Page 8 of Good Duke Gone Rogue

She studied his face and caught his eyelids flicker open and closed. Did she see a flicker of something in his eyes? It was too dark to tell. And then he must have misinterpreted herpleasebecause his lips were on hers, giving her what he thought she wanted.

And really, he wasn’t entirely wrong. She did want it, vexingly so. And his mouth was hot and gentle. But hungry. He was devouring her, and she found herself wanting to be devoured. One hand on his bicep, aching to feel his strength. One hand in his hair, yearning to feel his softness. She parted her lips and welcomed his tongue.

God, Reggie’s tongue was delicious. Whiskey. Passion. Fire. Hot burning. Bernadette was about to be incinerated. And then he was writhing beneath her, pushing his shaft against her soft flowering bud. It was pulsating. She had never experienced this before, yet instinctively she knew what he could give her, so she pushed back. Receiving. Claiming. Moaning.

The sensations were building within her, and she knew she was close to her victory. He thrust up again, and she rubbed up and down his giant cock. A soft whimper escaped. She collapsed onto him. He rubbed her up and down once more and groaned. She felt the bulge soften and the wetness between them spread. She didn’t want it to stop. She wanted more. More of him. More man. More fire. But it was selfish to want more of him. Selfish. Wicked. Wanton.

Life was more than passion. She pushed herself off of him and slumped to the Aubusson rug. Looking back at him, she could make out the silhouette of his hand resting on his cock. Desire ribboned through her. Again. And again. She had to leave now.

“What have I done?” Panic flooded her trembling voice.

Forgetting the candle and the book, she fled.

Chapter 4

OH, REGGIE KNEW WHAT he was doing. He knew before the body landed on him. He was drunk, but not that drunk. He would know her citrus scent anywhere. It had entered the library scant seconds before she had.

It must have been the way fate saw fit for him to meet Detta again after such a long hiatus. To hear her. To see her. But more, to feel her. To smell her. To taste her.

To hear her sneaking into the library. The squeak of the door had woken him, and the stealth of the steps had piqued his curiosity. To see her through half open eyes. The shadow, a curvy silhouette. Just a peek confirmed who it was. After all, he knew who was in the house. Sheer process of elimination.

To feel her. In full. Her body toppling onto his, but more to the point, melding into his. Setting him ablaze. And then, to revel in her sweet scent. The soft citrus tickled his nostrils. It was tootempting for a man, especially a man that had been having a dream about said citrusy miss, whereupon he woke to find his hand clutching his damp cock.

So when he felt her supple body atop him, he had to indulge his last sense. That is, her delicious nectar. To take and taste her. His tongue was thirsty for her. He knew she knew it was him, for she had said his name. If ever there was a time to capitalize on such a load of lust, and more, this was it.

It was quite possibly his only chance to quench his enduring desire for her.

If only he had known that the aftermath was not quenching at all, it was the exact opposite of quenching. If he had been hungry and thirsty for her before, he was now emaciated, esurient, and completely dehydrated.

He only wanted more. More and more. And then more of more. She was a good slice or two of heaven. And who wouldn’t trod through hell to have even one slice of heaven?

Her kiss. Her sounds. Her writhing body finding completion atop him had destroyed him for anyone else. He knew then, with renewed vehemence, that whatever he felt for her would never diminish.

And he knew, again, with utter defeat, that she didn’t feel the same way. Her last words,What have I done?rang through his head, clanging bells. Warning. Warning. Warning. Caution. Fire. Anything to stay away. He knew his options.

Confront her. This was the most ungentlemanly option.

Ignore her. Wait…perhaps this was the most ungentlemanly option.

Feign obliviousness. If he didn’t bring it up, and if he acted as though it hadn’t happened, then they could just start new, somewhere else.

It was the only thing he had going for him. That he could pretend he had been too sleepy, too drunk, too something, to remember it.

So before he saw her the next day, he stuffed his feelings and memories away again. This time into a tiny ball. Then he wrapped the ball in layers of cloth and glue, and stuffed it all into a metal box with chains. And locks. Lots of locks. And he threw away the keys. All of them. Into a raging river.

That should do it.

Reggie had managed to avoid Detta all day, but this evening they were all to attend a ball hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Wellingford. Their friendship was too strong to skip the event, despite the fact that Gregory had knocked Reggie out at the pub last summer. (Reggie had probably been acting like an ass, he was sure he deserved it.)

He took a quick look at himself in the mirror before departing his room. Dressed in an elegant black jacket, sage silk waistcoat, and pristinely knotted white cravat, he cut a fine figure. So he thought.

A significant improvement from the way his sister and Detta had dressed him up in the past. He shook his head at the memory. Of course, he would have to think of that now. Right before he knew he was to see her, for the “first” time.

He wasn’t the littlest one. Why had he let them dress him up in that dress? It was one dreary rainy day. Nay, a week. He recalled more now. They had been so bored, just stuck inside all day. One of the girls, probably his youngest sister Kat, he was sure of it, had suggested to dress Reggie up in a gown.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to see Reggie in a gown?” Kat clapped exuberantly.

Charlotte, the quiet sister, just shrugged.

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