Page 39 of The Duke's Daring Bride

The Book.

Or, more accurately, A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts. Amanda and Amelia had presented it to Olivia with a series of flourishes and giggles, then gestured for her to lean in closer.

There, in the Duke’s library with their heads pressed together, Amelia had whispered, “We found this several years ago, tucked behind one of Alistair’s books on economics. We do not know if he knows we have this.”

“If he did, would he be angry?” Olivia had whispered back. It seemed so naughty, to be caught reading one of the Duke’s books.

Amanda had shrugged. “He does not seem to mind us broadening our horizons. Although I would like to clarify I never have spoken to my older brother about my masturbation habits, if you do not mind.”

They’d all dissolved into shocked giggles after that.

Relaxing here in bed, the book open on her lap, Olivia understood what Amanda meant.

Absentmindedly, she took a bite of her evening Roquefort, and turned the page.

Oh.

An unknown medieval artist had depicted the man and woman entwined, her mouth on his—on his groinal region—while she straddled the man’s face. Despite the surely awkward positioning, they both seemed to be enjoying themselves, judging from their expressions of bliss.

She could understand why such a book was going into its fourth printing, according to Amelia.

Another bite, and she flipped to the next page. The Clinging Vine.

She had to rotate the book ninety degrees to really understand this one.

The next page added two more men, but the woman was… Olivia’s eyes widened. Well, the woman was doing a bang-up job of accommodating all of her new friends, wasn’t she?

Absentmindedly, she licked the honey from the tip of her middle finger, and flipped a few pages.

Oh goodness, this one was interesting, wasn’t it? The woman was atop the man once more, straddling his groin, her head thrown back so her breasts strained upward. He held her by the hips and seemed to be encouraging her to move.

“Whereby the woman controls the motion and pace, as to the riding of a trained stallion. She might rock or bounce, depending upon her preference. Her weight remains on her knees and forelegs, and the man is free to fondle her breasts, or buttocks, or anywhere of his preference. Note the variation, whereby the woman places her hands on his shoulders and rests her weight thereupon. This allows the man to plant his feet and thrust his cock upward into her cunny, momentarily giving him the control, should she wish it.”

Olivia cocked her head and studied the illustrations, lips parted slightly, breathing coming faster than normal.

Ah. Cunny. Right.

This was…remarkable. She considered herself an expert on the written word, and she’d read more than her fair share of novels—romantic and otherwise. But she’d had no idea there existed such books as The Book…a manual, of sorts.

And it absolutely had done its job.

Olivia carefully replaced the plate on the bedside table, surprised to discover she wasn’t actually hungry at this point. When had she ever passed up a cheese opportunity?

Shush. This is more important.

Eyes wide, Olivia turned the page, and sucked in a gasp.

Here was an illustration of a woman with both her hands wrapped around the man’s—her gaze flicked to the caption—cock, and was, according to the description, stroking it rhythmically.

“In most cases, a man’s cock will release a few drops of his essence prior to his orgasm, in order to help lubricate the entrance of his member into her cunny. Of course, if done properly, she will already be wet from his ministrations (see pages six through twelve).”

She hurried to flip back to the beginning of The Book.

Breathless, wide-eyed, Olivia’s gaze was skimming across the words almost faster than she could read…when the connecting door to the Duke’s chambers opened and he stepped through.

No, no, that was too mild of a statement to reflect what actually happened. She was a writer, after all.

The door opened. She looked up. She sucked in a breath—half-anticipatory, half-nerves. There, silhouetted in the doorframe, stood the Duke of Effinghell, her new husband. His hair was still damp from his bath, slicked back against his head. His gaze was intense.

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