“No words?” His voice was rough, low, and sent a shiver through her.
“Not unless you want me to stop.” She bit her lip, feeling as though she were on a precipice, about to fling herself off it, and having that moment of hesitation, only determined to still do it.
Do it. Yes, that.
“Then I won’t speak,” he replied, his words redolent with all sorts of meaning she understood perfectly.
She moved closer and brought her hands up to his cravat, beginning to undo the folds. It was a complicated knot, and she huffed out a breath in frustration as it didn’t come undone right away, but swatted his hand away when he would have helped. “I am showing you, I do not want your help.”
One eyebrow rose. “At least not until later, I assume,” he said in a smoky tone of voice. Oh, if only he could just say things like that to her all the time, she might never leave this room. Their room.
She got the cravat undone, then drew it from around his neck and placed the fabric on the back of the sofa, leaning in to his neck as she did so.
She let her mouth hover over his neck, then pressed her lips against the column of his throat, feeling his body react. “You can do whatever you want,” she murmured. “Just don’t say anything.”
He immediately placed his arms around her, pulling her to him, his mouth finding hers and claiming it in a kiss that spoke volumes.
There were worse ways to communicate, she thought, as his tongue licked and sucked, his teeth nibbling on her lower lip, his hands holding her against his body so tightly, so strongly, it made her feel as though she were a cherished possession.
But he wasn’t holding her as though she were precious, or breakable; he was holding her as though he knew she could get away, if she wanted to, but he really did not want her to. As though he wanted to do whatever he wished, and at the moment, she knew he could. Because it would be what she wished as well.
Her nipples tightened, and her breasts felt heavy, straining against the layers of fabric she wore. She needed to feel his skin on hers, and she couldn’t tell him to take everything off—no talking—so she would have to take matters into her own hand.
So to speak.
She broke the kiss, both of them gasping, and she slid her hands under his coat, pushing it off his broad shoulders and helping tug it off his arms. When it was free of his body, she tossed it on the floor, figuring dukes would have legions of servants to deal with it later.
Then she went to work on the buttons of his shirt, feeling his gaze intent upon her face. She made the mistake of glancing up into his eye for a moment, and her breath caught.
If only he had been able to say some of what she saw on his face now, they would already have done this, and plighted their respective troths to each other, and been on their way to figuring out how to live with each other without compromise.
She had to look away, return to focusing on his shirt, because she didn’t want his staff to find them, hours later, still gazing into each other’s eyes. Although that event—having stayed the entire evening with him alone in a room—would force their hands as well. That would be too scandalous even for such a discreet staff as the duke seemed to have. And Annie wouldn’t be shy about making her opinion known, for that matter.
She tugged the shirt out from his trousers, then raised it from his lower abdomen up over his head. His stomach muscles were tightened, and she could see the individual definition of his abdomen, and that sight definitely made her feel way more squirmy than before. She wanted to lean down and lick each ridge, kiss the skin on his hard stomach, draw her tongue through the narrow line of hair that led down there.
She felt his breath hitch as she tossed the shirt to join its compatriot coat, then he nodded to her, not saying anything, but making his request absolutely clear as though he had spoken it aloud: I want you to take your gown off.
She smiled back and turned sideways so he could get at her buttons, which he did immediately. And what’s more, he kissed the exposed area with each undoing of a button, so that by the time all of them were undone, she was a shivering mess of want and desire and sexual awareness.
Then she stood and pushed the gown off her shoulders to her waist, then shimmied a little so the gown went sliding down her hips to the ground.
She wore only her corset and chemise, standing in front of him, her hands laced behind her back, which had the advantage of making her breasts thrust out more prominently.
Which she only deemed an advantage when she saw how he was looking at her.
He rose swiftly from the sofa and approached her, his hands at the waistband to his trousers, his fingers beginning to undo his own buttons.
She reached forward and put her fingers on his wrist, then shook her head, a sly smile on her lips. She put her hands to the laces of her corset and undid it, then allowed it to fall to the ground.
Then, standing only in her chemise, she stepped forward to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. He was so tall she could tell it was awkward for him to kiss her like this, but from the noises he was making in his throat he didn’t seem to notice. She stood on tiptoe as they kissed, as she pressed her breasts into his warm, hard chest.
His hands were at her waist, holding her still so he could kiss her as he wished, and she pushed closer in still, now able to feel his erection against her stomach. It was a hard, throbbing reminder of what they were doing, and hopefully, how he felt.
His hands had slid away from her waist lower to cup the curves of her buttocks, helping to raise her up so they were more of a height. So they could kiss more comfortably.
Although none of this was comfortable. It was fiery, passionate, exciting, and so filled with meaning it would take an entire dictionary to define it, but it was not comfortable.
His hand slid between and lower, his fingers sliding along her slit where she was already wet.
She started at his touch, breaking the kiss, and she gazed at him in shock and nervousness at his having her felt all that, all the way she was feeling.
He didn’t say anything, since he was following instructions, after all, but he kept his gaze on her and then his tongue licked his lip in a sensuous, evocative gesture that made her knees weak.
She heard her breath catch, and it seemed he did, too, since his gaze turned predatory. He stepped forward and grasped the lower edge of her chemise and drew it up, but didn’t remove it entirely. Instead, he pulled it up over her head and let it hang there, making her momentarily blind.
And, likely, looking rather odd, but all thoughts of how she looked fled when his mouth found her breast, his hands were wrapped around her body, and he was sucking her nipple into his mouth, his fingers caressing her back, the curve of her backside, her hips. His erection pushing into her, his mouth moving now to the other breast, her entire body feeling as though it were sparked with wires that sizzled with each touch.
She could tell by his movement and the sound that he was getting onto his knees, and then she felt his fingers on her, there, and then his mouth, his tongue, sliding into the moist wet heat of her, and she gasped, feeling her knees tremble again as he kissed her.
Her hands were in his hair, clutching him to her, and she felt him chuckle, then reach up to unclasp her hands. She couldn’t help but let out a noise of disappointment when he removed his mouth, but that noise turned into a gasp as she felt him pick her up as though she weighed nothing and walk her to the sofa, where he laid her gently down.
She lay there, still unseeing, but hearing the noises he was making—the shuck of trousers coming down those strong, long legs, the rustle of more fabric as he undid his smallclothes, and she bit her lip, wishing she could see him in all his naked glory.
And then she felt him get onto the sofa, one knee to the right of her thigh, the other nudging at her hip to make room for her. His penis touching her stomach, close to there, but not close enough, and then he reached up and removed the chemise so she could see him.
> “Oh,” she said in a mixture of surprise and excitement. His chest was right there, sprinkled with some dark hair, his nipples standing up from the flat planes of his chest.
He hadn’t taken the eye patch off, but that was the only item of clothing that remained. His body was stupendous, a large, muscled work of art that truly eclipsed anything found in a gallery. Hard, smooth, and so profoundly masculine it made her hurt, but in a good way. A very good way.
She reached her hand up and put her fingers on the eye patch, keeping her gaze on his face. His expression tightened, but he nodded, and her fingers slipped to the back of his head where she undid the knot holding the patch in place.
It fell onto her chest and stayed there. She didn’t move to brush it off or anything, just kept her eyes on his face.
It was disturbing. The skin was stretched tight over where the eye had been, raised scarring showing how repairs had been attempted. His eyebrow was unscathed, and looked out of place above the ravaged area of his eye.
She reached up to touch the corner of where his eye had been. He flinched, but allowed it, letting out a deep breath as she touched her fingertip to his skin.
Now he was as naked and exposed as he’d ever been. Now she could see the real Vortigern.
The question was, did the real Vortigern feel as strongly about her as she did about him? His actions—not his words—would tell her everything she needed to know.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“Instead of telling you, how about I show you?”
Georgiana wrinkled her brow, as did the other members of her family.
“How would you do that, then?” her father asked.
The dragon/man glanced at each of them in turn, settling his gaze at last on Georgiana. “By turning you into one.”
“Oh,” Georgiana gasped. She looked at her family, all of whose faces were expressing varying degrees of shock and excitement. “Father?”
Her father planted his fists on his hips and settled back on his heels. Only to say the exact opposite of what Georgiana expected.
“Why not?”
The dragon/man smiled as he spread his arms. “Why not indeed?”
And Georgiana nodded.
Chapter 31
Vortigern held his breath as she ran her fingers over the scarring. He made a point of not looking in the glass after he’d washed his face, and had gotten skilled at putting the patch on without having to look at himself.
“Well?” he said at last, knowing he wasn’t supposed to be speaking, but unable to help himself.
“It is off-putting, and distinctive, and unusual.” She met his gaze and smiled. “Like you.”
And he let his breath out as her words washed over him. He bent his head and closed his eye, feeling the sting of tears. He hadn’t cried in years, but now it felt right.
She gathered him into his arms and he let his weight fall onto her, resisting the urge to ask if he was too heavy. If he was, she would tell him. She would speak up and say what was on her mind. He knew that about her, just as he knew it was equally difficult for him to do so.
She ran her fingers over his back, into the hair at the nape of his neck, and wrapped one of her legs around him, pushing their lower bodies even closer together, a fact his throbbing cock very much appreciated.
He raised his head and met her gaze again, this time hoping that what he felt about her was in his expression.
She smiled, but didn’t say anything. Just moved her hand so it was between them, on him, and then she nudged his leg up so she had room enough to run her hand up and down his shaft, gripping and squeezing.
He opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head, leaning up to place her mouth on his as her movements below increased. He placed his hand on hers and moved the head of his cock toward her entrance, slowly, in case that wasn’t what she wanted after all.
Judging by how she widened her legs and pushed him toward her as well, it was what she wanted, too.
And wasn’t he delighted they agreed on something.
He rose up on one arm and glanced down, seeing the dark curls on her mound, his cock brushing those soft hairs. And nearly spent right then and there, only he’d be damned if he was going to come outside her. He wanted in, and so he pushed, stopping when she made a noise in her throat, but her hand on his arse, pushing him farther in, made him continue.
And then he was home. Inside her, her body a warm, wet, welcoming place, her kisses growing more frantic as her body accommodated his size.
Even if he were allowed to speak, he didn’t think he could, not at this moment, not when his cock was throbbing and pulsing inside her, her fingers were splayed on his lower back, her tongue was inside his mouth, and he knew he wouldn’t last too long. He hoped he lasted long enough to bring her some pleasure as well, but that was less important than that she knew, she understood, what he felt about her.
I love you, he said in his head as he began to move, withdrawing a bit so as to be able to push back home again.
And again, thrusting and pulling and withdrawing, building up a rhythm that she matched, her body answering each of his movements with one of her own that only served to heighten his pleasure.
Dear God, how had he gone so long without being inside her? Without knowing what home truly was?
She broke the kiss and flung her head back, and he dropped his head down to her neck, where he bit her tender skin, all the while still moving, the grip of her hands intensifying.
And then it happened, one final thrust and he climaxed, roaring as he did so, feeling the waves of pleasure wash over him as he shook.
And dropped down on her, their bodies slick with sweat, her hands still all over him, her hair tangled, her chest heaving, as his was.
They were silent for a few long minutes, he as comfortable as he’d ever been, knowing she was the same. Knowing it because he knew her, and she knew him, and hopefully by now she knew how he felt.
“I suppose,” she began in a deliberately lowered voice, a clear imitation of that time before when he’d spoken so stupidly. I suppose we ought to consider getting married. Had anyone ever made a worse proposal?
“No talking, remember?” he murmured, his mouth tucked into her shoulder.
She nodded, shifting to make herself more comfortable under him, but not asking him to move.
He hoped she never would.
“Yes.”
Her word was spoken so quietly, even though they were as close physically as two people could be, he nearly didn’t hear her. And then that was all he heard, as what she’d said reverberated through his whole body.
That one word—“yes.” “Yes” meaning I suppose we ought to consider getting married, yes to Do you love me?, yes to Do you know I love you? and on and on until the “yeses” crowded his brain, made it impossible for him to think of anything but her, and their future, and how much he loved her.
“Yes,” he replied, then closed his eye and smiled.
Margaret took a deep breath before heading into the ballroom. She knew Vortigern would be there, but not until later, he’d said. She wanted to do this before their engagement was announced, since it was important that she remain who she was despite who she was going to be.
Or something like that.
Lord Collingwood hadn’t stopped with just accusing her of cheating to her face—he’d also made the social rounds, planting seeds of suspicion in everyone’s ears. Why he was so determined to blacken her reputation was beyond her, but there it was. Perhaps something to do with being scorned? Although he hadn’t wanted her in the first place. No matter, but it did matter to her dealings with people.
“Lady Margaret Sawford,” the butler announced. The room quieted, and she heard the rustle of fabric as people swiveled in her direction.
Wonderful. Lord Collingwood had done more damage than she’d realized. The bastard.
She descended the stairs into the ballroom, glancing at t
he gaming table where Lord Gantrey already sat, a reassuring warm smile on his face. At least one person remained in her corner. Although more of them would flock there once they knew she would be the Duchess of Lasham, which was why it was crucial to do this now, before they knew.
“My lady.” It was her hostess, who glanced around nervously, as though someone would challenge her for having invited the cheater.
As though all the people in this ballroom already were absolutely pure of heart and had never done anything wrong themselves. Margaret nearly snorted, only that would be terribly rude. Much worse than treating her servants poorly, as more than a few people here had done, according to Annie. More than keeping their creditors waiting while they continued to buy more, as most of the people here did. Even more than making it clear that one loathed one’s spouse, as a smattering of people here did.
And when did she become so judgmental? This wasn’t about others, this was only about her. She spotted Lord Collingwood at another of the tables and made her way to his side, waiting for him to acknowledge her, since she knew damn well he was well aware that she was there.
“A word, my lord,” she said at last, when it seemed he wasn’t going to meet her gaze. Then he did turn his head, his eyebrows raised in an insufferably condescending way.
Or perhaps she was just reading him that way.
“Yes, my lady? Are you here to share how you’ve bilked these lovely people through your nefarious practices?”
So she was not just reading him. And she had to admit he had a lovely grasp on the English language—“nefarious practices,” indeed.
“My lord, I do not know where you reached the conclusion that I have been cheating.” She raised her head so she was addressing everyone in the vicinity, a good thing given they were all staring at her. “I am skilled at cards, that I will admit. If you would rather believe I cheated than that I could beat you at a game, well—” and she shrugged her shoulders as though to show what she thought about that.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 26