The Demon Duchess: An Aristocrat Falls for a Cowboy Second Chance Romance (The Demon Duchess Series Book 2)

by Tessa Bowen

  “I’ve been wearing it down more lately,” she jabbered inanely. “Well, not really all the way down, but half way down.”

  “I don’t want to talk about your hair anymore,” he growled, cupping one of her breasts in his palm and lifting the weight of it high so that the pearly curve overflowed the cup of her bra and the dainty strap at her shoulder fell down.

  She shied away from him, bowing her head as she covered his hand with hers. “Please don’t reprimand me about my breasts again…”

  John caressed over her nipple with his thumb and then broke away to tug at the frilly band of her panties. “I won’t—how are things working down here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The pad of his finger tickled the silky flesh of her abdomen and then brushed over the soft tuft of hair below. “Your lady parts—have they been cleared for a spin?”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “It hasn’t been that long since you hatched a Duck.”

  His head dipped closer to hers as his fingers dipped lower. The tender folds between her thighs were luxuriously wet. He let out a low groan.

  “I do believe…everything is working just fine…”

  He cut her off with a kiss, this one deep and long-awaited. He filled her mouth with his probing tongue. She returned his kiss, sucking on the offering with fervor. The kiss erupted into a series of ravenous bites. When she sunk her teeth into his lower lip and tugged he was dimly aware he should be issued a medal for his self-control. She tasted and felt so good that he wanted to sink to his knees and ram his face into her wet syrupy body, and he would possibly—but later. Their tongues tangled once again. She wound her arms around his neck and moved against his fingers, drawing them deeper into her secret creases.

  John reared back, his restraint stretched to the max. “I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he told her throatily as he pulled at her panties.

  “I don’t want you to be,” she answered.

  Her words broke him. He shoved his pants and boxers around his thighs. His hard cock sprang free, jutting forward in an impressive arc. “You’ll tell me if something doesn’t feel good…”

  She nodded quickly and allowed him to spread her legs wide, hooking her heels at the base of his waist.

  John was dizzy with lust as her slick leaflets closed around the head of his prick. He wanted to ram into her like an animal. Instead he only pushed forward an inch. It was bad enough he was taking her on a shitty table and in an even shittier cabin—a woman like this shouldn’t be slammed into while sitting atop worn wood. He knew it shouldn’t go like this, but there was no turning back now. Not with her tongue in his mouth and her incredible body pulling him deep—this wondrous body that had birthed him Ducky. Her fine form was a miracle and not just because of the artistic perfection of her lovely lines. His desire went much deeper than that—he wanted to be close to the life force within her, the life force that had nurtured his daughter. He wanted to claim her womb. His nostrils opened and closed with the intensity of the moment. He felt a little like a demon about to ravish a trembling damsel. She wasn’t a damsel though, she was a thirty-seven year old baroness, his equal in every way (if not his better). He thought of the finicky, jumpy woman he’d shared a fleeting tryst with in a barn some time ago. This was an entirely different woman—warm and alive, lacking in any resistance. The time to claim her was now.

  He cupped her bare ass in his palms and slid forward another inch, then another. The sensation of her body tightening around him like a silky glove overwhelmed him and he fell upon her mouth, kissing her with great ardor. He released one firm ass cheek so he could fist his fingers in the tangled mass of her hair. He smelled her usual scent—Lilies of the Valley mixed with expensive female. There was a little Montana thrown in now too—snow and wind and clean earth. It was right that his wife should smell like this.

  His wife.

  John let loose a greedy growl as he pushed the rest of the way in. He was seated deep inside her now. She was so hot and wet, he shuddered with the pleasure of it. He began to move in smooth, slow strokes. He could tell she liked what he was doing because her nails dug into his shoulders and a keening sound rattled from her throat. He should have taken more time, studied the place between her legs, gotten to know every fold and contour—but he had needed in so badly. He pulled back just enough so that he could look down between them. The sight was erotic as hell—he’d ever seen a woman with pale pubic hair before. Her pelt was a sandy swirl of spun gold, only a few shades darker than the hair on her head.

  “Jesus Christ,” he rasped. “Every part of you is fancy.”

  “Mmmmm…what do you mean?”

  John reached down and spread the delicate petals of her body wide as he thrust into her. “You have a real high-end pussy, Slim.”

  Her feminine muscles clenched around him as a soft giggle escaped her lips.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled with a rush of embarrassment. He knew he could be crude in his excitement sometimes. “I’m from Montana.”

  “And your manhood is top-notch,” she threw back with a purr.

  She was laughing at him—this beautiful baroness who was his wife. And he guessed he deserved it. John bit down hard on the side of her neck until she let out a satisfying screech, then he pushed her flat on the table, holding her there. He took back the power by clasping her around the neck, fingers resting just below her jaw bone. His grip was just tight enough to be dominant yet loose enough to be affectionate.

  “You want me to get Sir Pitt in here to finish the job?” he goaded.

  “All this was your idea,” she taunted. “I just wanted to go for a ride.”

  He pulled back a bit, then gave her a good ramming prod with his cock. “Oh yeah—want me to stop then?”

  “No!” she gasped. “Don’t stop! It feels so good. You feel so good.”

  He rewarded her by bending over one breast and taking the peaked nipple into his mouth. He pulled and tugged with his teeth as he filled her down below. When she mewled, he stilled the rocking of his hips and glanced at her face.

  “Are you ok?” he asked, unsure of how much she could take.

  “Yes—God yes—please don’t stop.”

  John released his tender choke-hold, letting his thumb rest on her pulse. “How did you stay on that fucking horse? You were amazing.”

  She tightened her thighs around his hips. “You may think I’m too skinny, but I’m fit.”

  “I don’t think you’re too skinny, I just want you to eat.”

  “Will you let me ride with you?”

  Their warm breaths mingled with the exchanged words.

  “Maybe…we’ll talk about it later. No more talking now.”

  “One more thing…you didn’t mean what you said, did you? About finding another mother for Ducky…”

  He shook his head against the slender column of her neck, pressing a kiss to the place he had bitten. “You’re Ducky’s mother now and forever.”

  John straightened, resuming his former position so he could watch her body and her face as he drove into her. He wanted to touch every part of her, open his mouth across each inch of flesh, but a man could only be in so many places at once. The need to be deep inside her prevailed over the rest of his desires—this primal, pulsating heat that propelled his every plunge. The sight of her breasts undulating in rhythm to his churning hips only excited him more. Her urgent pants filled the room as she scraped the table top with her nails. She seemed to be enjoying herself, although he wasn’t entirely pleased with his own sexual conduct. It was rushed at best. He may be having at her on a shitty table, but he’d see to it she was taken care of first.

  He eased up on his thrusts to find the engorged bud of her desire situated at the top of her sumptuous gash. He drew steady circles there until she fell apart. She reared up, clinging to him as she climaxed. He gave her a moment to recover then he started to move hard within her again, pushing deep.

  “Are you taking your pi
ll? I want to come inside you.” He spoke the words through his blazing fervor. “Better not—you probably don’t want me to get you pregnant again.”

  “Don’t I?” was her throaty reply.

  Her answer was indirect, but he didn’t stop to question her. His every cell was on fire—his senses utterly consumed. He pumped hard and released himself deep inside her, claiming her fully.

  At last, she was truly his.

  Chapter Fifteen

  John Hale Jackson didn’t give a lady much time to recover from a good table tupping. And what a thorough tupping it had been. Abigail’s head spun and her body thrummed.

  “Well, I feel better—how about you?” he asked brusquely.

  With almost business-like efficiency he snatched a hand towel from across the chair and tugged her panties back over her hips—she hadn’t realized they were dangling off one ankle. He peeled her clammy shirt from her quivering torso and blotted her hair, then he lifted her loose-limbed body and tossed her into the bed.

  “Get in that sleeping bag before you catch a chill.”

  She followed orders, tucking herself into the down and flannel. It was her first time in a sleeping bag—it was rather wonderful to be cloaked in puffy, warm fabric. She sunk lower into the velvety padding and watched him move around the kitchen.

  He rifled the cupboards and drawers. “We need to eat,” he proclaimed.

  He’d shucked his jeans and socks, but still wore his boxer briefs. He’d tugged those up hastily and one side of the waistband was folded over, exposing a most captivating tan line. The firelight played over the smooth skin of his lower back. She had half a mind to leap out of the bed and yank his trunks down to uncover the hard curve of his truly stellar backside. Instead, she stayed put like a good little girl. She could tell he was already shutting down emotionally. She guessed he wasn’t keen on post-coital embraces. She could survive his abrupt manner after sex. It didn’t change what had transpired between them moments ago. This man had uncharted territories, hidden passions. And oh, his kisses—what a fool she’d been to ever deny him. His strong hands had been everywhere, scorching her skin like a brand.

  I’d wear any brand of his happily.

  She snuggled even deeper into the down and chewed her smiling lips, imagining the initials J.H.J. scored into her bottom.

  “You ok with mac n’ cheese?” he asked, filling a pot with water and setting it to boil.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He shook a box at her. The contents rattled ominously.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what that is…”

  “You’ve never had macaroni and cheese before?”

  She brightened. “Ah, yes—macaroni.”

  “You really have been living in a glass palace, haven’t you? Well, you don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

  He pulled butter and milk from the small refrigerator and something else she didn’t recognize, red liquid in a glass bottle.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  He moved to the fire and crouched down to add more wood. “We use it at times like this, when the weather turns. Sometimes scouting in the mountains takes all day. It’s good to know there’s a place to hole up when it gets too late. That last stretch of land to the ranch can seem endless, especially in the snow.”

  “Will they come looking for us or will we have to trudge back in the morning? I’m sorry about the horses,” she added softly.

  “They’ll pick us up tomorrow. I think they left us out here on purpose.”

  “On purpose?”

  “So we’d work things out.”

  The Baroness went back to chewing her lips. They’d worked things out quite nicely indeed.

  I wouldn’t mind working things out like that more often.

  He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. “I know the place isn’t up to your usual standards, but you can rough it for one night, can’t you?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes—it’s lovely here with the fire.”

  “Lovely, huh?” he teased.

  “I’m just worried about Ducky. This is my first night away from her. Do you think she’ll be all right?”

  “Of course, Margaret will take good care of her.”

  “Yes, she loves Margaret—although, I think it’s her turquoise earrings she likes best.”

  “Ducky likes baubles and doo-dads.” He headed back into the kitchen, pausing to glance at the table. “Jesus, look at what you did to the wood.”

  Abigail’s eyes fell on the long scratch marks marring the surface of the table. Her hand flew to her cheek in embarrassment. “Oh, my—I do apologize. I’ll have it refinished, of course.”

  “What’s your plan? Are you going to ring up Sir Archibald and ask him to send over a team of royal decorators?”

  “Something like that…” She trailed off, unsure of herself. Was he being derisive—or just teasing? She could never quite tell.

  He shook his head and then a slow grin transformed his features. His teeth flashed white.

  “The table is fine just as it is.”

  He went back into the kitchen, stirring the simmering concoction over the stove. Abigail knew she was blushing and was glad for the oversized snuggler. She was also glad it concealed her bedraggled appearance. She was quite warm and comfortable, but yearned for a comb. Her hair had half-dried into snarled knots. She raked through the locks with her fingers—when the yanking and jerking didn’t work, she tried a round of nervous patting.

  “I must look a fright.”

  “For once, don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  He heaved a long sigh. “Knock your looks—you do it constantly. It’s tiresome and downright annoying. Do you know how many women would trade places with you?”

  “Because of my title you mean?”

  John spun from his cooking to shake his wooden spoon at her. “Don’t play coy with me, missy. I’m only going to say this once, so listen up. Your beauty is flawless. You don’t have a bad angle—I’ve never seen anything like it. When I first met you, I thought you were too perfect, like a statue in a museum, cold and inaccessible, but now that I’ve seen you undone, you’re even more stunning—because you’re real. You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do right now—you have color in your cheeks and I like your hair all tousled like that. You look loose and a little wild. You should kiss every mirror you pass and thank your lucky stars, but instead you piss and moan about one hair being out of place. You torture the gift you were given, starve it and fucking straighten it, when you should enjoy it. Or at the very least, shut your goddamn mouth and let me enjoy it, all right?” He only paused to catch his breath and scowl at her a moment longer then he went back to his pot stirring.

  Abigail radiated happiness—she swore the room had just brightened. Oh, the man was a poet! And he thought she was beautiful, flawless had he said? Yes, flawless. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t already heard from dozens of men, but coming from this man it meant the world to her.

  “That was quite a speech,” she twittered.

  “Yeah, well—I hope you hit the record button, because you’ll never get that much out of me again.”

  Her voice was a playful singsong. “I’m thankful for your generous compliments, kind sir.”

  John emptied the pasta into a sieve and then tossed it back into the pot. “Just stop, I can hear you batting your eyelashes all the way over here.” He set the pot aside and snatched a cloth napkin and fork out of a drawer. He moved to the side of the bed and handed them to her. “Big deal, so you’re pretty,” he groused. “We’re eating in bed, by the way.”

  When he turned to head back to his kitchen work, she couldn’t suppress her mischievous desires. She stuck out her fork and snagged the waistband of his briefs with the prongs. She gave a good pull, exercising just the right amount of torque so that the fabric peeled downward, exposing one muscled ass cheek. She dove on it like a viper, biting down on the firm flesh there.

&nb
sp; “Ouch!” he exclaimed, leaping away from her with a howl of surprise. “Jesus—why did you do that?”

  “I couldn’t resist. You have the most outstanding backside. In fact, you’re rather delicious all over.”

  He smirked at her. “Raaaaather?”

  “Yes, now bring me my dinner—I’m famished.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” he drawled, rubbing his ass as he made his way back into the kitchen. He moved toward the bed moments later with a bowl and the little bottle containing red liquid.

  “What is that crimson fluid?” she asked, arranging her napkin on her lap. She kept the sleeping bag carefully tucked under her arms, covering her bare breasts.

  “That crimson fluid is hot sauce.”

  “Oh dear,” she fretted as he handed her the bowl and doused the top of it with a few good shakes of Tabasco.

  “That’s how we eat mac n’cheese in Montana. Go on, knock that back—it will put hair on your chest.”

  “I’m not sure I want hair on my chest.” The Baroness wrinkled her nose at the bright orange pasta. “Why it’s sort of…Technicolor.”

  “Yep—that’s the orange dye, sweetheart.”

  Her lashes fluttered at his endearment. “I couldn’t possibly eat all this.” She faltered when he threw her a warning glare. “I mean…I could possibly. In fact, I’ll finish every last morsel—hot sauce and all.”

  John chuckled as she made a dramatic play at digging in. She plunged her fork into her dinner and shoveled a hefty helping into her mouth.

  Her eyes widened as she chewed. “Oh, it’s bloody heaven, isn’t it?”

  “Are you talking with your mouth full?”

  “I believe I am.”

  She took another big bite and groaned with the new taste sensation.

  “You’re like a junk food virgin.” He took a seat on the edge of the bed and offered her a bottle of beer with a skeptical grin. “I suppose expecting you to chug down one of these would be asking too much.”

  She swiped the bottle from him as she chewed her fluorescent mouthful. “Think again, cowboy.”

  “Boy—things are going to get out of hand tonight,” he joked.