“Then say it. No man wants a reticent or missish mistress. Not even sure such a thing exists.” He looked faintly repulsed by the notion. “Men can have that in a wife. In their paramour they want more. Much more. They want bold. They want different.”
Different. She gave a single nod. Of course, these men would want something different, and she needed them to want her.
“I’m different,” she said confidently. She had always been told this. When she’d wanted to leave home and become a governess at eighteen, she’d heard that aplenty. She could have stayed home and married. Instead, she left to make her own way. Papa had supported her ambitions, even when everyone offered their disapproving opinions about his very different daughter—how odd she was, how objectionable, how no man would ever want to take her to wife.
Now, for once, being different would serve her well.
“Then say it,” he repeated.
Shoving down her inhibition, she held his gaze and exerted the slightest pressure over his manhood, proving that she was able—that she was up for this, that she could be the opposite of reticent.
She could be bold.
“Cock,” she echoed, the word dropping between them.
Impossibly, his manhood—cock—grew. Swelled against her hand. Her gaze flew down. “Oh . . .”
“It’s hard. For you.”
Her gaze shot back up to his mouth. That lovely mouth with its well-carved shape, the bottom lip enticingly full as he added, “You must be doing something right.”
She must be doing something right.
A sense of liberation washed through her. She could do this. He might be her tutor, but she was free to learn, to explore . . . to do anything she wanted here.
Anything she wanted with him.
Except for one thing, of course. There would be no full act of congress.
She lowered her head and murmured a scant inch from his lips as her fingers increased pressure on his manhood, “Perhaps you’ve been fooling yourself and you don’t know your own tastes.”
His eyes flared slightly, proving, to her great satisfaction, that she had managed to affect him even further.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
She arched one eyebrow. “Someone you’ve underestimated.”
“Clearly.”
Still watching him, she massaged him and learned the shape of him through his breeches. His breathing grew a little ragged. She eyed him closely, fascinated at the way his eyes went even darker, at the tiny tic of muscle working in his jaw.
She explored freely, tracing the outline of him, feeling no small sense of awe at the way his member swelled even more. It was fascinating and thrilling.
Her blood pumped a little quicker as her palm rubbed him up and down.
He snatched hold of her wrist. “We better stop that.”
“Oh.” Frowning, she studied him. This close, even in near darkness, she detected a ruddy flush to his cheeks.
He lowered her hand firmly back to her own lap—off him.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
“No. Just the opposite. You’re very . . .” His voice faded on a ragged breath. “We have other things to accomplish.”
“But—”
“Kissing,” he reminded, and she bit back her protest at that.
“Kissing?” Her stomach fluttered in anticipation.
“Yes. It’s fundamental and typically precedes intercourse. One should always know how to use their mouth.”
One should always know how to use their mouth.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Kissing him sounded . . . lovely.
She wanted to. Perhaps more than she should.
His gaze, bottomless and deep, gleamed in the flickering shadows of the room. “Go on then,” he prompted, his tone rather perfunctory. Cool and unaffected, at complete odds with the dark glitter of his eyes. “Show me what you can do.”
She was on his lap, in a perfect position to kiss him. He was so close. She breathed him in. He smelled heavenly. Like soap and the faint whiff of sandalwood. No overpowering aromas on him.
She had frequented many a rout as Clara’s companion and well knew the penchant of gentlemen to douse themselves in cologne in order to mask their unpleasant body odor—never mind that a simple bath would correct the matter. The duke was no such gentleman. Clearly he bathed. Underneath that cologne, she smelled only clean, tempting man.
She nuzzled the warm skin of his throat, grazing her lips against him on her journey to his mouth. Her hands crept around his neck, fingers walking up his nape, into his hair, diving into the silky strands—softness in a man who was so hard.
A small hiss of breath escaped him.
The sound did not make her hesitate in the least. On the contrary. Right now she was caught up in herself, in what she was doing, feeling. Her gaze dropped to that compelling mouth of his.
This was it. She was going to kiss him. She was going to do it. Her pulse fluttered wildly at her throat.
She was going to kiss a man who, she assumed, knew how to kiss properly. That was the reason she was here, after all. Why she chose him. Of course, he didn’t repulse her. There was that, too. He had a face that could send hearts pounding.
Get on with it, Marian.
Determined, she dipped her head and pressed her lips to his.
All thoughts fled at this first contact.
There was no thinking. No calculation. Just pure sensation.
She tasted the burn of sweet whisky on his lips. She caressed the slant of his mouth, the width, where it was full, where it tapered. The top lip and its delicious dip. The bottom lip.
Her hands tightened in his hair, rubbing the strands between her fingers. She pressed her breasts into his chest, compelled to get closer, and the simple act made her breath rush out.
She draped both arms around his shoulders, her hands playing in his hair as her mouth explored his, forgetting herself and all the rules drilled into her since her youth, primarily the one about unwed ladies not doing what she was doing—giving liberties to a man not her husband.
He exhaled a ragged breath, and his parted lips allowed her to deepen the kiss.
She had no idea what she was doing . . . if what she was doing was right—if anything she was doing was right at all. For all she knew, she was making a mess of it and he could be thinking how terrible she was at this and merely suffering her efforts.
“Is this correct?” she rasped, lifting away slightly to ask against his mouth.
“Use your tongue,” he directed, his soft, dark voice curling around her. His warm breath trembled slightly against her mouth. Just the word tongue made her stomach muscles clench.
She flexed her fingers in his hair. “M-my tongue?”
“Yes. Put it into my mouth.” His voice sounded strangled now. “Touch mine with it.”
Nodding uncertainly, she complied, curling her hand over the back of his scalp, her fingers spearing through his hair. Her tongue brushed his upper lip. Tentative at first, then more thoroughly. She traced the seam of his lips. She didn’t know what compelled her to use her teeth, but she did—lightly worrying the tender skin, intermittently nibbling and licking, licking and nibbling.
He growled softly, his hands tightening on her back, gripping her through her clothes, ratcheting up her excitement and bringing her in to him, hauling her ever closer.
She was well aware that he wasn’t fully kissing her back. Not yet. She was the one leading the way here, kissing him, her tongue foraying into his mouth, testing, exploring.
She surmised his lack of participation was deliberate and all part of the lesson, but it was no less frustrating. As enjoyable as this was, she wanted more from the experience. She wanted . . . more.
She adjusted to straddle him, her knees slipping down on either side of his hips as much as her skirts and space would allow.
She lifted her hands to his face, fingertips sweeping his bristly jaw. She continued exploring him with her tongu
e, delving inside his mouth.
It wasn’t awful at all. It wasn’t disgusting.
It was the opposite of awful and disgusting.
She pulled back for an astonished moment—shocked at the sensation of her tongue against his.
It felt intimate. Something lovers did. Wicked.
She knew that’s what she wanted—what this was all about, why she was here, after all.
Wickedness was the order of the day. She doubted there was a courtesan who didn’t know how to be wicked.
But the idea of intimacy was so very different than the reality of it.
She searched his face, still holding it in her hands. His breathing was as labored as hers, and she longed to go back to that mouth and keep kissing.
She liked kissing. She liked kissing him. A great deal. Perhaps ladies shouldn’t. But then, she wasn’t here to be a lady. Quite the opposite.
She was here to learn all his wicked ways . . . to become wicked herself.
“Not bad,” he remarked. “Still a little cautious with your tongue, though. You can be more aggressive. Cast out your fear. There’s no judgment here. You’re free to do whatever you want.”
Whatever she wanted. No fear. No judgment.
Suddenly she felt lighter, buoyed by his words.
Freedom. Something she coveted. Something she prized perhaps above all things. If not, she would not even be here. She would have married Mr. Lawrence shortly after her father’s death. She would have surrendered herself to him with no hesitation and put an end to her family’s woes.
But she couldn’t. Perhaps that made her selfish, but she needed her independence like she needed air.
Right now, however, air felt like a commodity. Her chest was tight, her breath coming out thin and hard-fought as her eyes traveled his handsome face.
He wasn’t clean-shaven like most men of his station. Just another thing he seemed to eschew. Shaving. Propriety. A properly furnished home. A wife. Family.
They gazed at each other, her face probably closer to this man than it had ever been to any person. So close she could admire the crescent sweep of his lashes over his dark, compelling eyes. The proud line of his nose. The mouth he was waiting for her to taste again. And his hard body under her, so solid and strong.
Her fingers fluttered over his cheeks, reveling in the ungentlemanly scratch of his beard against her palms.
Everything struck a visceral chord in her.
Her muscles loosened, liquefied, and she was aware of her own heartbeat—strong and fast beneath her breast.
The world fell away.
He wasn’t a duke.
She wasn’t an impoverished, desperate woman. And this wasn’t a lesson. It wasn’t a game. It was real. As real as anything. The most real thing she had ever experienced.
They were a man and a woman in the throes of the most basic act and there was no going back. Everything would be different after this. Everything.
She would be different.
Chapter 11
Nate stared back at her, wondering, hoping he did not look as she did—wild-eyed and dazed. Bewildered, even.
He had done this sort of thing plenty of times. He should not feel bewildered. Nothing about any of this should bewilder him. She should not. He certainly should not feel so rattled by one country virgin. Except he was.
Her flushed face and kissable lips did things to him. She was lovely. Suddenly he felt a fool for saying she was not to his taste. He could not take his eyes off her. Everything about her mesmerized him.
And she was so bloody responsive. More than he could have imagined. Her handling of his cock had been artless but no less arousing. He throbbed and ached to strip off her gown and ease himself inside her welcoming heat. He could seduce her. He felt certain of that. Her body was eager and willing.
But she expressly did not want that. He wouldn’t go against her wishes. He wouldn’t be that man.
He had not expected resisting her to pose such difficulty.
She might be a novice, but intimacy was intuitive for her. She was a sexual creature. Not every woman had the appetite for shagging. He knew that. But she was a natural.
“How old are you?” he asked in a rough voice. She still held his face and those caressing palms were damned distracting—provocative.
“Twenty-four.”
“I thought you older,” he murmured. She was self-assured and mature.
“What?” Outrage sharpened her voice. “What manner of man says such a thing to a woman?”
He chuckled. “Did I offend you?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I am angry.”
“We deal in honesty, you and I.”
Her frown softened, somewhat mollified by his words. She was a direct person. Clearly she appreciated forthrightness.
He shifted slightly, trying to keep his hands from freely roaming her. Exploring her body right now would not aid his weakening self-control.
“How old are you?” she countered in a faintly accusing tone.
“Thirty-two.”
“You look older.” Amusement tinged her voice.
“You’re just saying that because I did.”
“No,” she denied, and he couldn’t help thinking she looked adorable in her indignation. “With your hard mien, I thought you older. Aren’t most noblemen your age married and busy filling the nursery with heirs and spares?” She shrugged. “That’s my experience with the aristocracy, at any rate.”
He considered her words, wondering what her experience with the aristocracy could be, but then he reminded himself that this wasn’t a relationship where they delved into each other’s histories. This was a diversion. A pleasant diversion, and he’d win a wager while he was at it, too.
“Do I strike you as most noblemen?” he asked.
Her soft fingers continued their movement on his face—as though she could not touch him enough.
“At first, yes, but now . . .” She paused in consideration. “No. No, you do not,” she whispered in a beguiling voice he felt as much as he heard—like her stroking fingers on his skin. Both were damn seductive and he could not resist touching her in turn.
He liked that she didn’t see him as a duke. At least not primarily as a duke. That was not the case with most women. Usually it was the only thing people saw when they looked at him.
The fact that this woman saw something else in him had Nate reaching for her.
Even Mary Beth had not been able to look at him without seeing his title. When they were children she had not seen it, but he suspected when he showed up ten years later to propose, she had. She had seen it and perhaps only it as he got down on one knee before her.
It pained him to acknowledge that about his late wife. She’d cared for him. He knew that. But there had not been ease between them. She’d been concerned with propriety, and not comfortable sharing their marital bed. He didn’t blame her for that. She didn’t know any better. She hadn’t known how to enjoy that kind of intimacy. She had been brought up to believe that copulation was a burden a wife must bear—not something to be enjoyed. He blamed himself that he had not been able to please her.
Marian Langley looked at him with fire in her eyes. Arousal hummed from her skin. She might be a gently bred young woman, but she was built for passion.
She wasn’t Mary Beth. Nor was she a woman paid to endure his touch.
She wanted him. That was real. Her desire was real.
He had to touch her. Had to feel her.
He started with her hair. He seized onto a loose lock dangling over her cheek. One of many things about her that had been beckoning him. It felt like silk between his fingers.
Her blue eyes watched him, wide and luminescent. The air between them thickened, growing as charged as the sky during a storm.
He had held himself still while she rubbed his cock. While she kissed him.
No more.
He wound a finger around that lock of hair and gently tugged her closer, claiming her mouth, us
ing his tongue this time, showing her all that a kiss could be.
He kissed her harder, deeper.
His cock swelled against her thigh, and he knew that wasn’t right. It wasn’t where it wanted to be, buried inside her.
Evidently guided by her own needs, Marian wiggled, adjusting as much as space and her hampering garments would allow, until he was directly at the apex of her thighs. Better. But still not enough. Not with her skirts bunched up between them. It was too much barrier.
She whimpered, the sound desperate, tormented, and he understood. He understood because his own body was burning for her.
She worked her hips in a clumsy rhythm, grinding down, seeking . . . attempting to ease her own ache despite limitations of clothing. Inexperienced or not, everything she was doing lit him aflame.
Still kissing her, his hands dropped to her waist, gripping her, holding her for him.
He pushed his hips up, seeking relief for his stiff cock, trying to reach her through all their infernal clothes.
Too. Many. Clothes.
She cried out into his mouth, clinging tightly to his shoulders as he thrust against her. Gasping, her mouth broke from his. She buried her face in his neck. Her sweet lips kissed a fiery path over the side of his throat, nibbling along his skin, and he shivered, closing his eyes on a groan.
She was good. This artless girl. She made him forget himself.
His hands flexed in the fistfuls of her skirts, gathering them, tugging them up so that he could reach her . . . have her.
Suddenly he stopped. He let go of her skirts and lifted his head. Pulled away to look down at her—at her heavy-lidded gaze and pink cheeks and swollen lips.
She was too good, and that made her dangerous.
“Y-Your Grace?” she queried.
He gulped down a labored breath, flexing and opening his hands, searching for his usual composure.
He seized her wrists and pushed her away from him.
She blinked, disoriented, as though he had ripped her from the euphoria of a dream. Except it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. He’d been swept up in it, too.
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