Heartless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  How many decisions had she made beneath the crushing weight of all her responsibilities? How many times had she done something she had not wanted to do because she thought it was her duty, what she needed to do for everyone else who relied upon her?

  Bridget had never realized it until this moment, but now she saw how easily and completely she had trapped herself. How she had fashioned herself a prison from which there was no escape.

  Here, now, was her chance. This moment, this man, were hers for the taking.

  They seemed to move as one. Or perhaps she moved first. Perhaps he did. All Bridget knew was that in the next breath, their lips met in a kiss. It was slow at first, a sweet meeting of mouths, his lips fitting to hers, his lower lip between the seam of hers. The kiss was languorous. Decadent. They took their time, devouring each other long and slow. Savoring.

  Their tongues had not even touched, and she had never experienced a more intimate kiss in her life.

  He made a low sound of need, and she felt it in her core. The kiss deepened, their mouths opening, hands wandering over each other’s bodies in worshipful caresses. He wore nothing but a nightshirt and she her chemise, leaving two thin fabric barriers between them. Their tongues tangled. One of his hands found the hem of her chemise and dragged it upward, his warmth trailing up her calf, over her knee, all the way to her thigh.

  His caresses traveled higher still, until his fingers brushed over her sex. The breath hissed from her lungs, her body jerking into his touch. Just one glancing caress, and she was ready to come undone. He had touched her before. Had pleasured her before. But something about this time, this enchanted morning, with the walls separating them briefly torn down, heightened her excitement into a brilliant, blinding crescendo.

  He kissed her hard and deep before tearing his mouth from hers, his breathing harsh. His gaze was almost black as he met hers. “I want you, Bridget.”

  Four simple words.

  Wicked.

  Words she ought to ignore.

  Words she felt between her thighs as a rush of wetness, a hungering for more. He had promised to be a gentleman, and he had kept his word last night. But by the tempting morning light, she did not want a gentleman. She wanted a man, unrepentant and wild, dangerous and delicious. She wanted him. Dear God, how she wanted him, her heartless duke, the enigma she had married, the answer to every question rioting inside her.

  Bridget kissed him again, kissed him hard and deep. Kissed him until her lips were bruised, and their breaths mingled in heavy pants. Kissed him as his fingers found her aching flesh with ease, parting her folds, discovering the knot at her center. He touched her there, a stroke, a swirl, and she felt as if she were lit up from within, as if she were glowing, a house on fire, burning with her own, destructive need.

  “I want you too,” she whispered back.

  He tore his nightshirt over his head, then he hauled her chemise away as well. As one, they moved until Bridget was on her back with Leo atop her. Naked flesh came into contact with naked flesh. Something firm and hard and hot prodded her lower belly. New kisses began where the old kisses ended.

  They were voracious, equally matched in their passion. Her hands were on his shoulders, his back. In a sudden burst of daring, she found his buttocks, and his flesh was as firm and tempting as it had appeared the evening before when she had shamelessly watched him get into his bath.

  His tongue was inside her mouth, and she sucked. Moaned. Her hips moved in their own rhythm as his questing fingers continued to play with the bundle of flesh that was so receptive to his touch. She jerked against him, wanting more. Wanting harder, faster, more, more, more.

  Olc. Wrong. This was so wrong.

  She knew it, and yet, she could not stop…

  Ceart. Right.

  It was also so right. So very, hopelessly, unbelievably, deliciously right.

  He broke the kiss, dragging his mouth over her throat like a brand. Open and hungry. Licking. Sucking. Biting. And she could not get enough. Beneath him, she bucked and writhed.

  “Bridget,” he whispered her name, half prayer, half epithet, as he kissed the curve of her breast, palmed and cupped it. His tongue swirled around her nipple, making it stand erect, causing her breath to quicken.

  A pulsing ache pulled in her belly, almost as if a cord within her had been drawn into a triple knot. “Leo.”

  Her fingers found his hair, smooth and silky and thick. She tugged, earning a groan from him, and then she recalled that he liked pain. Did it make him feel alive? Make his blood rush through his body? Make him weak? Guided by instinct, she raked her nails down his back, then dug them in, scoring a path back up to his shoulders once more.

  He sucked her nipple into his mouth, the hot, wet tug almost undoing her. He stroked her with increasing swiftness and pressure. She moved against him, arching, thrusting, overwhelmed by sensation. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

  As if he heard her unspoken request, the tentative teasing of his caresses changed. He slicked his forefinger over the swollen bud of her sex, flicking over it in rapid, strong motions, finding the sensitive place beneath the plump nub. He worked her there, applying firm strokes with an increased pace that made her wild. Bridget jerked against him, thighs spread. The tip of his middle finger found her entrance, dipping against her channel with delicious pressure only to withdraw. Every instinct inside her told her to move her hips, bring that finger inside her. But when she tried, he had already removed his touch.

  It was maddening. She wanted him. All of him.

  And she wanted him now. Inside her. Claiming her. Bringing her to the edge before she shattered in delicious release. He sucked her nipple once more before kissing a path of fire down her body. His hands found her inner thighs, spreading them wide. His gaze was hot upon her, the most private part of her. A part no one had ever seen.

  She knew she ought to feel some semblance of shame for allowing herself to be so revealed before him, but she could not summon anything more than a raw, unadulterated wave of desire. Not even a protest. Not a sound. All she could feel was how badly she wanted that sinful mouth. All she could do was revel in the possessive way he looked at her, as if she were his, as if he wanted to devour her.

  “More beautiful than I imagined,” he murmured, and she was not certain if he spoke the words to himself or to her.

  He had thought about her, then? Had he lain alone in his bed at night as she had, thinking of this passion between them, longing to give in? She lost the ability to wonder any more when he kissed the curve of her belly, then trailed a scorching path to the apex of her thighs. Then lower still, not stopping until his beautiful head was framed by her pale, spread legs.

  He glanced up at her, and his eyes were obsidian, holding her in their thrall. “I’m going to taste your perfect, pink cunny now. I’m going to lick you and suck you until you spend, and I want you to watch.”

  A trickle of wetness seeped from her core. His hot breath fanned over her in a tantalizing caress as he spoke. His mouth was so close, his wicked words bringing her ever closer to the edge. She felt swollen and needy and greedy, every part of her body tensed, ready and willing for whatever pleasure he would visit upon her.

  She moaned and attempted to rock toward him, but his hands on her thighs kept her from making contact with him.

  “I’ll give you everything you want, but you have to obey me.” His thumb stroked over her engorged flesh, making her entire body twitch. “If you stop watching, I stop. I want there to be no doubt who is bringing you pleasure. Understood?” He gave her another slow, maddening swipe with his thumb.

  Bridget ought to object to his demand she obey him, but there was something about the deep, delicious sound of that word in his voice which heightened her desire. She cried out, half whimper, half plea for more, even though she didn’t know what more was. All she knew was she wanted it. Wanted anything he had to give. He blew over her flesh.

  “Say yes, husband, Bridget.”

 
He was pushing her, and she wanted him, but even made desperate by the sensations he brought to life within her, she balked at his demand. She was aching, needing something she did not understand. Her breasts and nipples felt full and needy, so she cupped them, and it felt so good she rolled her hips.

  His thumb rubbed her in a circular motion, then up and down. The friction was delicious, but then he stopped just when she felt the slow buildup tightening within her.

  “Say yes husband, darling, and play with your nipples while you watch me.”

  Oh God.

  She couldn’t say it.

  Couldn’t do it.

  Couldn’t not do it.

  “Yes husband,” she said at last, pinching both her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers as he watched.

  The words and the action heightened everything. More wetness dripped from her center. Leo made a growl of approval in his throat. “Now I’m going to give you what you want. Don’t stop watching, and don’t stop touching yourself.”

  His authoritative tone did nothing to diminish the fires burning through her blood. She wanted him so much he could say anything, do anything, and she would watch and she would tell him whatever he wanted to hear. Bridget was merely that desperate for this man, that drawn to him, that owned by him.

  His tongue flicked over her then, over the sensitive bud hidden between her folds. It was shocking. Beautiful. It felt as if she had been catapulted into heaven for a brief, incendiary moment.

  And then she fell down, landing in iniquity and sin, and there was no greater joy. Nothing she could ever experience again in her life would be better than the Duke of Carlisle’s tongue upon her there, in that secret place. It was a revelation. The wet slide, the skilled play…oh. Too good. Far too good. She was lost. Close to breaking. Her body had tightened, and she knew she would fly apart at the slightest provocation.

  He moaned against her, as if he were as lost to desire as she was, and the sound heightened her every sense. All the while, he never broke eye contact. Nor did she, watching him as he pleasured her, torturing her breasts as he had asked. She had never imagined her own touch could feel so good, but with their gazes connected and his tongue lapping over her, she felt almost as if the touch were his instead.

  His mouth closed over the taut bud that longed for him the most. He sucked and sucked. Used his teeth until she was crying out, squeezing her nipples into hard pink buds that longed for his tongue. And still he continued, undeterred. The guttural sounds he emitted made her wild. It was as if he relished every lick, every suck. As if he could not get enough of her.

  And she knew the feeling well, for she was certain she could never get enough of him either. Not enough of his kiss, his mouth, his tongue, his beautiful body, those long fingers, the full, massive length of him, hard and ready. She wanted to suck it. To take him in her mouth and pleasure him the same as he was doing to her. She wanted him to lose himself in the same way, and she wanted to be the one responsible, and…

  Oh dear heavens, oh dear heavens…

  She was going to spend. The spring was coiled, tightened. He had worked her into a fine frenzy, and he had done it so well. She lost control. The dam inside her burst, and she cried out, shuddering as a great rush of pleasure washed over her. She came hard and fast, the sweet, liquid rush of her release leaving her losing herself in the oblivion of his dark, possessive gaze. He licked her seam, lapping up every last drop that emerged from her.

  “I could lick your pretty little cunny like this forever.”

  Dear God.

  She wanted to respond, but he had robbed her of the capacity for speech. She was boneless, weightless, mindless. And his words… They left her without words of her own. They left her with an answering, delicious ache inside her. If he wanted to use his tongue upon her in such a delightful way forever, he would not find her an objector.

  He kissed her sex, making another deep sound of satisfaction in his throat that she felt all the way to her toes. And then he and his wicked mouth and hands moved back up her body in slow, sweet torture. Kisses on her belly. A tongue in her navel. Kisses higher. He gently removed her hands from her breasts and sucked one nipple into his mouth, before biting the other. And then his mouth went higher still, finding her throat, his lips pressing over the place where her heartbeat hammered against her skin. He kissed it. Sucked.

  “I want inside you,” he said against her skin. “You are mine now, Bridget O’Malley. I mean to keep you.”

  She was not meant to feel an exquisite rush of something tender and bright and beautiful inside her at his declaration. Something warm and unexpected, piercing her heart. Something that felt a lot like love.

  Love. Grá.

  She loved him.

  As the realization fell upon her, she clutched him in a tight embrace, holding him to her as if she could keep him here forever. Atop her, believing in her, being the man she needed him to be.

  It was not too late. She could tell him no. She could leave his bed, his chamber, his house, before she did irreparable damage to him. To them both. But the weakness in her would not allow her to make any decision save one.

  “I am yours, Leo.”

  He groaned. His fingers came between them, sliding through her folds. She was so slick, the sounds of him toying with her were wet and luscious in the chamber. The sweet perfume of her was redolent in the air. Her hip hooked around his waist naturally, bringing them closer. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, reaching her lips at last. Their mouths fused, open and hungry. She tasted herself on his tongue.

  Round and round circled his fingers, the pressure and the pace enough to make her explode in no time. She reached her pinnacle, jerking against his knowing caresses. Tremors shook through her, the passion white-hot. Her eyes closed, and she moaned into his mouth, never having broken the kiss. More moisture dripped from her, coating his fingers, and this time, he did not stop playing with her as he had before. This time, he continued, finding her channel. He stroked her there, running his knowing touch over the dip where he was made to seat himself.

  He broke the kiss, gazing down at her, breathing harshly. “I need you.”

  She stared into his gaze. “Yes.”

  And then, his fingers were replaced by the head of his cock. It was larger, warmer, smoother than she had expected. Firm and bold, brushing over her entrance. Her hips undulated, seeking what only he could give her. Seeking him. He gave her what she wanted, easing in slowly. Just the tip of him, and she was stretched wide. The sensation was strange yet good. He pressed deeper, sliding inside, and she felt tight, hot, as if she might burst.

  He stilled. “Have I hurt you?” His voice was as strained as his expression.

  “No.” She caught his beloved face in her hands. “You could never hurt me.”

  But I could hurt you. I will hurt you.

  Nay. She would not think of that now. Not in this moment of divine connection. She had never felt closer to another.

  His hips rocked, and he drove himself inside her farther. “Christ, banshee. You feel like heaven. So tight and wet and…fuck.”

  She liked his vulgar word. Liked the way he was losing his rigid grip upon his control. She wanted him to lose it entirely. Guided by instinct, she moved beneath him, her inner muscles clenching, bringing him inside. “All the way, Leo. I want you inside me so deep.”

  It was the only prompt he needed.

  With a cry, he thrust. The barrier of her maidenhead was rent, and she knew a sting of pain as it gave way. But then, his fingers were right there on her flesh, flicking over her swollen bud, chasing away the hurt. All she felt was full, so full of him.

  “Did it hurt, love?” He kissed her. “Tell me if I should stop.”

  She kissed him back. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

  He began moving inside her, and everything changed. In and out, slow and steady and deep he drove. As one, they arched and flexed, gave and took. Her body was ready, and when the next climax claimed her, it was viol
ent and potent. She clenched on his cock, and he thrust deeper as she exploded around him, her flesh pulsing with the force of her release.

  He rode her with long, slow strokes, kissing her, loving her with his body and his lips at once. And then, he stiffened, and inside her she felt the warm, hot rush of his seed, filling her, marking her as his.

  She held him to her as the last waves of his release subsided, wondering how she could ever bear to leave him now.

  Cinniúint. Fate.

  He was hers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leo slept the slumber of the dead.

  When he woke again, it was with no notion of how much time had passed. For a beat, he did not even possess a recollection of where he was or how he had found himself there. His sleep, ordinarily plagued by nightmares, had been oddly dreamless, and it took him a beat to recall he was at Blayton House in London. In his own chamber. That earlier that morning, he had made a decision which would either prove his gravest mistake or his ultimate redemption.

  Sunlight splashed around the edges of the window dressings. The time of day could be late morning or afternoon, as the curtains were layered for the times when he needed to fall into bed during daylight hours and sleep, following days without it.

  His body was replete with the deep sense of bliss that always visited him after a thorough fucking. And this morning had been nothing if not thorough. It had also been life-changing, in more than one sense. He had consummated his marriage. Had experienced the most decadent, soul-searing rush of physical release he had ever known. Both of these things would be cause for celebration in ordinary circumstances.

  These were not, however, ordinary circumstances.

  Stretching languorously beneath the bedclothes, he reached for her, only to find her side of the bed empty and cool to the touch, bereft of all signs of her, save the lingering scent of bergamot and citrus. He threw back the counterpane to make certain he had not imagined losing himself inside Bridget’s body. The rusty splotches of her virgin blood were there, as much proof as he required.