Page 72 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

She lifted her hands to the top button of his waistcoat. “I don’t know anything about men’s clothes,” she said. “I fear I shall prove much less skilled at this than your valet.”

“You’ll do fine. Our clothes are like everything else about us.” He smiled at her questioning look. “Straightforward. Uncomplicated.”

She made a skeptical sound as she slid his waistcoat off, but she didn’t stop to debate the point.

He had already removed his necktie, collar, and studs, so she only had to remove his cuff links, slip down his braces, and undo the buttons of his shirt. She did not, however, notice the front tab button that hooked his shirt to his drawers, and he couldn’t help laughing at her consternation when his shirttails failed to come out of his waistband.

“Let me do it,” he said and finished for her, doffing both his shirt and undershirt in the space of a few seconds. He tossed both aside, but when he looked at her again, her face made him go utterly still.

Her lips were parted, her gaze unwavering as she studied his naked chest, seeming fascinated. She flattened her palms against his pectorals and ran her hands over his shoulders, and down his arms. The slow, warm caress felt so good that Henry groaned, tilting his head back, letting her explore him and satisfy her curiosity even as he struggled to keep his arousal in check. She ran her hands over the muscles of his chest, shoulders, arms, and abdomen. But when she reached the waistband of his trousers, he knew that was as much as he could bear.

“That’s far enough,” he said, and ignoring her protest, he grasped her wrists and pushed her exploring hands firmly away. “You’ll be able to have more explorations later. It’s my turn.”

He glanced down, noting the full shape of her breasts and the jutting outline of her nipples beneath the thin lawn of her chemise, a sight that deepened his arousal, and he knew he could not wait any longer to see what until now he’d only been able to imagine.

“Raise your arms,” he told her as he grasped handfuls of delicate lawn fabric in his fists, and when she complied, he pulled the garment over her head and tossed it onto the growing pile of garments near their feet.

But when he looked at her again, the sight of her was so lovely, so breathtakingly lovely, that haste went out the window, and he had to stop and just look at her. Her skin was pale as cream, with a delicate flush of pink. Her breasts were full and round, the nipples hard and aroused, with velvety pink areoles.

His throat went dry.

He sank to his knees in front of her and cupped her breasts in his hands. She inhaled sharply, tilting her head back, arching into his touch. Her skin was like warm silk, and he toyed with her, brushing his thumbs back and forth across her nipples, rolling them between his fingers. She began to moan, soft and low, cradling his head, her fingers working in his hair, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted her so hot, so aroused, that when the moment came to take her fully, she would be as ready for it as he was.

He leaned closer, shaping one breast in his palm as he opened his mouth over the other. She cried out, her body jerking in response. He suckled her, gently, then not so gently, scoring her nipple with his teeth.

“Henry,” she cried softly, stirring, agitated. “Oh, God, Henry.”

He toyed with her a moment longer, then he eased back, but he had no intention of relenting, for he wanted her even hotter. He reached for the button that held up her drawers and freed it, then he jerked the garment down her legs. Wrapping his arm tight around her hips, his forearm beneath her bum, he began pressing kisses to the bare, silken skin of her stomach. She stirred, agitated, but he held her fast, knowing it would fan the flames within her to tormenting heights if she could not move. He kissed her stomach and tongued her navel and slid his hand between her thighs.

He pressed his thumb up into the crease of her sex, and she moaned, her knees caving, but he held her upright, his arms a tight band around her hips, and moved his thumb along the crease of her sex.

Her hands raked through his hair. Her hips jerked against his imprisoning arm as she instinctively strove for climax, but he kept firm hold of her, preventing her from gaining her peak. She moaned in protest, the agitation in her growing stronger as he caressed her with his thumb.

He lifted his head to look at her. He couldn’t see her face, for her head was flung back, but that was all right with him, because what he could see—her flushed skin, her long, slender throat, her full, jutting breasts—was splendid enough.

She was slick, and hot, and he pushed his thumb into her just a little, then out again, spreading her moisture to enhance her pleasure. She moaned again, her body shuddering. “Henry,” she wailed. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Now who’s being teased, hmm?” He kissed her stomach as he caressed her clitoris. “I warned you,” he went on.

She was panting, desperate. “Please,” she moaned. “Oh, please.”

“Please, what?” He circled her clitoris with the pad of his thumb. “Do you want me to stop?”

She shook her head violently. “No, no, don’t stop. Oh, God, please don’t stop. I just want . . . want”—her hips writhed helplessly—“more. Please, Henry.”

“Not yet. Wait.” He kissed her stomach and stroked the crease of her sex without letting her move, fanning the flames of her desire, and his own, as her sweet, sweet pleas for more drove him to the brink. Only when he knew she was on the verge of being unable to bear it, did he relent, easing his hold. At once, her hips rocked hard against him, her thighs squeezed tight around his hand, and with a low keening wail and a shuddering gasp, she came in a rush, her knees collapsing beneath her.

He rose, pulling his hand from between her legs and catching her in his arms. He kissed her, then lifting her in his arms, he laid her on the bed.

Irene could only stare at him, dazed and wordless as he moved to lie beside her. After what she’d just experienced, she couldn’t imagine what strange and beautiful sensations could possibly come next.

She’d known her knowledge of physical relations between men and women was incomplete, gleaned as it was from one painfully embarrassing conversation with her mother when she was fifteen, a few whispered consultations over the years with some of the married ladies at suffragist meetings, and snatched peeks at forbidden books when she could lay hands on them. But combined with the wild, wonderful carriage ride with Henry the other night, she’d come here tonight thinking she had a pretty good idea of what to expect. But now, shamelessly nude before him, all her senses in a dazed, euphoric tumult, she appreciated that she knew nothing about this at all.

But there was more to come, she knew that, for Henry was watching her, his glittering gray eyes pinning her to the mattress as he began to unbutton his trousers, and when he pulled them down, Irene could only stare at his groin, stupefied as, at last, she began to see what all the whispered, embarrassed conversations had really been meant to explain. For the first time, she felt a hint of panic. Her gaze flew back up to his face. “Henry?”

He shoved his trousers and linen all the way down to his ankles, then stepped out of them, and when he straightened, she saw that in his hand was a small, red envelope. She swallowed hard, trying to shove down this sudden bout of panic.

He must have seen what she felt in her face, for he leaned down and kissed her mouth. “It’ll be all right,” he said.

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