Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  His chest was broad and firm, his skin darker than hers, light brown hair, of all things, on the top part of his chest. It felt ticklish under her hand, and she trailed her fingers through it. She dragged her finger across his nipple, so different from hers.

  Not that she’d made a study of what hers looked like, but they were not brown and flat, like his. She was certain of that.

  He inhaled sharply, and she snatched her hand away. “Did I hurt you?” Were men’s nipples so sensitive?

  He took her hand and put it back, right where she’d been touching. “No, the opposite.” His voice was low and husky and nearly ragged, and she knew—even though she had no way of knowing, but she knew—that he was liking what she was doing, that he was affected by it, and that it was making his voice get all low like that.

  And happily enough, she liked that as well.

  She rubbed across his nipple again, and he breathed out again, sharp and fast through his nose. His palms were placed flat on the bed beside his body, and it appeared that he was pressing them down. So as not to touch her? Or not to make her stop?

  No, but if he’d wanted her to stop he would have said so—“Tell me what you want,” after all—and she already knew he liked it.

  Was he so afraid of what might happen? Was it possible that the rumors about him weren’t true, and he was awkward with women?

  If so, they would just have to learn together. And she would encourage him to explore her as much as she was going to explore him.

  Which meant she would have to get undressed, at least as much as he was.

  She kept one hand on his chest—and just even thinking that she had her hand on a part of him that was normally under clothing made her want to swoon and shout, all at the same time—while she undid the bow at the neck of her dressing gown with the other.

  His hooded gaze stayed on her hand, his tongue reaching out to lick his lip as he watched her shrug, admittedly quite awkwardly, out of the sleeves. She wriggled to let the garment drop to the bed.

  She was only in her night rail, an item of clothing that only women, usually her relatives, had seen her in. It hadn’t seemed to matter that much before whether the fabric was sheer or opaque, but now she was acutely aware that the shape of her body was likely outlined, with the candlelight behind her, and that he was—well, he was staring.

  As though he’d never seen a woman before, poor thing.

  “Do you need help with that?” he asked in a strangled voice. His chest was heaving as though he’d just run a race, and she felt a moment of smug triumph that she had rendered him to this with just a few touches to his chest and the removal of her dressing gown.

  Although she didn’t want to kill him by going too quickly, did she?

  But on the other hand, his hands were reaching toward her, as though they really wished to touch her, and she felt bad for him that he hadn’t gotten up the nerve yet.

  She took one of the hands that was waving about in the air and brought it to her chest. Not precisely on her breast, but just above. She kept her hand on his, then guided his palm down, so that his smallest finger was on the top curve of her breast.

  And then it seemed he lost his shyness, because his hand kept going down until he had his palm entirely around her, his thumb resting on her nipple, just as she’d touched his.

  No wonder he’d made those sounds and reacted that way when she touched him. It felt wonderful, as though her whole being were centered just there, and she knew she wanted more, wanted to feel both of his hands on her, wanted to have him explore how she felt just as she wanted to continue exploring him.

  “You like this.” It wasn’t a question—honestly, when would someone actually want her opinion about something?—but she didn’t care, because she did, she absolutely did like this.

  “Yes,” she said, surprised to hear how breathy she sounded. As though she, too, had run a race.

  He took his hand off her, and she felt her mouth nearly turn into a pout, but then he slid his fingers underneath the fabric of her night rail and repeated the movement from before, moving his hand down, only now it was just his bare skin on her bare skin, and it felt even more incredible.

  And then—oh!—his fingers curled around her breast, and he touched her nipple again and she wanted to say something only she didn’t think she could form words. Or even really form thoughts.

  It must have looked awkward, since his elbow was at a right angle and his hand was down her gown—down her gown!—but she didn’t care how silly it must have looked because no one but them was here anyway, and he didn’t look as though he wanted to laugh.

  In fact, if she had to categorize his look, it would be one of intense scrutiny. His eyes were locked on her chest, watching as his fingers played with her nipple, caressed the round flesh of her breast, and his mouth was slightly open, his tongue licking his lips every so often.

  “Dear God, you are lovely,” he breathed, then did something even more unexpected than intense scrutinizing and lip licking and fondling of nipples.

  He leaned forward and bent his head to her chest, then placed his mouth where his finger had just been.

  On her nipple.

  It was through the fabric, of course, but it was his mouth. On her.

  And then he licked her, through the fabric, dampening it so it clung to her, and her nipple was poking out, like when she was chilled, only she felt the opposite, as though there were a fire burning inside her.

  Somehow his hands were on her waist, holding her still, as though she were going to go anywhere. She might never leave this place as long as she kept feeling like this.

  She felt something react lower still, where the things were supposed to happen, only she didn’t know that ladies could feel this—this heaviness, this yearning ache, that seemed to flow from his mouth throughout her entire body.

  “Touch me,” he murmured as he lifted his mouth, presumably to take a breath. His hand found hers and placed it on his body, only now her hand was on his side, not his chest, and she ran it down to his waist, feeling the flex of his muscles under her palm.

  Meanwhile, his mouth was doing wonderful, wicked things to her, and then he moved to the other nipple while he moved his hand from her waist to cup her breast in his hand.

  She couldn’t keep track, in fact, of where everything was—his mouth was on her right nipple, his hand on her left, her hand was on his waist, he was leaning forward while her legs were bent to the side, and it should have been much more uncomfortable than it was.

  Because it felt blissful. And amazing. And her body and her brain were fully aware of how incredible it felt, and still, both were demanding more. More of what, she had no idea.

  Just more.

  He lifted his mouth from her and blew on her, causing a shiver to run down her spine. Before she could notice, however, that his mouth wasn’t doing wicked, lovely things to her any longer, he was kissing her again, his arms now wrapped entirely around her, holding her tightly against his chest, that gorgeous, hard, muscular chest. The pressure of his body felt right, and she squirmed in his arms to get closer still, until he broke the kiss and put his forehead on her shoulder, gasping.

  “You’re killing me, princess,” he said in a voice so low she thought perhaps only dogs could hear it. Well, dogs and her.

  “I am?” Her voice, on the other hand, sounded as though she had just ascended a high altitude carrying a bag of bricks.

  In other words, entirely and completely breathless.

  “You are,” he replied in that same growl, only with a hint of humor in it, as though he knew she’d been mentally comparing his voice to one in a dog’s audio range or her to some sort of brave, brick-carrying mountain climber.

  But she couldn’t think of anything when he leaned back, a quirk of a smile on his mouth, and took her hand, putting it there.

  On his whatever.

  Epigraph

  From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:

  �
�Where did you come from?” The farmer strode out from his barn, pieces of hay clinging to his shirt, his boots muddy and who knew what else.

  Jane had never actually spoken to a laborer, and she was gratified she could understand him.

  “The castle, you dolt,” Catherine said. “Where do you think ladies come from?”

  The farmer grinned and leaned back, putting his fists on his hips. “Well, if you was to ask me where ladies and gentlemen come from, I’d have no choice but to tell you.” He glanced from Catherine to Jane and back to Catherine. “Should I be having that conversation with your lady here?”

  Jane’s face grew hot. She wasn’t naive any longer, she was a married woman, but there were some things that she’d never heard discussed.

  “Hush, you,” Catherine said in a chiding voice. “Never mind that, you rascal. We’re looking for the prince. Have you seen him?”

  The farmer glanced around as though surprised. “Oh, I forgot, he’s sitting in my kitchen having a cup of tea.” His face creased into a scowl. “Of course I ain’t seen your prince. Have you lost him, then?”

  “Yes, I have,” Jane replied, a thick lump forming in her throat.

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 21

  He hadn’t meant to put her hand on his cock.

  Although now that it was there, he didn’t know why he hadn’t done it before; say, perhaps, the first time he met her, in her parents’ drawing room.

  Never mind, that would have been awkward.

  Just as this was, actually. She had frozen, as any young lady might, her hand on him, but not doing anything, not moving, just . . . frozen. Her lips were parted, her eyes were wide, and she was breathing in quick, short bursts.

  “Uh,” she said, and then, thank God, she did move her palm, placing it more firmly on his erection.

  So help him, he was going to spend in about thirty-seven seconds.

  He gripped her wrist. “Do you feel what you do to me?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t about to run off. Fuck it, he’d ask. He’d demanded to know what she wanted, after all. And that would include what she didn’t want, as well. “You’re not scared, are you? Or about to run off?”

  Her eyes were as huge and round as a full moon, but she shook her head. Thank God. “No, neither.” She made some sort of tentative motion that felt incredible, if unskilled (of course), and settled herself more comfortably on the bed. “What do you want me to do?”

  He didn’t want to tell her what to do, hadn’t he decided that? Only his gentlemanly and husbandly resolve was wavering in the face—or rather the hand—of the moment. But he could tell her what to do now without necessarily be telling her what to do entirely, right?

  If only he had Griff’s ability to argue in circumlocution, he’d have been able to convince himself that fucking her right now, hard and fast, was the most honorable thing he could possibly do.

  He had never wanted to be more like Griff in his entire life.

  “I want you to do what feels comfortable for you,” he said in as firm a tone as he could muster.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “What about what is comfortable for you? Because I am here, and we are—and you are—and, and . . .” and she gestured with her other hand, thank goodness, because if she had moved her hand off him he would have sobbed or howled or done some other unmanly-type thing.

  “Touch me. Just—touch me.” And he waited as she tilted her head and thought about it, her mouth wet and swollen from their kisses, the fabric of her nightgown damp from his tongue, her nipples poking out jauntily, taunting him.

  “Like this?” she asked, rubbing her palm over him, frustratingly over the cloth of his breeches, since he hadn’t trusted himself to wear just a nightshirt to bed since they’d started kissing.

  Still, it felt as good as having your wife, the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen, sitting on a bed with you with her palm on you.

  So pretty damn good.

  “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “Yes, only harder, only . . .”

  He closed his eyes so he could ask her without begging. Too much. “Would you be comfortable with me removing my breeches?”

  And kept his eyes shut because, so help him, if she looked terrified or disgusted or appalled, he might never recover.

  “Yes,” she said, finally, in a soft whisper. Whispers are always soft, a voice yelled at him, probably in Griff’s practical tone of voice. Still. It was a very soft whisper.

  But, thankfully, he’d heard it.

  He opened his eyes and took a deep breath, then scooted back on the bed so he wasn’t touching her. He swung his feet over to the floor and stood, his back to her, undoing the falls of his breeches, pushing the garment to the floor so he was only in his smallclothes. One part of him wanted to take those off also—one guess what part it was—only he wasn’t willing to push things. He had only one chance at this, and he was going to do it properly.

  One thing at a time.

  He sat back down on the bed and returned to face her. She didn’t look scared, and he congratulated himself on taking it slowly, since he knew that this would have had a much different outcome if they had begun it all that first night, when he’d been drowning in passion for her, when he’d only longed to see her naked and underneath him.

  Well, so exactly like now, only now he had gotten to know the woman underneath, and that just made him more determined to ensure she was as comfortable with this as he was. Or uncomfortable, given how his erection was throbbing, thrusting out from his body demanding—no, requiring—attention.

  “Oh my,” she said, looking down at last.

  He didn’t want to preen at how she was looking at him. But his cock certainly did.

  He leaned forward and took her hand in his, pulling her so she had to move. He returned to their usual positions against the headboard, pulling her into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, allowing himself to rest his hand on her hip. Her night rail was rucked up, and he could see her legs from the knees down. Even her feet were beautiful, long and slender and elegant, currently wiggling around at the end of the bed as though dancing.

  Horizontal dancing. If that wasn’t a euphemism, he didn’t know what was. And Griff said he wasn’t good with words or imagination. Ha! He just had to have the right material to inspire him. Like her.

  “I am fine,” she said, reaching her hand across his body, mirroring his action by placing her hand on his hip. “Can I touch you again?” she asked.

  Oh my God. He might just die from joy now, only then that would mean he’d never get to touch her more thoroughly. “Yes,” he said, his voice a rasp as he drew himself out from his smallclothes, “please do.”

  And she moved her hand over and gripped him. Both of them were looking at her fingers encircling his cock, neither one of them moving.

  He should probably tell her what he wanted. Because if he didn’t, he might die from frustration.

  “What should I do?”

  He exhaled and put his hand on top of hers. “Move your hand up and down, like this,” he said, running her hand up and down his shaft. He kept his motions at a steady pace, then let go when he thought she had probably gotten the rhythm down.

  And she had. She kept right on touching him, rubbing him, up and down, her fingers barely meeting each other around his cock. He couldn’t stop looking at how delicate and fine her hand looked against him, her skin pale against the flush of his erection.

  “It’s so hard and soft at the same time,” she said, not sounding as though she were horrified, thank goodness, but merely observing.

  “Mmph,” Nicholas replied, not able to maintain a conversation.

  “And then what—oh!” she said as he climaxed, spilling all over his hand, his smallclothes, her hand, his stomach, and likely on the bed as well.

  Not quite thirty-seven seconds, but not nearly as long as he usually could go for. To be fair, however, it had been quite a long time. And it was
she. So he couldn’t feel bad about how quickly it had all occurred.

  She let go right away and scooted away, and if he’d been able to, he would have tried to reassure her that what she’d done had been marvelous, and that this was the desired effect.

  But all he could do was feel the pleasure coursing through his body, along with a substantial amount of regret that he hadn’t explained things better.

  “Isabella,” he began, when he could finally speak. She hadn’t left, but her posture wasn’t exactly what a man wished to see after a woman had just brought him release; she was leaning away from him, her eyes darting from the mess on his stomach to the mess on the bed, all the while she was wiping her hand on her nightgown.

  He’d made an actual mess of things.

  “That was . . .” she began, her brow creased in thought.

  He barely dared to breathe waiting for what she might say—horrible? Disgusting? Never to happen again?

  Please don’t let it be the last one, he thought. The first two he might be able to get through, but not the last one.

  “—unexpected,” she said at last, nodding in satisfaction, it seemed, for having found the right word.

  Nicholas couldn’t help but laugh. “Not quite, since that is what generally happens when—well, when,” and now he was unexpectedly surprised to find he was embarrassed to discuss the subject with his wife.

  He’d never shied away from frank talk with his partners, but on the other hand, his partners hadn’t been delicate virgins who didn’t know how a man’s penis functioned.

  “When what?” she said, as though she were interested.

  “When a man has an orgasm.”

  “Oh,” she replied, as though she understood. Which she did not, since then she asked, “What is an orgasm?”

  Oh, princess, he thought, that is such an excellent question.

  Even though he’d made intriguing noises, low in his throat, and he’d seemed unable to speak at certain points, and even though she’d touched him there, right on that part that she was only supposed to encounter as a married woman—which she was, thankfully—she still didn’t see signs of his being an animalistic beast, intent only on his own desires.