Duchess Decadence

by Wendy Lacapra

  He kissed her forehead and rose from the chaise. “Modesty must be preserved.” He closed the lower shutters, window by window, his movements graceful and deliberate.

  “Better?” Again, he towered above, with a hungry smile dancing on his lips.

  She put one arm behind her head. “So many layers. You must be terribly hot.”

  He removed his neck cloth and, very slowly undid the buttons of his waist coat

  “Over-warm still, I am sure,” she whispered.

  He shrugged out of the waistcoat. The muscles of his stomach rippled as he drew his shirt up over his head.

  “An eye,” he said, “for an eye and a shirt for a…”

  “Bodice?” She supplied.

  “Bodice and stays.”

  She wet her lips. “Very well.”

  She wrapped her arms behind and undid the string at the base of her bodice. He helped her loosen the crisscross ties that traveled tightly up her back. She pulled off the garments and let them drop to the side, thankful she had dressed simply due to her plan to rummage through the attics.

  Her shift hung loosely from her shoulders and his gaze was fixed to nipples clearly visible through her shift. In a visual caress of her own, her eyes followed the broad expanse of hair as it tapered from chest downward to where it disappeared behind the buttons at his waist. She itched to open his falls.

  “Your skirts,” he observed, “appear cumbersome and hot.”

  “Indeed they are.” Hotter now that the warmth of the sun mingled with the heat radiating from her core. She stood, undid the ties, and let the fabric pool at her feet.

  “And now I am down to my half-sleeve shift, with nothing but my stockings to bargain.”

  “Ask me,” he said, “to misbehave.”

  She tisked. “Forfeit first.”

  “Breeches?” he asked.

  Her lashes drooped, but her eyes held his. “Breeches and smalls.”

  He moved forward—his pulsing hot mass crowding her, stealing her breath. She dared not argue fairness as he pulled the shift over her head.

  “A-hem,” she said, eyeing his breeches.

  “A forfeit is paid after one misbehaves.”

  She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I thought we were well beyond misbehaving.”

  “Lie down,” he said in a voice that assured she did. He wet his fingers in the ice water and examined her naked flesh as if she were a chess board and he was choosing his move. “Ice chip, finger, or lips?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He used his legs to pin her arms against her sides. “I will.”

  “Why?” she asked, a little frightened and a great deal aflame.

  “The pleasure of contrasts.” He ran his icy finger down the column of her throat.

  She gasped.

  “See?” He wet his fingers in the bowl and touched her perked nipple.

  She moaned. He closed his hot mouth over her breast and swirled his tongue until she arched.

  He sat upright once again. “Not so bad, is it, darling?”

  Through heavy breath, she shook her head no.

  “Pretty little minx,” he said, tracing his finger down her body. Underneath his falls, his excitement was plain to see.

  “Misbehave,” she sighed. “Please.”

  “For you?”

  She nodded. “For me.”

  The water sloshed again and she tightened in anticipation. He held the chip aloft above her breast. The ice melted against his heat, pooling on his palm and then falling, cold as winter rain, against her nipple. Each drop sent rivers of pain-like pleasure through her arching spine.

  His explorations trailed over her exposed skin, until she was wet and cold in the places he’d touched and dry and pleading-hot in the places he had yet to find. Just as he desired, she moaned and squirmed and whimpered and wailed.

  “I can’t,” she cried out while he teased her breast, not even sure what she was denying.

  “You can,” he said, eyes dark and hot and deep, “and you will.”

  “Wicked!” She gasped. “I never thought…I did not know…”

  He placed what little remained of the chip between her hips and trapped her body underneath his muscle. His heat burned every inch of her skin but the ice-chilled patch at her stomach. He claimed her trembling lips in a possessive kiss. The forgotten chip seeped away to wet nothingness at her groin. Cold water trickled between her legs.

  “Cold,” she yelped.

  “Forfeit.” He rose, holding her eyes as he released the button at his waist and undid his falls. “One pair of breeches. One pair of smalls.” He loosened his smalls as he worked, drawing them off—breeches, smalls, and stockings together, leg by lovely, muscled leg.

  She reached down to loosen her garter.

  “I’d like,” his hand stilled hers, “you to keep them on.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Contrasts.” He ran his finger just above her stocking. “Pale skin. Black ties. White stockings.”

  Lunatics, she supposed, should be humored. Especially skilled lunatics with burning-bark eyes and a jutting cock. Her insides liquefied.

  “You look ready,” she licked her lips, “to fuck.”

  His cock answered, sending a visible shudder up his spine.

  “Fuck,” he repeated. He parted her legs and came to his knees between them—a sight she’d imagined in the darkness of their chamber. The reality exceeded the depraved depths of her dreams. “My duchess says I am ready to fuck.”

  “No. You look ready to fuck.” Sophia had been right—fuck was a manly, hard, and utterly marvelous word. “Would you prefer I said couple?”

  “I would prefer,” he answered, “your lips be otherwise occupied.”

  “Around your cock?” she asked lightly.

  “St. Swithin,” he cursed. “Dare I ask?”

  She grinned. “Furies.”

  “Enlighten me later.” More like a growl.

  “And now?”

  “Now, little minx, we fuck, copulate, frig, couple—however you damn well please to say it.”

  Her inner legs responded with a wet, pleading shiver.

  “Can we?”

  He sat back on his haunches while her stockinged legs splayed inelegantly on either side of his knees. Contrasts were fascinating. Contrasts like her pale skin against the dark hair covering his muscled thighs. Contrasts like the way she felt inside, soft and open, against his hard and ready cock.

  “Watch me.”

  He nestled his shaft between her folds. With wetness, her body supplied a please and he answered with a teasing, external stroke designed to excite rather than to soothe.

  She planted her feet by his thighs and arched, trapping his cock against his stomach. Deliberately, she gave him an external stroke of her own.

  “Quick study,” he said hoarsely, as he caught her beneath her thighs.

  “Is this the only way to fuck?”

  “No.” He eased her back down, “And no more questions.”

  He silenced her mumbles with a punishing kiss. She smiled against his lips, happy to be devoured. He pulled back, breathing heavy. Perspiration wet the hair at his temples as a flush traveled up his neck. He lifted her waist until she lay, half-sitting against the chaise longue’s raised arm.

  He cupped her face, studying her as if he had never seen her before—as if she were some exotic being who would disappear if he let her go. Again and again his thumbs caressed her cheeks. She parted her lips, inviting. She could do no less. She was ready for him, for her husband. Ready, not just for pleasure, but to finally be one again.

  “Tell me you want me.” His voice was raw.

  “I want you,” she answered.

  “None other?”

  “Never,” she sighed.

  She wanted to hold his gaze as he pushed inside her body. She wanted to watch as naked satisfaction drained his ducal reserve. She wanted to, but she could not.

  She could not because, when they
joined, everything unyielding in her heart went soft and supple. She had to close her eyes against his knowing gaze, against the body she had missed for too long.

  “Thea Marie,” he said, “my darling duchess.”

  Never had her name sounded so delicious.

  He moved within her, planting hungry kisses along her brow.

  “Wynchester,” she breathed. Haddon. Duke. Wyn. This fullness, she remembered, this beautiful, aching need. She clutched his hips to keep him close but—damn the blank recesses of her mind—she could not remember his Christian name.

  “Darling,” he panted. His hand found her nipple and his mouth soon followed. Too full, too stretched, too needful. She wound her fingers in his hair, then over his shoulders and again to his flexing, driving muscles.

  “Your Grace.” She clenched her muscles in response, tracing the place beneath his manhood and delighting in his savage response.

  The sound he made she absorbed into her bones.

  She loved her duke. The one who wept and raged and rode into riots. The one who ordered and pled and stroked her wet folds in the light and the dark. The one who held her as she slept and had brought her out to a secluded folly to have his wicked way with an ice chip and a roguish grin.

  He stilled. She listened for his cry of release.

  …

  Almost there, instinct commanded. Wynchester buried his full length inside of her, knowing he wanted more than a spine-stiffening, heart-pounding release, more than just the physical. He tensed his neck and held his breath. Two more, maybe three, thrusts and he would finish.

  He would finish but he would not be complete.

  When he came—and he would—he wanted her legs to be quivering against his thighs, he wanted her instinctive and open and fettered only by his weight. He’d held her weak and trembling body in his arms once before and he’d drive her there again, if only because it had been then and only then he’d felt the vast and hallowed nature of erotic union.

  “Open your eyes.” His voice resonated in his chest.

  She did. Her gaze was wide and steady, the deep blue sea engulfed. With slow deliberation, he moved within her once again. She sighed and her lids fluttered closed.

  With a flex of his jaw, he stopped. “Look down, Thea Marie.” Open eyes churning with feeling. “Look down and see us joined.”

  She dropped her gaze to his cock. He withdrew, almost in full, cupped his base, and—with suffering leisure—proved just how consummately they fit. Her breath hitched as he brushed her folds with his thumb. She parted her lips with exquisite abandon.

  “So slick and wet and tight.” He thrust again.

  There. Her whimper traveled like heat through his blood. He massaged her amor Veneris, leaning down with calculated slowness to kiss her breasts then her neck. She arched, pressing her breasts against his chest.

  He held her jaw and pressed his thumb to her lower lip. “What do you want, Thea Marie?”

  “You.”

  “You have me.” He thrust—mindless and mindful at once.

  She clenched around him, conscious encouragement. “Fuck me, Wyn”

  He groaned and thrust again, touching her breast and forcing a whimper when he was fully sheathed.

  “Wyn.” A tremor ran through her body. Her voice edged up, “Ah, Wyn.”

  “That’s it,” he crooned through clenched teeth. “Say my name and come.”

  If he let go now, he’d ricochet down the raw edge of lunacy, so he urged her on, his own need tightening like a drawn bow with each building command. She responded with abandoned trust, losing rule of the legs she had wrapped around his body,

  He closed his eyes as she broke into shivers. He no longer cared what she cried, he only cared she was crying in shattered, euphoric whispers and clinging to him as if he were all that mattered.

  He plunged into a tunnel of heat and welcome intoxication, driving into her until he was no longer master. He released with a force that destroyed his last resistance, letting her draw life from his core.

  Chapter Twelve

  He withdrew solely because his body demanded repose. Wary of his weight, he clasped her tight, and rolled them both onto his back. One arm wrapped around her waist and the other held her head to his chest. Their breath breached the silence.

  He was dizzy with sentiment—whirling. After years—years—of wondering if, how and when he would ever bed his wife again, Thea Marie—darling little minx—was his. His in a way she had never been.

  He stroked her hair. Had he been afraid of insatiable? Many a rake would give his last banknote to experience a lover’s pleasure so artless and genuine. Trust. She’d given her body to him with trust. A trust he had not known he’d been waiting for, possibly since the moment their hands had first touched.

  He searched for words to describe light-headed awe. Hell! Even one word would do.

  Love? A heartbeat of silence followed a sudden awareness of a potential precipitous fall. Love. His chest knotted like wind-tossed rigging. It was love, was it not? Love—reason to keep edging along a dangerous cliff. Love. His tongue touched the roof of his mouth. His teeth grazed his bottom lip. His mouth formed the word without breath, but the consonants mangled at the back of his throat.

  Her ear was pressed to his heart, her face pointed toward the shuttered window. He rubbed the back of her neck. She patted his chest.

  “I understand,” she said.

  She understood, did she? Likely not, in this case, but true in the broader sense. That had always been the trouble, hadn’t it? She understood. She had always understood. She’d understood when he’d wanted to keep his secrets sacrosanct. She’d understood his fluid center while he’d been attempting to prove to the world he was iron and force.

  She lifted her face, fisted her hand over his heart, and rested her chin in her hand.

  “I understand,” she said with sleepy eyes. “But I am hungry.” She yawned. “You did promise me nuncheon.”

  He blinked, stunned by insouciant lightness, such a contrast to the overwhelming nature of his thoughts. She glanced away, but in that swift second he’d caught the shine in her eye, and recognized her indifferent screen for what it was—protection against vulnerability.

  She sat up slowly and stretched. For the first time ever, he longed for the gift of art. If he could wield graphite with ease, he’d sketch her in just that way—arms out, breasts exposed, and hair tumbling down over her shoulder, He’d carry her likeness in his waistcoat pocket. Every single day.

  “Very well, dear duke,” she sighed. “You lie there stoking your pride. I’ll retrieve the cheese.”

  He snorted, a mixed laugh of disbelief and affection. “Feed me,” he said, adopting her light tone, “now that is a capital idea.”

  “Perhaps I will,” she said with a Gallic shrug, “if you are very good.”

  “If the noises you made were any indication,” he grinned, “I was very, very good.”

  She sent him a sideways, warning look. “A duke tells himself what he wishes.”

  “Your body does not lie.”

  “Oh?” She pursed haughty lips. “Yours lies,” she swatted his leg, “abed, anyway.”

  “A-chaise,” he corrected with mock seriousness. “And ouch.”

  She disappeared from view, leaning down to retrieve the cheese. Sunlight streamed over the shutters casting rays of light akin to the celestial beams in medieval paintings. In the distance, sheep bayed. Closer still, an easy breeze rustled leaves on forest trees. Home. He sighed in satisfaction. Was there greater gratification than sharing an idle afternoon with one’s wife? If there was, he did not know it.

  She sat back up. With a mischievous smile, she deposited a cold plate on his stomach. That brought him to seating quick enough. She giggled. He caught her by the neck and stole a kiss. A kiss that quickly turned deep and possessive.

  “Minx,” he breathed.

  “Clodpate.”

  “Consummate clodpate.” He settled back against th
e chaise’s arm. “The biggest clodpate that ever existed.”

  She picked up a slice of cheese, leaned forward, and held it aloft before his lips. “Open up, consummate clodpate.”

  He did. The cheese tasted smooth and tart on his tongue. She fed herself and then offered him another. He opened his mouth and, as she placed the slice inside, he grabbed her wrist. Once he’d swallowed, he leisurely licked her fingers, holding her eyes with burning intent.

  “You are wicked,” she whispered. “Aren’t you?”

  “I am,” he replied, “and I am yours.”

  “Aren’t I lucky?”

  He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I’ve often heard tell you were.”

  “Duchess Decadence,” she said, “has quite a reputation.”

  “Everyone may know you are lucky,” he glanced up with a wolfish smile, “but only I know you are lewd.”

  She blushed and her lids fluttered down. “I was vulgar, wasn’t I?”

  “I am not,” he continued to trail kisses down the inside of her arm, “complaining.”

  “I fall far short of the perfect duchess your mother desired.”

  He tucked her arm into her lap and picked up a slice of cheese. “You are a duchess just right for me.”

  The words had slid out, smooth as silk—his surprise was equally reflected in his duchess’s startled expression. He’d spoken of sentiment, at least in some small way, and his words had not caught.

  “Open,” he mirrored her posture, holding the cheese for her to eat, “and then chew.”

  She did. She closed her eyes, expression slackening with obvious enjoyment.

  Mmmm. Her mouth. Her fascinating, perfect mouth. “Swallow.”

  She responded.

  He dabbed the corners of her lips with a napkin. “Very good.”

  “Is His Grace pleased?”

  “You are astonishingly accommodating after orgasm.”

  She raised a brow. “It behooves you to keep me pleasured, then, does it not?”

  He chuckled. “I am certainly willing to try.”

  She propped herself on a stiff arm, displaying her breasts to advantage, and said in a scolding voice, “Despite clear warning from a man of, I surmise, exaggerated self-importance, you introduced your wife to passion and rendered her insatiable.”