Page 24 of The Duchess in His Bed
He didn’t know why she was different from the others, why with her he was breaking all his own rules. Why he knew once with her would not be enough. Why he was determined to leave her wanting so he would have more than the once. Eventually she would grow weary of him—his siblings might have lucked out by falling for aristocrats who were willing to embrace them, but he knew that most of the nobility tired of playing in the muck after a time. She’d been honest with her purpose in coming here. His performance might cause her to return but her presence in his life was temporary. He understood that and intended to make the most of it.
Breaking off the kiss, he trailed his mouth along her chin, the ivory column of her throat, her collarbone, then a detour up to the sweet curve where her neck eased into her shoulder. There he lingered, suckling and soothing, while her head dropped back, her moan deepened into a groan, and her fingers tightened on his shirt, more fabric gathered within her grasp. Her skin was so silky and smooth, heated alabaster marble beneath his tongue. He could spend the entire night feasting on her inch by delicious inch.
But other inches were in need of his attention.
Pulling back, he took pleasure in her languid gaze. He’d seen the same expression in a thousand eyes—intoxication at its very finest before one toppled over the edge into obliterating drunkenness. But she would be saved from that fate as her lethargy was spurred by sensation not drink.
“Free my buttons,” he ordered on a rasp of desire that nearly unmanned him.
She’d thought he’d never ask, although considering the tight hold she had of his shirt, the manner in which her knuckles were turning white, she was surprised to find the cloth not yet shredded into pieces. His kiss hindered her ability to think, to reason. All she could do was feel—the softness of his lips, the roughness of his tongue, the gentle abrading of his short whiskers against her skin. She might be red and a bit chapped in the morning, but she didn’t care. It all added to the incredible sensations pouring through her.
The way his gaze seemed to darken and smolder as he watched her only added depth—very much like an aria as it reached its crescendo.
She wasn’t surprised to find her fingers shaking as they attacked his buttons. She was trembling all over, but it was in a most pleasant way. His patient, slow mannerisms didn’t transfer to her. Instead she worked quickly, shoving each button through its hole, watching the material part to reveal a thin V of flesh, lightly sprinkled with hair that would tickle her fingers if she found the courage to skim them over it.
She’d freed only three buttons from their mooring when he stretched his arms up, grabbed the back of his shirt, and tugged it over his head, a wider expanse of skin coming into view to delight her as he tossed the shirt aside. By inches, it missed the chair where his other clothing had been relegated earlier.
Without thought, merely giving in to her instincts, she flattened her palms against his chest, so warm, so firm. She flicked a finger over one of his erect nipples. He groaned low, grabbed her hips, and pressed her more solidly against him. She’d been shocked the first time to feel the hard length of him, to know he was well and truly prepared to possess her. But it seemed now he was even more ready.
Then his mouth once again claimed hers, with fervent devotion. Each time she thought he’d given all he had to give, he gave more. She glided her hands up his chest, around his neck, up into his hair, relishing the feel of the thick strands curling around her fingers. Pressing her knees against his hips—feeling power in his accompanying growl—she wrapped her legs around him, bringing him ever nearer. In spite of the layers of silk and satin separating them, she could feel the strength and heat of him. He caused her to burn for him, to experience wild and incredible sensations she hadn’t even known were available to her. He made her feel alive, as though lightning rather than blood coursed through her veins.
She became aware of his hands at her back, of those long, nimble fingers making short work of her lacings, causing her bodice to loosen and fall forward slightly. Leaning back, he dipped his gaze to his fingers as they slowly trailed along her skin at the edge of the fabric, easing the gown off her shoulders. The heat flaring in his eyes was an aphrodisiac in its intensity. She’d longed to have a man gaze on her just so, to see his want and need bared—raw and primal.
“Shouldn’t we douse the lamps?” Her voice sounded small, as though it were enthralled by him and didn’t want to be disturbed from the enjoyment he was delivering.
“No.”
So simple, yet so profound an answer. As a delicious shudder rippled through her, she considered it a miracle that she continued to find the wherewithal to draw in breath. The appreciation for her washing over his features held her captive.
Her bodice slipped away, and the heat in his eyes burned hotter, his nostrils flaring, his breathing going shallow. Using the side of a single finger, the one that bore the scar, he traced the path of her chemise where it lay against her skin, his finger deliciously rough against the soft mounds of her bosom. “Your skin reminds me of silk, only softer.”
Then his mouth followed the path his finger had forged, and everything within her went languid. If he weren’t standing there, if her legs hadn’t clamped more tightly around his hips, she might have slid off the table. Instead she closed her hands around his upper arms, clinging to him as her body fought a battle, needing both to implode and explode. She gazed at the top of his head, the brown locks feathered here and there with burnished amber. She was torn between sliding her hand beneath his chin and lifting that lovely mouth to hers and leaving it to continue on its journey.
He made the choice for her, doing neither, but separating himself from her just enough so he could untie her ribbons, unfasten a portion of her corset, and peel away the material to expose her breasts to the air, to the light, to his smoldering gaze. She was surprised the intensity of his focus didn’t ignite her.
“Beautiful.” The word came out on little more than an exhaled breath.
He cupped each one, and they filled his palms. He flicked his thumbs over her puckered nipples, much as she’d teased his with her finger. The sensations elicited were wonderful. When he lowered his head and closed his mouth over her areola, his tongue taunting, she cried out in pleasure and pain as the haven between her thighs tightened with needs, her entire body—head to toe—tightened with needs.
With his hands returning to her back, he braced her, bowing her slightly as though to offer up her breasts as a tantalizing feast—and, oh, how he feasted. With slow licks, hot kisses, and quick nibbles. A suckling here, a soothing there. No area was left bereft of his attentions.
Leaning back on one hand, she scraped the other through his hair, along his neck, over his shoulder. She’d never experienced such devotion, hadn’t known such sensations existed. Always something had hovered, but she’d thought it was merely a wantonness. Perhaps he did these things to her because he wasn’t a gentleman, wasn’t of the nobility, was a commoner. If so, she now understood why women whispered about wanting a bit of the rough. His groans and moans were animalistic in tone, uncivilized—and she was so grateful he wasn’t of a tamed nature. That he ran free over her skin, that he dared to explore what had remained unchartered. She imagined when he was done, he’d be able to draw a map of her.
With a feral growl, he reclaimed her mouth, making it his, and she feared if she were to ever remarry, no husband would be able to satisfy her as he did. His kiss spoke volumes, made her feel as though he reached deep within her soul and touched her throughout. So absorbed was she by the conquering of his mouth over hers it took her a moment to realize he’d eased her down to the table. She’d only just become aware of the baize at her back when he began peppering kisses over her chin, her jaw, her throat, her breasts—
Then his hands were circling her ankles before gliding up her legs, shoving up her skirts until they were a pool of blue gathered at her waist. She gasped, having never been thus exposed.
He stilled, only his eyes moving as they came to hold hers. “Do you want me to stop?”
What she wanted had no bearing on the matter. It was all about what she needed. And she needed what he could provide.
Swallowing hard, she gingerly shook her head. “I want you to make me forget.”
His grin was wicked, filled with promise. “When I’m done, you won’t even recall your name.”
He disappeared behind the pile of her skirts and petticoats. His fingers danced along her thighs, his palms spreading her legs farther apart, separating the slit in the crotch of her undergarments. She felt the stroke of one long finger journeying down, then up.
“So juicy.” His voice was hoarse and rough. “As juicy as a plump strawberry.”
