She closed her eyes for a moment and drew the chemise up, up over that spot, to her waist. Pausing there as she opened her eyes to see him drawing his shirt over his head, revealing his (as she knew it would be) splendid chest.
Now her whole body felt as though it were ablaze, and wanting, and she knew very well what she wanted—a cessation of this ache that seemed to be centered there, at her core.
She glanced down to that spot on him, feeling her eyes widen at seeing just how his trousers were tented out from his erection. And her mouth got dry at thinking what it would be like to see him, to touch him.
“Hurry up,” he said in a rasp. He jerked his head toward her waist. “Get that thing off or I’ll tear it off.”
At some point—not now, she had far too few brain cells to spare on the question—she would ask herself why hearing him say those things made her even more excited.
And then she would ask him to talk that way some more.
She licked her lips and brought the chemise up over her head, tossing it to the floor as he had done his clothing.
And now she was entirely naked. She panicked for a moment, aghast at herself, but then he knelt down on the rug in front of her and placed his hands on her knees—those same shaky ones—and then drew them up so his palms were at the crease of her leg, and his thumbs—well, his thumbs were nestled in the curls of her sex.
He glanced up, a knowing, confident smile on his face. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
It was on the tip of her tongue to argue with him, because she’d never thought of that particular area as having beauty or not, but then he did something that made her completely speechless.
He leaned forward and kissed her there, his hands holding her in place, drawing her legs apart so he could reach everywhere.
Which he did. He licked her, drawing his tongue down through the folds of her sex, finding a spot that made her jump, only she couldn’t because he was holding her firmly in place.
He kept licking and kissing her there, teasing her with his tongue, making her feel as though every single thought she’d ever had had flown out of her head, all her focus on there, where he was—where he was sucking and licking her.
She heard a moan, and knew it was she. And felt her knees get shaky all over again, but knew that he wouldn’t let her fall, no matter what happened.
And it seemed as though something were happening—it felt as though there was a gathering storm whirling inside her, focused on that spot, right where his tongue was, so blissful and yet so urgent she didn’t know what to think.
Until—“Oh my,” she said as the first wave of pleasure hit her, spiraling through her body, every bit of her immersed in the feeling, the waves continuing to roll through her body until she felt as though this was all she’d ever felt.
When it finally stopped she looked down at him; he was regarding her with a very satisfied look of masculine pride.
“That was—that was—” she stammered, and he smiled even more. His mouth was moist, from her, from there, and if she were in the least bit embarrassed, that would make her turn scarlet, only she wasn’t. There was no room in her head for embarrassment; it was completely filled with what he had done, how she felt, and—well, that was about it.
He stood and gathered her in his arms, her skin against his chest, the hairs tickling her. That meant, too, that his erection pressed against her waist, and she felt herself start to blush as she thought about what might happen next. What she thought might happen next, although since she had had no idea that what he’d just done was possible, maybe other things were possible she’d never even imagined?
And here she thought she had a fairly vivid imagination. Now she couldn’t wait to discover what she hadn’t known about before.
Lasham tried to steady himself as he held her, still shaking, but it was difficult to concentrate when she was so very naked and he was so very aroused.
He was also, if he were to admit it, rather impressed with himself for what he’d just done. If he could figure out how to thank Jamie without complete embarrassment, he would.
But he didn’t have time to swell with pride—so to speak—because she began to unbutton the fall of his trousers, her eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
He couldn’t help but let out a groan as her hand brushed his cock.
She looked up at him with a look of concern. Which was ludicrous, given that she was entirely naked, he had just brought her to climax, and they were still standing. Why were they still standing? That he could do something about.
“Let’s lie down,” he said, pushing her gently toward the sofa.
“Oh, you mean . . . ? Oh yes, of course,” she said, going to lie on the sofa. She turned on her side and beckoned for him. Or, more specifically, beckoned to his trousers. “You really have to get those off, that looks painful,” she said, an amused tone in her voice.
If it weren’t so actually painful he’d have laughed. But she was right. It was.
He undid the rest of the buttons and yanked his trousers down his legs, now standing only in his smallclothes.
It felt exceedingly odd to be so unclothed in front of her. Although he’d already come close to baring his soul, hadn’t he? These were just the trappings of the body, not what was really important.
Even though it seemed as though this were the most important thing right now, at least according to some of his body parts.
She patted the sofa, grinning at him. “I am enjoying this, you know.”
He snorted. “I should hope so, given what I just did.”
She arched a brow. “Oh, aren’t you cocky,” she said with an emphasis on the last word. He couldn’t help but groan.
“Did I ever say you were good with words?” he asked as he lay down beside her. “Because I rescind that compliment. That was terrible.”
She snickered. “I know, and that is why I said it to you. So you wouldn’t feel so bad about not being as good with words as you might want to be. Not that I’ve had any complaints,” she added, in a serious tone. “You don’t give yourself enough credit for saying what you do say, or what you don’t say. Too many people just talk and talk and ta—”
At which point he had to stop her mouth with his, wrapping his big hand around her waist, pulling her to him so nearly every surface of skin was touching hers. And it still wasn’t enough.
She kissed him eagerly, the hand that was pinned underneath her body coming up to reach behind his neck, the other hand on his waist.
Still not enough.
He let go of her enough to take her hand and put it on him, right on his cock. “Now who’s cocky?” he murmured as he squeezed her hand to show her what he wanted.
“It’s still you,” she said, but he didn’t—couldn’t—say anything in reply because she had slid her hand into his smallclothes and was grasping him, sliding her palm up and down the shaft, from the base to the tip.
It took a bit of fumbling for him to convey to her just what felt right, but eventually she found a rhythm, working her hand up and down, until it felt as though he were going to explode.
Which of course he was.
He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her, the womanly warmth of her skin, feeling how her breasts pressed against his chest. His hand was on her waist, then slid down her hip to her arse, which he ran his palm over, relishing the soft curves. He slid his hand down farther, between her legs, picking up her thigh and placing it over his leg so they were entwined, her hand still between them, still working his shaft.
It felt so perfect, and he didn’t want it to ever end, only of course he did, because then it would mean he’d had an orgasm at her hands, and he’d never wanted anything so much in his entire life.
He felt it building, and building, the softness of her skin seeming to permeate his entire being, her hand and what she was doing with it the only thing he could focus on until—“Aagh,” he said as he climaxed, spilling his seed into her hand. His cock p
ulsed, and he shook, dropping his forehead to her chest, wrapping her leg more fully around him.
“Are you all right?” she asked after a few moments.
Of course, she likely—at least he hoped she hadn’t—had never experienced this firsthand, so to speak.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m wonderful.”
She wiped her hand on his smallclothes, chuckling, then ran her hand on his abdomen. “You are, aren’t you,” she said in a husky voice.
He kissed her collarbone in reply, then took a deep breath.
“I suppose we ought to consider getting married,” he said at last.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“Georgie!” Her sisters burst out from their cottage, shrieking, nearly tumbling over one another to reach her.
And stopped short when they saw him. Because while Georgiana had come home with many things, usually water or some sort of foodstuff, she had never arrived home with a man.
Much less a barely clothed man.
“Georgie, is that you?”
Georgiana suppressed a groan at hearing her father’s voice from inside. In only a few moments he would come out as well, and see what she had done. Only what had she done?
He walked out¸ shielding his eyes from the sun. “Well, girl, and what—?” His mouth dropped open.
“It’s not what it looks like, Father,” she said hurriedly, trying to ignore her sisters’ equally agape mouths.
“What is it, then?” he asked, in a mild tone.
“It’s much, much worse,” she replied.
Chapter 27
She felt as though there were nothing else she wanted, not now, perhaps not ever.
Only—“What did you just say?”
She jerked away from him, which was near impossible, given that he was already pressed in against her on the sofa, which hadn’t been designed to fit two people, at least not one of whom was he, with all his largeness.
“Married.” He was still speaking somewhere in the vicinity of her neck, but she knew she’d heard him clearly enough.
“Why?”
That seemed to snap him out of his post-whatever stupor, since he jerked back as well, nearly falling off the sofa, only clinging on because her leg tightened instinctively around him as he began to move.
“Because of this,” he said, gesticulating toward their nakedness.
Her heart fluttered, but didn’t quite sink. Not yet.
“And besides, it seems as though it’d be good for both of us. I know we spoke about not doing that, but now that this has happened, shouldn’t we?”
Now her heart sank. Because all of a sudden he’d returned to being the most Staid Proper Duke she’d ever met, eye patch or not, and that meant that if she married him—which she very much would not—he would try to curtail her in some way, even if he promised that he wouldn’t, and she’d be on display like all the other Society ladies who were too afraid to even approach the card tables.
“No.”
She spoke quietly, but firmly. Not letting on that he had both raised her hopes and dashed them within minutes of each other.
“No?” His hand tightened where it held her to him.
“No,” she repeated, pulling his fingers off her skin. “I won’t marry you just because it seems like a good idea now that you’ve done—that, and I’ve done—this, and we’ve . . .”
“That’s not the entire reason why. We both like art.”
She shoved him so he did fall off the sofa then, landing on the rug with a soft thump. She would have laughed at how comical he looked if her heart wasn’t busy breaking.
She scooted over to the edge and peered over at him. He looked slightly dazed and, she was loath to admit, remarkably dashing, even though he didn’t have a shirt on and he was only in his smallclothes.
Perhaps because of that.
“We both like art?” she said in an outraged tone of voice. Because if she allowed herself to really feel she would end up crying, and there was no way she wanted him to see her like that. Not when he’d just made the most pathetic marriage proposal after the most amazing moment.
It just wasn’t fair.
He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, looking confused. “Well, yes. And I could help you in aiding those women, and you could put my money to good use, and we would have plenty to discuss.”
Never mind. The first part wasn’t the worst marriage proposal ever. This further explanation of what their married life would be like was.
She leaned over to the floor to gather her chemise, putting it on with trembling hands. His expression was—perplexed. As though he wasn’t quite sure what was happening.
That made both of them.
She stood, shaking the chemise down so it covered her, at least, even though she was still entirely, shockingly undressed for being alone with an unmarried gentleman.
But even if all of Society burst in on them, she would not marry him. How did he not know that already?
“Where is my gown?” she asked. “You took it off, and now I don’t know where it is.” She couldn’t speak to him any longer about this marriage thing, not without losing her temper, not without crying, not without telling him she loved him, of all things.
Not without any of that, and so she just had to get dressed and get home without saying anything on her mind.
“So—you don’t wish to get married?” His voice sounded strained.
Good. She hoped he was feeling just an iota of all the pain she was. It was a terrible thought, but there it was.
“No, I don’t wish to.” She found her gown and stepped into it, then twisted her arms in back of herself to try to do up the buttons.
An impossible task.
“Here, let me,” he said, getting up and going behind her. Still mostly naked, still warm, and solid, and everything she found desirable, except for how he felt about her.
“Why would you say such a thing?” she asked, at last. Say, not ask; he hadn’t asked her to marry him, he’d just said he supposed they should get married. Not the same thing at all.
She felt him shrug as he continued her buttons. “I—I don’t know,” he replied, and he sounded stiff, and distant, and everything she’d thought he was when she first met him.
“Oh.”
Silence as he finished.
“There you are.” He patted her shoulder, awkwardly, and she resisted the urge to—well, she didn’t know if she wanted to hit him or—no, she just wanted to hit him.
She definitely did not want to marry him.
She gathered herself and then turned to face him. Damn it, he hadn’t put on a shirt or anything, and he was so gloriously handsome and just what she wanted that she was tempted to just forget all her worries, and scruples, and trepidation and say, Yes, yes, I will marry you, you terribly unromantic person who isn’t at all in love with me.
Only she didn’t.
“I don’t even know how you lost your eye.” She blurted it out, surprised even to hear herself say it. She hadn’t realized she’d been thinking it until she spoke.
“My eye?” He sounded alarmed.
“Yes.” She drew her hand up to his face and he flinched. Flinched! She snatched it away, feeling the color rush to her face. If she couldn’t even touch him there, couldn’t ask him, what was the point?
Perhaps you shouldn’t have let him touch you there, a voice whispered inside her head.
Now you tell me, she whispered back.
“I—it’s not important,” he replied, of course stiffly, then turned to his left so his eye patch was no longer in view.
“Really?” She planted her hands on her hips. “It’s not important that of the two eyes you were born with you only have one remaining?” She felt the sting all the way through her body. Similar to how he’d made her feel just a few minutes ago, only this time it wasn’t pleasure she was experiencing.
He grimaced, and she felt her heart sink.
“
Please call your carriage. I wish to go home.”
He nodded, frowned, and picked his clothing up from the floor, pulling the bell at the same time. Margaret heard feet scurrying just as he was doing up the buttons on his trousers.
At least he was a speedy dresser, even if he had disappointed her in every other way.
“Your Grace?” the butler opened the door and stepped inside, clearly not looking at Margaret.
Of course, because she was there, and it was shocking, and he was a perfect servant.
“Call the carriage.”
“I will just go wait in the hallway,” Margaret said, plucking her cloak up from the chair she’d tossed it onto. Back when she thought she was in love with him, back before she’d gotten undressed, achieved ecstasy, and then had her heart dashed onto the ground.
The butler nodded, then left the room, leaving them alone.
“Margaret,” he began, speaking in a pleading voice. What could he possibly have to say? Unless it was to further grind her heart into pieces?
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, walking to the door as quickly as she could. She could not stand to be there one more minute.
“Good evening, my lady.”
She was shaking as she shut the door.
How had it gone so horribly wrong? Lasham reviewed the events of the past few days, from accompanying her to confront those ruffians, his admiration and concern for her warring with one another, the argument on the drive home, the visit to the gardens, the party, then when she arrived at his house, took tea, and then he’d—they’d—well, that part was wonderful.
And then he’d said what was on his mind, just spoke it aloud, and it was as though it were the worst possible thing he could have said, and it made him feel as awkward and lonely as he’d ever felt.
Was this it, then? Was he doomed to forever be alone, simply because his words weren’t right?
He winced as he recalled what he’d said—I suppose we ought to consider getting married. Not even a proposal, just a tentative suggestion that didn’t speak of anything but propriety.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 23