Page 67 of His Arranged Duchess
Touch me,she thought, but Lucien only continued his kisses, now moving his head to nip at her earlobe with exaggerated care. Frances wanted to growl in frustration.
“You must tell me, my dear,” Lucien whispered, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Tell me what you want.”
It was entirely too much. Frances clapped both of her hands on either side of Lucien’s face, moving his head so that he looked her directly in the eye. He looked startled, to say the least.
“I want you,” she breathed. His eyes widened. “I wantyou, I want you to touch me. I want you to kiss me.Properly.”
There was a splintered second of silence, not nearly long enough for Frances to worry if she had been too forward, and then he lunged forward, fitting his lips to hers.
It was a rougher kiss than last time, knocking the inside of her lips against her teeth, but Frances did not care. In fact, it made the insistent desire, thewantinginside her swell. She wrappedher arms around his shoulders, pulling him tight against her, trying to move her lips and jaw in the same way that he did.
Perhaps kissing is something that takes practice. And he, at least, has had agood dealof practice.
She slid her hand up the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair. Quite experimentally, Frances gave a very gentle tug. Lucien gave a low growl in his throat, the sound sending goosebumps over her skin.
Does he like it or not? I should like to find out.
And then, without warning, the room was spinning, and Frances found herself hauled up from the ground, clamped tight in Lucien’s arms. Before she could worry about falling, she found herself deposited on the desk, head bumping against the wall behind it.
“Ouch,” she remarked, and Lucien grinned wolfishly, reaching up to cup the back of her head with his hand.
“Have a care, my pretty one. Things might get a little rough.”
Her blood seemed to spark inside her veins.
“What does that mean?”
He chuckled. “You’ll find out quite soon, I think.”
He kissed her again, almost ravenously, as though he were a starving man and she was a succulent roast dinner.
A roast chicken,Frances thought hazily, tilting her head to allow him to kiss beneath her ear.With gravy.
The food metaphor did not really fit their situation, but Frances found that her thoughts were unravelling like a poorly-knit pair of mittens.
There. That metaphor works a little better.
He dipped his head, kissing the space between her collarbones. For the first time, Frances realized that his hands were spanning her sides, his fingertips pushing at the underside of her breasts. The idea of being touchedtherewas one that Frances had not often considered, but now she could think of nothing beyond his warm palms and her bare skin.
His hands slid upwards, one moving around to span across her back, the other cupping the curve of one of her breasts. Glancing up and meeting her eye, Lucien pressed a kiss to the small amount ofdecolletagepeeking above the neckline.
She felt as though the breath had been stolen from her lungs.
“I’d love nothing more than to unlace this gown and see you in all your glory,” he whispered, breath gusting warm across her skin, “but we’d never get you laced up again.”
Frances bit her lower lip, suddenly wracked with amusement at the thought of her and Lucien hopping around the little room, both of them half-naked and struggling to get dressed without the help of their servants.
He leaned up to kiss her again, and the familiar rush of desire washed away any amusement.
This time, the kiss lasted only a moment, then Lucien broke away.
“Lean back,” he whispered, voice rasping and hoarse. She obeyed, supporting herself on her elbows. Her legs dangled off the end of the desk, her knees apart, and Lucien stood between them. He placed a hand on each of her knees, gently lifting her layers of skirts and petticoats.
Frances shivered when her knees and calves were bared to the air. It felt odd, being so exposed in that way. Lucien's eyes remained on hers, dark and hungry and missing nothing. If she expressed discomfort, Frances knew, somehow, that he would stop.
He kept going, rucking up her endless layers of clothing around her hips until her legs were bared. Goosebumps broke out over her skin.
Lucien curled one hand around the back of her knee, lifting a little. He ran a fingertip over a small, thin scratch on the inside of her thigh.
