
He released her hands and she fell back into the pillows, rolling onto her back to stare at him.
He felt like a lusty schoolboy. He had almost disgraced himself while pleasuring her a moment ago, and as her glance swept down him to fasten on the bulge in his trousers, he had to fight the need again. The scent of her musk wafted about him and he finally tore his eyes from her to stare at the deep purple of the wall beyond. It was almost enough to grant him control. Keeping his gaze firmly from her, he started to undo the buttons of his breeches.
Her soft sigh finally drew his glance back. She was staring at him, her lips parted. He swallowed hard as her gaze rose to his. Her pupils were huge in her eyes, the light blue almost black with desire. Undoing another button and another, he forced himself to think of nothing except her eyes, her desire. He would make this good for her if it killed him.
And at this moment he feared that it might.
“I don’t remember it being so big,” she whispered.
He couldn’t help himself, he laughed, and laughed hard. “You are priceless, my Bella. Did your sister’s books have words? That response could have been scripted.”
She looked startled at his laughter and then joined in. “I can see why you would say that—even I know it is what every man wants to hear—but really, imagine it from my point of view. It seems unbelievable that that is supposed to fit into me.” Her gaze skimmed down her own body to the juncture between her legs, the damp curls like fire against her white skin.
He fought for seriousness. It was hard when she brought him such constant delight. “Does it scare you? You did not seem scared before.”
“Not really. A little, I suppose. A girl is told of the pain and not the pleasure, and it is hard to reconcile the two. I will be happy when it is done.”
Her words from earlier came back to him. “Even though it will change your life forever?”
“I can’t believe we are talking—now. This is not at all how I thought it would go.”
He was kneeling above a naked woman he’d been longing for for well over a week, his cock was so hard it might burst at any moment, he was fighting to hold himself back at every second, and he was willingly asking if she was sure she wanted to do this. “No, I can’t say that this moment is how I imagined it either.”
She pushed up on her elbows, raising her breasts toward him, letting her knees fall open. “Then perhaps we should proceed—assuming that you do plan to proceed.”
He laughed again, but moved between her legs as he did, kicking his breeches aside. “Yes, I do have very definite plans.”
Moving over her until he was pressed against her entrance, he looked down into her eyes, seeking any sign of hesitation. No matter how he wanted this, wanted her, he had to be sure it was mutual, that it was really what she wanted.
She lifted her hips, rubbing against him.
It was all he needed. He positioned himself, slid in with firm thrust, felt the barrier and then—heaven. There could be no moment more blessed than this.
He heard her gasp, saw her eyes widen, felt her whole body draw tight—and then she relaxed, not completely, but enough.
He pulled back, slid forward again.
Her glance moved down to their juncture and then back to his face. She shifted her hips a little, then again, tightened herself around him. Then she smiled, a full-face smile of joy. “That was not so bad at all. In fact”—she shifted again—“I think I could come to like this.”
Now wasn’t that just what a man wanted to hear from his mistress? He bent forward to kiss her on the lips, before straightening his arms and finally allowing his body to get down to business.
He lost track of all but the pleasure then, the thrust and recede. He heard her gasps, saw her face tighten, her mouth open, heard her call his name, and then in a final deep thrust he let himself go, let her name escape from his own lips as he gave in to the moment of endless color and darkness.
It was hard to even think. Isabella’s entire body felt like it had melted into the bed. She was no longer a virgin, no longer untouched. And she didn’t feel one bit different. Oh, there were some aches in places that she’d never ached and she certainly knew some things that she hadn’t twenty minutes before, but she’d expected to be more changed.
She’d come to bed a girl and expected to leave it—well, to leave it a mistress.
Instead she was still just Miss Isabella Hermione Masters.
She rolled onto her side and peered at Mark. He was flat on his back, eyes closed, a sheen of sweat on his brow and chest. She ran her fingers through the light hair covering his breast. That was different. Twenty minutes ago she would have thought before taking such action. Now it was reflex. And a rather nice reflex. He opened one eye and smiled at her.
She smiled back, and then stopped. Her eyes were drawn to an ugly mark across the top of one thigh.
She reached out and traced the heavy scar, the red ridge hard beneath her fingers. “The war?”
“No, my own foolishness. I think I mentioned a scar from jumping off the vicarage roof. I landed on the iron fence. I am lucky that I didn’t do more damage. It is very close to areas I would hate to have impaired.”
“I would say we are both lucky, then.” She stroked up his leg, along his belly, and up to his chest, ignoring his sudden stirring.
“Do that again,” he said.
She flattened her palm, rubbing it all along him. “Like this?”
“I feel like a big, lazy cat being petted. I’d purr if I knew how.”
“Hmm, that sounds almost like a challenge. Can I make a duke purr? I would admit it’s a possibility I’d never considered.” She leaned over and laid a kiss just above his right nipple. “You taste salty.”
He rolled onto his side and, placing a finger under her chin, tilted it up so that he could kiss her on the lips, softly, sweetly, but with definite intent.
There was power in that intent—both for her and for him.
She’d never realized that sex involved power. That was another difference that twenty minutes made.
For instance, she already knew that if she let her kiss trail down his chin to that point where chin and neck merged, if she nipped him there, not hard, just a nip—then— Oh yes, that was exactly the response she’d expected.
She nipped again. Slightly harder.
Chapter 17
She didn’t want to open her eyes. The bed had shaken when Mark rose a few minutes before, but she was not yet ready to move. Even through her closed eyelids she could tell that dawn had come, but she was sure it was still early, too early. Rolling onto her stomach she burrowed her face into the pillows.
Was there anything mistresses were supposed to do the morning after? She’d never heard of anything, but then it wasn’t like she’d ever heard much about being a mistress. She stretched in the bed, reaching for each corner with a limb. A large bed was a rather wonderful thing. She couldn’t remember ever before being able to reach out without a foot or hand going off the edge somewhere.
Her whole body was sore in the most wonderful of ways.
Maybe being a mistress wouldn’t be so bad.
And something smelled like coffee.
Coffee brought to her bedroom in the morning, now that would be almost heaven.
Had Mark gone down to fetch it?
It didn’t seem like something a duke would do, but then after last night it was hard to think of Mark as a duke. A duke would surely never do half the things they’d done last night.
She stretched again, and with supreme effort she rolled over to look at Mark. He was not a quiet riser. Did he have to slam every drawer in the chest? She opened her eyes.
And blinked.
Divers stood at the dresser, opening and closing the drawers with little clear purpose. Mark’s clothing wasn’t there, was it? She didn’t remember him bringing anything yesterday and there hadn’t been anything in the drawers when her own meager bag had been unpacked.
Divers slammed another drawer shut. “Will that be all, Your Grace? The king is expecting you within the hour.”
“See if there is any marmalade. I do not care for the currant jam.” It was Strattington’s voice that answered.
Careful to keep the covers wrapped tight about her breasts, Isabella rolled over toward the voice. Yes, it was definitely Strattington. The carefully cut black coat and flow of white linen and lace left little mistake. She wished she could pull the covers over her head. It was difficult to go to bed with one man and awake with another�
�even if they did share the same body. And that was not even adding in Divers.
After spending years in service Isabella was accustomed to sharing a room, and on many occasions a bed, with another maid, but never with a snotty valet. It was impossible to imagine a more miserable way to wake each morning than to Divers’s lean face. He’d looked down on her during that first meeting at the inn when he’d awoken Joey and he clearly was not pleased to be here now. He was slamming the drawers on purpose. She was sure of it.
That brought on another thought. That first night at the inn—it had been Mark who had demanded she take the baby out to the stable yard. Only Mark had already been out in the yard.
Divers turned and glared at her, shutting another drawer hard. “I’ve put away a few days’ linen, Your Grace. I will bring anything else needed when I am summoned. I imagine you will need me each morning that you spend here.” He did not make it sound like he expected to be called often.
“That will be fine, Divers.” Strattington turned, in all his ducal splendor, and saw her watching him. “Ah, you’re awake, Bella. I fear I must be off to do my duty to the king. Divers will give you a purse of coin. I am sure that you have shopping to do. I do not imagine your current gowns will meet your new needs. You may have the accounts sent to me, but there are other baubles and things you will desire. I am sure that Divers can instruct you on the best place for a woman in your position to shop. He does seem to know everything.”
A woman in her position. Last night she had not felt much different. Now she felt a hundred years older.
She was the duke’s mistress, not Mark’s lover.
She thought she’d learned that lesson already, but evidently he’d fooled her again.
Mark existed only in the dark of night—and in her mind. Strattington was the reality.
Her reality, and she’d best not forget it.
She glanced over to Divers, who pulled out a small purse and dropped it atop the dresser with a clang.