Page 7 of Good Duke Gone Rogue

“Any time, any place,” he swept his arms out in front of him, “just say the word.” Then he winked and walked away.

It was an awful memory. He hadn’t looked back to see if she took it as a joke, but her soft laugh indicated that she was at least willing to consider it a joke. As inappropriate as it was.

Sitting in his club, he took the last swig of his drink. Time to go home. Maybe he’d read a book to help him fall asleep to thoughts other than Bernadette.

***

BERNADETTE COULDN’T SLEEP. SHE was twitchy. Gratefully, she had a bedchamber of her own, otherwise she’d most certainly be keeping Jacob awake. With her having a room to herself, at least no less than one of them would find some rest.

As sleepless as she was, she didn’t give much forethought to her actions. If she had, she might have thought about who she might run into around the house. Although, if she had done that, it would be hard to say if that would have amplified or diminished her inclinations to wander a dark house alone.

Knowing well the layout of the house, she planned to pop into the library to borrow a book in hopes of finding something boring to put her to sleep. More often than not, reading kept her awake, but surely she could find a thick tome with multisyllabic words on a dry topic of little interest to her.

Clutching her night robe around her, she carried a candle with her that lit only a small region in front of her eyes. The room smelled of whiskey and…something else. She couldn’t quite tell what it was. She took a few steps into the room and walked behind the couch. There, beside the couch was a small side table for her to place the candle.

Her eyes were focused on the bookshelves before her, so when she stepped toward them, she didn’t notice the big lump in her foot’s way. Unfortunately her other foot didn’t have time to react and instead tangled itself in the lump as well. One clumsy foot might have been corrected, but two were a clear force against her. Down she went, knowing—thankfully—that she was about to land on a soft couch with pillows.

Only…the couch was not soft. And there were no pillows upon which she fell. No. It was a body. A hard, lean, muscular body.

Immediately her own body tensed. Oh dear God, had she just landed on the Earl of Winchester? Why hadn’t she surveyed the room before entering? What a fool she was. But why was he lying in the darkness anyway? Had husband and wife had a spat, relegating him to seek solitude among his favored books and then falling asleep? She inhaled. The body beneath her smelled of whiskey and soap. It was not a soft, subtle smelling soap. It was almost cloying, yet…familiar.

Oh dear God, it wasn’t the earl. It was Reggie.

“Reggie?”

No answer.

She would know his scent anywhere. The body—Reggie’s body, she corrected herself—groaned beneath her. A handwrapped around her back. Upon grabbing her back, another moan emerged. This time, more sensual. Her senses were on high alert. Fire rushed through her. She could feel every point of contact between her body and his. And the second hand, where was it? She had to know. She needed to know, so she could prepare for possible impact. Then she felt it over his groin, tucked into his breeches.

Good heavens, the man—Reggie, she reminded herself again—had his hand down his breeches, holding onto his shaft. She swallowed. Every fiber of her being tingled. Reggie, a man, a warm, solid, breathing, groaning man, had been gripping himself and now she was on top of him.

How had he not woken up? God, he was drunk. And why had she not pushed herself up? That was a question she didn’t want to answer. She just felt…all kinds of everything as she lay atop him. Having never been this close to such a young virile man like Reggie, rendered her befuddled. Befuddled and ablaze. Her entire body was scorching. Especially between her legs. And God, her nipples felt taut.

How on earth was he still sleeping? And then the hand that had been wrapped around his…manhood… dragged itself out of his breeches and found her backside. And squeezed.

She should move. She should leave. She should say something. Do something. Anything. This was Reggie. Yet she could do nothing but feel the sensations.

This might be her only chance at passion. With a man, passed out on the couch. Pathetic, that.

But she didn’t care. She deserved a little fire in her life, didn’t she? After all her years of dispassion, and for all the years of insouciance that lay ahead, she could permit herself to feel something. And it was Reggie. He was a friend. Surely, they would be able to face the future together after this.

Her hands slid up into his hair. Now with two hands on her bottom, he was massaging her cheeks. Pushing them together and pulling them apart. And her insides, her core, her center, her essence, her very being, was…opening. She could feel her folds separating. Wet. Hot. Open. And his hands pulled her up onto his swelling arousal.

He didn’t even know what he was doing. He was sleeping. But this was the most fire she had ever felt in her life. And she was desperate for it.

But was she this desperate?

She had to stop this. Her palms sunk into the couch’s cushions and kept sinking. His grip was tight and his moans were getting louder. She could feel his throbbing cock. The thin layer she had was hardly enough to mask the giant bulge beneath her. He felt huge. And she wanted him. And he wanted her. Only…he didn’t know it was her.

“Reggie,” she whispered more hoarsely than even a whisper would normally be.

“Mmm…yes, Detta?”

How on all that was holy did he know it was her?

“Reggie, we have to stop.” She finally leveraged herself to put one hand on his bicep to stop him. But God, it did not stop him. Nor her. She could feel his arm flex under her fingers. His manly muscles being all muscular and manlike. When did Reggie develop such brawn? He felt powerful and hot. Her breasts felt heavy draped against his chest.

She leaned closer, “Reggie, please.”

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