Page 23 of The Duchess in His Bed
As difficult as it was, she managed to hold his gaze. “Final question: Do you want me?”
“More than I crave air.” He pushed himself away from the wall, walked to the table until only the narrow expanse of green separated them, placed his palms flat on it, and leaned toward her. “You won the game. What is my lady’s pleasure?”
“Exactly that. Pleasure me until I forget I’m a widow.”
Chapter 7
It pleased him beyond measure that she hadn’t asked him to bed her, although he suspected she thought her words were merely another version of the same thing. But he wanted to teach her differently, wanted to show her there was more to it than the rutting.
In his youth, he’d been content with the quick in and out. Then an older woman had shown him the joy to be found in taking one’s time. He wanted to gift his duchess with that elation, as he was fairly certain she’d never had it. Not all men were well versed in the art of fucking. Many had an aversion to sins of the flesh, but the need for surcease drove them to it and they wanted to be done as quickly as possible, as though sinning for a short time might be overlooked while a lengthier transgression was certain to send one to the eternal flames of perdition. But if a man was destined to go to hell anyway, which children born of shame were, he might as well make the most of the journey.
He took his time walking around the table, watching as the rise and fall of her bosom increased in tempo as he neared, how her breaths became more shallow, her blinks less frequent. Taking the cue from her, he placed his fingers where hers had been, noted the slight dampness there, couldn’t decide if the sign of her nervousness pleased or bothered him. He certainly didn’t want her to be fearful of what was to come. He was tempted to throw it across the room like a large dart, but the clatter would destroy the mood he was striving to create.
So while tension and anticipation built within him, he casually ambled over to the rack and slipped the cue into place. When he turned around, it was to discover she hadn’t moved, not even an inch. If she didn’t appear to be on the verge of regretting her request to the point of possibly bolting, he might have taken a few more minutes to simply appreciate the beauty of her. Instead, he sauntered over, threaded his fingers through hers, and drew her over to one of the narrow ends of the table.
“You’re going to do it here?” she asked, her voice a bit thready, breathless, higher pitched than usual.
Quirking up a corner of his mouth, he glanced around. “This is as good a place as any.”
“Would a bed not be better?”
“Not for what I have in mind. Besides, the setting will make for a singular memory. I’ve little doubt you’ve had numerous encounters on a bed. I want to give you something different, something you’ve possibly never had before.”
She swallowed, the delicate muscles of her throat working as she simultaneously nodded and licked her lips.
Placing his hands on either side of her waist, he lifted her and placed her gently on the table, hovering on its precipice, her legs dangling over the edge. With his gaze holding hers, he skimmed his hands over her hips, along her outer thighs—
Guided them over her thighs until they were nestled in the valley between her legs and then parted them with a quickness and distance that had her eyes widening, her nostrils flaring, her lips parting. He stepped between them, her knees on either side of his hips, latched on to her arse, and pulled her forward until that honeyed spot he intended to torment was pressed up against him so she knew how desperately he wanted to possess her.
A farther widening of her eyes, flaring of her nostrils, parting of her lips—and now added to that a clutching of the front of his shirt as though she feared dropping into the abyss. It was his hope she would dive into it, unfettered and free.
Slowly, because he wanted none of his time with her rushed, wanted to sear every aspect of her into his memories, he began easing the pins from her hair, tossing them toward the far end of the table so she could easily find them if she wished to gather them to secure her hair later—although if he were successful with his plans, the last thing she’d be thinking about was tidying up. He wanted her completely undone and dazed.
The long heavy strands broke free of the few moorings remaining and tumbled down around her shoulders, revealing more of the strawberry coloring that so fascinated him. With one hand he gathered up the abundant tresses, buried his nose in them, and inhaled deeply the fragrance of strawberries.
“Did you eat strawberries as a child?”
“Yes. And now. They are my favorite. Especially the plump ones. I like when I bite into them and the juice begins to escape my mouth and I have to dart out my tongue to catch it before it gets away.”
He growled low. “You’re killing me.”
“Am I?” An innocence to her tone belied her earlier words.
Releasing his hold on her hair, aware of it falling around her like silken draperies stirred by the wind, he met her gaze. “You know you are.”
“I’ve never been called a minx before. It seems I should do something to earn the title.”
He skimmed his thumb over her chin, then followed a path from the center of the rounded curve up to her bottom lip. “One day I shall feed you an incredibly plump strawberry and lick away any juice that manages to escape.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
In spite of her position, he still had to dip his head to reach her lips, and he imagined he tasted strawberries rather than the brandy she’d sipped earlier. She wasn’t as shy tonight—or as inexperienced. She welcomed the thrust of his tongue with eagerness, taking hers on a journey through his mouth that had him growing all the harder. Christ, she was a quick study, turning the tables on him, making him want to shove back her skirts and have his lower body imitating the motions of his tongue, plunging, withdrawing, rolling over velvet and silk.
Her sighs echoed around him, her moans seemed to inhabit his soul, created a symphony of pitches that put the very finest musicians to shame. Until he drew his last breath, he would be able to recall the little noises she made. There was a sweetness to them, but also the hint of discovery, as though he were expanding her world.
God, he hoped so. Arrogant bugger that he was, he wanted to give her what no one else ever had. He wanted his to be the name on her lips as she drifted into her final slumber. Selfish on his part, to wish for her a life that was never more exquisite than what he delivered. But only fair because already he knew that the women who followed after her would pale in comparison.
