His answering smile was slow and hungry, as if some sort of fire had roared to life inside him, and Sophie felt it all the way to her toes. He had chipped away at her guard by taking her riding, by showing her his house, by letting her tempt him into being silly and then laughing at himself. She had begun to like him, far more than she’d thought possible. But when he looked at her like this, with desire and passion sharpening his features, everything inside her ignited into a simmering lust.
She could blame it on the rain, or the roads, or even the champagne, but the truth was she wanted the Duke of Ware. She wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her over and over until she couldn’t remember anything other than the touch of his hands and mouth on her body. She wanted him to make her feel wanted, as desperately as she wanted him.
This time his mouth was firm, demanding. He tipped her chin until her lips parted, and then his tongue invaded, conquering. She went down without a fight, reaching up to push her fingers into his hair and hold him to her as she kissed him back. His fingers slid down her throat to her neckline, along the edge of the fabric until she squirmed and writhed with longing for him to rip it right down the middle and ravish her.
She twisted on the sofa, straining to be closer. His arms went around her, and dimly she felt the sharp tug of buttons being undone. Her bodice came loose, and she arched her back as he pulled it down her arms.
He was on his knees beside the sofa now, still kissing her deeply. Sophie was all but curled around him, her thighs pressed to his side, her arms clinging to his neck. His hand gripped her knee for a moment, then slid up, dragging her skirt with it. He cupped her bottom and pulled her hard toward him, and she moaned as he moved against her, his erection obvious even through layers of clothing.
In fits and starts she shoved and yanked at his clothes. His jacket hit the floor and then his cravat. He pressed her back into the cushions, his lips murmuring over the swells of her breasts as he stripped off his waistcoat. Frantic to feel his skin against hers, she twisted her arms behind her, trying to reach the remaining buttons of her dress.
His breath puffed in a faint laugh on her throat. “Leave it,” he whispered, untying the string that held her chemise closed.
“Take off your shirt,” she gasped, and he obligingly whipped it over his head.
She spread her hands on his bare chest, almost whimpering with want. God, he was perfect, lean and firm and so hot against her palms. He growled some indistinct encouragement as he tugged the chemise aside and licked her nipple.
“Oh—!” She lurched upward, gripping his arms. His muscles bunched and flexed, and then his hand was on her knee, sliding upward.
“I wanted you the moment I saw you,” he whispered, his fingers pausing to tug at her garter. Sophie jerked in disbelief. His expression was fierce, his eyes burning. “I want to make love to you, Sophie, so badly I can hardly bear it.”
His heart was hammering; she could feel it beneath her palms. Her blood was running just as hot, and she looked him right in the eyes and said, “Yes. Yes.”
The rakish grin flashed across his face for a moment, and then his hand reached the top of her thigh. His fingers brushed the curls between her legs, and she spread her knees wider. She stared at him, her eyes wide with pleading.
He swore under his breath, then tossed up her skirt as he dragged her to the edge of the sofa. She sprawled wantonly, one foot on the floor, her other propped on the back of the sofa, the duke on his knees between her thighs. He pressed her back again, his big hand cupping her cheek before sliding possessively down her chest, pausing to fondle her breast, then spreading wide across her belly. His eyes were stormy gray as he touched her again, his fingers bold and unhurried, making her writhe and gasp.
Ware’s touch seemed electric; she was sure her hair would be standing on end if she weren’t tossing her head back and forth, her breath rasping in her throat as he stroked her and bent over her, his mouth on her breast. She flung her arms wide, gripping the cushions, trying to anchor herself as she felt the climax building inside her.
“The way you look,” said the duke, his voice guttural. “It could make me come, just looking at you.” She pried open her eyes to see him looming over her as he shoved down his trousers with one hand. Sophie caught her breath—he pressed her thighs wider apart as he knelt one knee on the sofa—and when he thrust deep inside her on one hard slide, it pushed her over the brink. She came with a broken cry, her body spasming hard.
“Christ,” said the duke hoarsely, his fingers digging into her hip to hold her tight against him. He withdrew a little, then thrust home hard, eliciting another tremor in her body. “Can you do it again?”
“What?” She could hardly speak; her hair was in her face, and she felt drunk as she gazed at him, above her, inside her, around her.
“Again,” he said, his voice taut, and he slid one hand back beneath her bunched-up skirts.
“I—I don’t . . .” Her voice choked off as he stroked her. Every muscle in her body twitched, and she gave a high-pitched whimper.
“If timed just right, some women can climax again almost immediately.” He pulled back then pressed deep again.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Try . . .”
He bared his teeth in a feral grin and increased his pace. Sophie wasn’t sure she would survive. He was so big and strong, so hard and thick inside her. Her stomach was twisted into a hard knot, and she could hardly breathe. She gripped his arm, braced beside her head, and found his muscle as hard as iron, his skin slick with sweat.
And incredibly, the wave of pleasure rose inside her, faster this time, not quite as intense but still hard enough to catch her off guard. She heard herself sobbing even as her body rose to meet his thrusts, harder and faster than ever until he bore down and went suddenly still. His grip on her hip was painful for a moment. His breath hissed and his head dropped, and she felt his climax deep inside her.
“Your Grace,” was all she could gasp.
A laugh rumbled in his chest. He kissed her, his lips lingering a moment on hers. “I think you ought to call me Jack now.”
Her smile felt silly and insanely happy. “Jack.”
“Sophie.” He kissed her again. “My Sophie.”
It sent her heart leaping. “What now, Jack?” Playfully she looped her arms around his neck, marveling at how warm he was. Even with her dress mostly off, she didn’t feel the slightest bit chilled.
“Now . . .” He cupped one hand around her breast, spilling over her corset, and rolled his thumb over her nipple. Sophie flinched, and a dark smile crossed his face. “I’m going to make love to you properly.”
“Properly?”
“Yes.” He bent his head and swirled his tongue over the nipple, causing her to shudder again. “In my bed, with the lamps lit so I can see every flicker of passion in your face, with none of this”—he tugged at the fabric of her skirt, crumpled between them—“in the way.”
Yes. Even with her body still humming with pleasure and spent of all energy, something inside her leaped at the thought of what he offered. She wrapped her legs around his hips, reveling in his weight atop her. “That does sound very proper. Very ducal.”
His eyebrows went up. “I see. You think I’m too proper. Too ducal.” She laughed, but he moved his hips against hers and she stopped. The feel of him inside her made the breath catch in her chest. He rested his cheek against hers and murmured, “If wicked is what you want, wicked is what you shall get.”
“How wicked?” she asked, intrigued.
He settled on top of her and whispered in her ear. “I want you naked in my bed, spread like a feast for me. I want you on your hands and knees on the rug before the hearth, where I can watch every flicker of firelight on your skin. I want you in my bathing tub, astride my lap and slippery wet. I want you in my blue banyan and nothing
else, with your legs around my waist and your back against the wall.”
“Oh my.” Her voice faltered as she imagined every one of those couplings, and her blood heated in anticipation. Even she, who frequented gaming hells, blushed scarlet.
“Shall I take you to bed now?” He nipped her earlobe, and Sophie managed a nod. Yes, yes, yes.
It took a few minutes to tug their clothing back into some sort of order. The duke—Jack—put his jacket around her shoulders to hide her disheveled dress and undergarments. He tossed his shirt over his head, buttoned his trousers, and put his waistcoat and cravat over one shoulder. He looked rakish and devil-may-care, more beautiful than any man had a right to look, but it was the way he took her hand that made Sophie’s heart give an off-kilter thump. His fingers, so much larger than hers, laced perfectly with her own. Stopping only to pick up the half-full champagne bottle, he led her out of the library.
She braced herself for any servants they might meet, but blessedly the corridors were deserted. Jack stopped at a door very near her own and threw it open to reveal a luxurious chamber.
“Why, they put me right near you!” she whispered in astonishment.
His blue-gray gaze slid over her as he closed the door behind them. “Yes. You have the duchess’s chamber.”
Sophie put her hands on her burning cheeks. “They must have assumed, when we turned up late at night, that we were lovers . . .”
“Given that I wished it were so even then, I had no complaint.” His eyes gleamed. “Take off the jacket.” She let it fall to the floor. “And now the dress.” Deliberately slow, she slid loose the one button holding her dress closed at her back. The fabric slithered down her body, and she stepped out of it. “Everything else,” he said, his voice gone rough and low again.
She took a step backward, winding the string of her corset around one finger. “Isn’t that your role?”
He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. “Yes. By God, it is.”
Chapter 13
Jack woke with sunlight in his face and a blissful warmth in his muscles. Both were unusual. Normally he woke at dawn, his mind unable to sleep longer under the weight of his daily responsibilities. Normally his valet would be in the room by now, brushing his clothing and heating water for his shave, because a duke could not lie abed all morning. Normally he didn’t awake with such a feeling of utter relaxation, but today . . .
A slight movement beside him brought everything back. Barely breathing, he turned his head. Sophie lay beside him, curled on one side with her mahogany hair covering her bare shoulder. Her eyelashes were dark against her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted. She was so beautiful he wanted to stop time and just watch her.
Making love to her had been electric, the sort of lovemaking that would make a man embrace whatever madness was necessary to maintain it. She met him boldly, unafraid to tell him what she liked, and her gasps and moans had acted like kindling on the burning hunger inside him. It had ruined any thought he had of being able to walk away from her. If she’d only been desirable, he could have; if she’d only been after his title or his wealth, he would have. But she didn’t seem to care about any of that. She made him feel like a man, not a duke, and she made him climax so hard he saw stars in the aftermath.
He caught a stray lock of her hair in his fingertips. Thank God for Philip and his intemperate gambling. Thank God his mother had wept and scolded until he agreed to go to the Vega Club. He could almost thank God that his brother had badgered Sophie into gambling with him once more, because otherwise Jack never would have met her. And now he never wanted to let her go.
But the incontrovertible truth was that their idyll was almost over. The sun streaming through the gap in the drapes meant the rain had definitely stopped. The carriage was repaired, and the roads would be firm enough for travel. It was time to go back to London.
For a moment Jack let his mind wander freely down that path. What then? He wanted to see Sophie again. He wanted to dine with her, laugh with her and make love to her again. Surely they could manage that in London, with some discretion . . .
Although. In London there were a thousand prying eyes spying on everything everyone did. In London Percy would be waiting, with all the work of the dukedom. In London he would have to deal with Philip, and with his mother. The duchess would vehemently disapprove of his liaison with a woman like Sophie, but Philip would be apoplectic.
Jack let her curl slip through his fingers and fall back to the pillow. He’d spent the night in bed with the woman his brother wanted. Even though Sophie had assured him all along that she didn’t return Philip’s interest, that would matter little to his brother. She was right: they had once been close, back when Philip could revel in being their mother’s favorite and gleefully escape the requirements of being the heir. The dukedom had become a wedge between them, not because Philip wanted it but because he resented what it conferred on Jack. He would view this affair as another exercise of influence and power.
While Jack had no hesitation admitting that it had begun that way, it had become something very different. He had meant to teach Philip a lesson, but not by coldly seducing Sophie. He might have thought about it during that fateful round of hazard—imagined her in his bed, her hair down and her face flushed as he woke her by making long, slow love to her . . . Yes, he had imagined all that, but never as a means of revenge on Philip.
Only because he wanted it for himself.
He watched her sleep, his heart pounding. What he felt for her didn’t have one damn thing to do with Philip, and everything to do with his own desires.
But now . . . The rain had stopped. There was no more excuse to keep her to himself in Chiswick. What awaited her in town? Who awaited her in town? The memory of the other fellow lurking behind her at Vega’s stabbed at his mind; a suitor? A hopeful lover? A deep scowl settled on his face. He had no right to ask, but bloody hell, he wondered.
“Sophie,” he murmured, shaking off the thought. If he made her forget every other man in London, it wouldn’t matter who that man was. He bent and pressed his lips to that bare bit of shoulder. “Wake up, darling.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile of pure joy bloomed on her face. He kissed her, clinging to that joy for another few heartbeats.
When he lifted his head, it ended. Her gaze veered to the brightly lit windows, then back to him. “The roads will be drying out.”
“Perhaps,” said Jack with a noncommittal shrug.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then pushed herself upright in bed. “I suppose we should talk, if we’re returning to London—”
“Why?” He raised her hand, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist. “I don’t want to speak of it now.”
“I don’t, either, but—”
He kissed her again, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say. Her arms went around his neck, which was all the encouragement he needed. He bore her back down into the mattress, pulling the linens away until he could hold her flush against him. Then he rolled over, taking her with him, so she sprawled atop him.
She pushed up on straight arms, as if to rise, but he cupped her hips in both hands and urged her against him. “It’s not time to dress yet,” he whispered.
“I thought you rose with the sun to attend to a thousand duties,” she replied, but with a slow smile that made his blood surge in anticipation.
“As it happens”—he raised one knee, separating her legs until she straddled him, her feminine center hot and wet against his erection—“I did indeed rise, but I would not call making love to you a duty.”
Her eyes widened for a moment as he continued rocking his hips. She slid one hand down his chest until she took him in her grasp. “If not a duty, then what?”
“The best part of my bloody day,” he growled. “Ride me, Sophie.”
She
blushed. “Like this?” She sat back on her heels and put both hands around his member.
Jack inhaled until he felt faint. Her hands were firm and warm, and he felt the incipient flush of climax. He was about to come in her hands, which was not what he wanted. He held his breath until the feeling receded and then opened his eyes.
Her hair fell around her bare breasts and shoulders, as if he’d caught a nymph of old in his bed. Her sherry eyes glowed with desire, but there was something else—something hesitant—
“You’ve never done it this way?” He didn’t even need to see the color in her face to know he’d guessed rightly. He rolled up onto his elbows. “It’s much the same,” he said thickly, “as the other way. Spread your knees—wider—take me—guide me—” His voice choked off as she followed his directions, rubbing his head against her cleft in search of the right position. He couldn’t stop his hips from jerking on instinct, pushing in an inch.
Sophie went still for a moment. Slowly she sank down, taking him deep inside her. Jack’s breath rasped in his chest. “Like this?” She pushed herself up and then slid down again, and his eyes burned as he watched their bodies join.
By God’s bloody eyes, he couldn’t let her go. Philip could go to the devil. Jack wanted this woman like he wanted his next breath.
He fell back into the pillows so he could put his hands on her breasts, her belly, her shoulders, her face. He would never get enough of touching her. She pressed into his hands, her hips moving against his at her own pace. He didn’t want to rush her, he didn’t—but he was boiling in his own skin, unable to hold it back much longer. He brushed aside the dark curls between her legs and touched her.
“Come with me,” he rasped. He gripped a handful of bed linens, his muscle shaking as he tried to hold back his release.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Jack.” Her spine flexed, her breath caught, and he felt her body close around his with a powerful pull. Just the sight of her rapturous expression would have been enough to send him over the edge, but her climax felt like an explosion that reverberated through him. He threw back his head and shouted in release, his fingers digging into her hips to hold their bodies as tightly connected as possible.
My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1) Page 14