Page 11 of The Duchess in His Bed
The echo of grinding metal alerted her he was opening a door. The action barely slowed him as he pushed the wood aside, creating a crevasse through which he pulled her into a dimly lit hallway. She hardly had time to note doors beyond them before he was escorting her up a set of stairs lit with sconces here and there.
At the landing, she could see more stairs beyond, but he ignored them and dragged her through an open doorway into another corridor and then into a room that contained a red velveteen fainting couch. He released his hold on her and she wandered farther inside. Paintings—nudes—of solitary women, solitary men, couples, and groups adorned the walls. Suggestive statuettes of naked couples caressing or kissing were nestled in the corners.
The snick of a door closing, being locked, caused her to swing around. His arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the door and simply watched, waited.
She turned her attention back to the fainting couch. For some reason, she’d assumed he’d require a massive bed, that they would loll about in it and—well, her imagination had never taken her beyond the lolling. The couch seemed inadequate. Was it even called being bedded when it was done on a fainting couch? Or was it beingfainting couched?
He was the expert, she the novice, in spite of her seven years of marriage.
“Not exactly what I was expecting,” she said honestly, facing him.
“I thought you’d appreciate the couch when your knees give way.”
“As I mentioned before, my knees are made of stern stuff.”
His grin was cocky and all male. “Never challenge me, sweetheart, unless you’re willing to deal with the consequences. Remove the mask.”
“No.” She stated it firmly, resolutely.
“There’s no one here to see you, to recognize you.”
He would see her, although he probably wouldn’t know precisely who she was. Still, she suddenly felt a need to remain incognito. Baring her face would make her too vulnerable, would make her feel exposed. What she was doing was wrong on so many levels, and she needed to remain as secretive about it as possible. “I can’t.”
She’d expected him to give her an ultimatum, to force her to remove it in order to gain what she wanted. Instead, he merely pushed himself away from the door and prowled toward her, determination darkening his eyes.
Quite suddenly, she rather wished she’d moved nearer to the couch because the desire, the want, the need reflected in his expression already had her knees threatening to buckle.
Then his hands were gently cradling her jaw, his thumbs meeting at the shallow dimple in her chin, creating the top part of a heart turned upside down as he held her. It was silly to keep the mask on, and yet it afforded some sort of protection, some sense that she was in charge, when the reality was that she hadn’t been since the moment he’d approached her. No, before that. From the moment he’d begun striding toward her. That was his power, his strength, his allure. He took command and held on to it.
That thought alone was enough to have her knees weakening. She’d never been so close to a man who seemed fully capable of ruling hearts. She would not give him hers. All she would grant him was use of her body, and in giving him that, she would be using him as well.
Holding her gaze, he lowered his head only a fraction, and she ceased to breathe as her stomach quivered in anticipation. She licked her lips, taking satisfaction as his gaze dropped to her tongue, dampening what he would soon be tasting. Strange how the smoldering in his eyes made her feel powerful, allowed her to regain some control.
But when his mouth landed on hers, she realized it had all been an illusion. She had no control, whatsoever. No thought, no scheming, no goals—only taking pleasure from this simple exercise, a mating of lips and tongue, breaths and sighs. His fingers skimmed along her jaw, her chin, over and over, as though he sought to permanently embed their shape within his palms. Their goal accomplished, his hands glided along her throat, over her shoulders, and down her back, pressing her nearer as his arms cocooned around her. Hers circled his waist, her hands spreading wide over his broad back, and she resented the coat he wore that prevented her from outlining the corded muscles she was rather certain composed him. But that opportunity would come shortly, for surely he would at least divest himself of his jacket before taking her completely.
But that was for later. For now there was only the kiss proving all her previous claims regarding the makeup of her knees to be false as he plundered, slowly, sensually, thoroughly. The man knew his way well around a woman’s mouth, knew how to explore, how to titillate, how to come to know it intimately. She suspected he could sketch the inside of her mouth to perfection should he put his mind to it. He left not so much as a hairbreadth unmapped. All the while, he gave her the freedom to learn all the textures that made up this one aspect of him. Roughness, silkiness, hardness, softness. She took delight in each discovery as their tongues parried, not with animosity, not as though they were embroiled in battle, but as though they were engaged in an ancient ritual, the start of a journey that would prove them equals.
His actions struck at her poet’s heart, brought to life yearnings she’d never before dared to awaken. She’d known they were there, but she’d hidden them away, forced them into slumber for fear she’d offend her husband if he knew the hunger that gnawed at her in the quiet hours of the night when she’d lain alone in her bed, after he left, when the tears would fall.
She stumbled because her legs, blast them, did give out. Without moving his mouth from hers, he easily lifted her into his arms and carried her the short distance to the fainting couch where he laid her down, knelt on the floor beside her, and continued to ravish her mouth. His groans echoed around her, reverberated through her as he held her with one arm positioned at her back so her chest met his, his other hand cradling her head to give him the angle he needed. She didn’t want to consider how many women he might have kissed in order to perfect this move.
All she wanted was to take advantage of it.
She’d always thought kisses were a perfunctory thing, a greeting to the day, a signal one was retiring for the night. But he made it involve all the senses, all aspects of her body, not just her mouth and her traitorous knees, but her curling toes, and her dampening core, and her erratic heart.
He dragged his mouth along her face where mask gave way to flesh, then along her throat, over her collarbone. She whimpered when he nipped at the swell of her breast. When he closed his mouth over her nipple through her clothing, the remainder of her body melted.
He went still, so still. She was certain he continued to breathe, because she felt his hot breath penetrating the cloth, moisture gathering around her nipple. Then he eased back, cradled her face once more, and held her gaze. “It’s time for you to leave, sweetheart.”
She shook her head. “But you haven’t bedded me.”
“How very astute you are.”
“Isn’t that the purpose of this room? Isn’t this where the men with the red buttons bring the ladies to bed them?”
“It’s where they bring the ladies who want to be kissed thoroughly. It’s where they bring the ladies who want to be fondled.”
“And those who wish to be bedded?”
