The Seduction of His Wife

by Tiffany Clare

  I’m ashamed to say I hate you. I hate what you’ve turned our lives into. I hate that I’m nothing to you.

  This time when the knock came at the adjoining bedchamber door, Emma was surprised. Richard had not been at the dinner table tonight. Did he come to find out more about the duke? Or did he wish to spend the night with her?

  “Come in,” she called. She had still prepared herself for him tonight and climbed into bed to stop nervously pacing the floor. She sighed. She was always hoping for more, wasn’t she?

  The door opened, a relief of candlelight revealing the frame of her husband, so strong and imposing as he stood in the doorway. The word virile came to mind. Her breath caught and her heart beat a little faster. She’d probably take the smallest crumbs of affection if she couldn’t have everything she wanted. What a pathetic creature she was. Especially after his treatment of her earlier. And his accusations. She shouldn’t want anything from him.

  She patted the empty space near the edge of the mattress, beckoning him closer. She needed to feel his heat, his strength, close to her.

  “I thought maybe you’d forgo your visit tonight,” she said without emotion.

  Eyebrow raised, he sauntered closer on bare feet. Instead of sitting, he stared down at her with an expression she could make neither head nor tails of. What was his mood tonight? Was he still angry? Or was everything forgotten from earlier?

  “Wasn’t I clear that you needed to cut off all contact with your lovers?”

  “Nathan and I are not lovers.” It was the wrong thing to say. To use the duke’s Christian name. Richard’s lips thinned, and his jaw visibly clenched.

  She turned her head away and waited for him to reprimand her. Even though she was the innocent party here. She knew that most people, catching her in an embrace with Nathan, would assume them to be lovers. It wasn’t really Richard’s fault for thinking the worst.

  As though he heard her thoughts, he said, “You’ve sung this song before, assuring me there have been no lovers. I never expected you to live like a nun, Emma. I was gone a long time. What I did expect was for you to obey me as my wife when I asked you to cut off all threads to your paramours.”

  Was that the reason he used to justify his affairs over the years? Loneliness? The desperate want of another’s touch? It was his own damn fault he never came back to her.

  “I shouldn’t have to explain myself, Richard. Nathan was the only friend I had when I was introduced to society. He befriended an awkward young woman when no one else would talk to the wife of a man heavily involved in trade.”

  “A friend does not embrace you as Vane did.”

  Perhaps not. But hers and Vane’s friendship was different from most. Yes, she’d given him a nude of her likeness years ago. The gesture had been more about his love of beautiful paintings—it was a small token for his kindness and friendship over the years. It was a most unusual gift but somehow fitting for their most unusual friendship.

  Richard tilted her chin up so he could see into her eyes. A flicker of excitement shivered down the length of her body, puckering her nipples at his simple, light touch. There had never been any other man for her except her husband. It had always been just him. She’d never admit such a weakness to him, though.

  “I plan on spending the evening with you, wife.”

  He tossed her covers aside, letting out a rush of air from his lungs as he stared down at her form. She’d left the ties loose on the chemise so he could see the plumpness of her breast pressed against the thin material.

  “Very pretty,” he said hoarsely.

  She automatically covered her chest with one arm, more to shield the evidence of her arousal than for modesty’s sake. Lifting the edge of her chemise, he ran his knuckles over her knee and thigh. She closed her eyes and basked in the gentle touch.

  “I’d prefer it if you greeted me without a stitch on.”

  She scooted up the bed when he knelt next to her. Putting her back to the headboard. His attempt to pull her closer failed when she pushed his hand away.

  “You are always accusing me of awful things, then trying to seduce me. You should make up your mind on how you feel.” She folded her legs under her. “I’m not some nightingale you can treat so cruelly.”

  “This isn’t cruelty. This is my home, Emma. When I walk into my parlor I should not see you in another man’s arms. As for the seduction, I’m a man, which means I generally have one thing on my mind.” In demonstration of this, Richard ran his knuckle over the firm tip of her breast. “What I’m doing is considered fun. You do want to enjoy this, don’t you?”

  Of course she wanted to enjoy this. She did enjoy this. Instead of giving truth to his words, she said, “There is no fun to be had.” Not while he teased her and in the next breath accused her of adultery. Not when he only graced her bed in the hope of an heir.

  “Ah, is that what you think?” He reached for her ankle and pulled it out from under her slowly. She let him slide her beneath him. How could she refuse him when she wanted to hold him tight along her body and feel his weight heavy upon her breast? His hands spreading her thighs, and massaging at her breasts?

  “I must be more diligent in educating you in these matters.” His tone was teasing.

  “Will you escape me when you’re finished? Like you did last night?” She slid her bottom toward the edge of the bed. Regretfully, his hold on her foot fell away with the move.

  Richard wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back tight along the length of his body. It was the warmth she’d been desperate to feel moments ago.

  “I’m not the one trying to escape, Emma.”

  She froze in his arms. How true that was. Simple fact of the matter was that she didn’t know what she wanted from him. One minute she needed him to hold her, the next she wanted to hide from him. Resisting him was near impossible. She’d not deny him tonight. She’d not run.

  The heat of his chest against her back aroused her senses. He rolled her onto the bed and pressed his weight atop her. Trapped. Willingly. He watched her with his intent gaze, one hand reaching forward to pull a chunk of her hair forward. Her head tilted in the direction of his hand.

  Running his fingers through the curls, he did nothing more than stare at the golden lock he had captured. He liked whatever it was he saw, she knew, because his eyes were half-lidded, his breathing a little faster. The bulge pressed to her thigh full of want.

  Tipping her chin back, he ran his knuckles all the way down her throat, then up. He didn’t do this once, but continuously. The pulse at the base of her neck thumped faster. The tenderness of the moment made her shiver despite the warmth of the room and the heat of his body. His hand trailed low enough to brush over the distended tip of her breast before moving back up to her neck. When his lips pressed against her erratic pulse, a light tingling traveled the length of her body.

  Should she be ashamed that it felt so good to be touched and kissed like this? Ashamed that she wished her husband would do this to her more often? Steal the moments in the light of day if he must?

  He nudged out her left knee with his hand; then his legs were between hers, making sure they stayed open. She wouldn’t pretend modesty now. This was exactly where she wanted him.

  He loosened his trousers and pushed them down his lean hips. She stretched her arms out to help divest him of his clothes. The feel of his strong thighs beneath her fingers sent a thrill of excitement coursing through her whole body and a rush of fluid to her core. She felt the deep pulse of need between her thighs and wanted him to press himself inside to ease it, but she held back, wanting to touch and explore his form. To learn his body as well as he had learned hers.

  She half sat up on the pillows that were supporting her and reached around his back to run her hands over the firm, sinewy globes of his buttocks. Her husband was a well-formed man. Painting him would be no hardship for her eyes or her hands. She wasn’t ready to touch the thick, heavy flesh jutting out in front of her. The crown w
as smooth-looking and the skin covering it slowly eased back the longer she stared.

  Looking up to her husband, she wet her lips. What would he do if she kissed the flush tip of his manhood?

  “God, Emma. You’ll be the death of me.”

  His hands were rough as he grasped her hips, slid her down the bed, and positioned himself above her, rotating his pelvis, teasing the tip of his cock against her wet folds.

  Breath hitched by his sudden action, she reached out her hands and grasped onto his straining forearms, arching her body up to meet his. One of his hands reached between their bodies and cupped her breast, his middle and forefingers lightly pinching her nipple through the cambric chemise.

  Suddenly the gentleness was gone from his touch as he grasped her hip tightly. She reveled in the fact that she could do that to him. Make him lose a little bit of control. Make him need this as badly as she did.

  He pushed forward so quickly she lost her breath on a moan. He was up to the hilt, groaning against her throat, kissing it every now and again and giving her that familiar thrill of pleasure she was beginning to crave in her gut, in her mons.

  * * *

  She was always so fucking wet. He’d meant to go slower tonight. Draw out their evening so there wasn’t any awkward silence afterward when they lay together. But the second her fluids moistened the tip of his cock, he was a man starved for her body. He thrust forward in a need for more.

  He wanted to laze about here all night and see how much wetter he could make her. Feel the small pressures of her sheath around his prick till he came. Her breath caught the moment he’d pressed his lips to her neck. He was quickly learning what pleasured his lady wife: She liked it when he touched her throat. Her breasts, too. God, he’d never get enough of their firm roundness.

  He pressed his lips to her nape again with a deep groan. Her pulse beat furiously beneath, and he couldn’t resist taking a small lick and scraping his teeth along the thumping vein. Her skin tasted like the floral body cream she wore, a little bitter against his tongue, but under that he tasted the saltiness of her perspiration just breaking the surface. The room smelled of sex; the sweetest smell in all the world. A heady, perfect mixture to his senses.

  The texture of her skin was smooth and soft. He lowered his hand to cup her breast again. She stiffened a little beneath him when he tore the opening of her chemise to touch her bare flesh this time. He needed to get the damn thing off her. He wanted the press of her breasts against his chest. Slickness of sweat to build and aid the slide of their bodies the longer he fucked her.

  Cursing himself for his hurry, he knelt between her legs and held her waist between his hands to guide her body along his rigid length.

  His eyes feasted on the short, crisp hairs covering her womanhood. With one hand, he spread the lips of her sex open to see her pink flesh ride along his cock. His thumb rotated over the swollen red nub. What he’d give to suck that bit of flesh into his mouth and tickle it with his tongue.

  Her body was tense as a cello bow with his each driving push into her body. She was close. He unsheathed himself long enough to wet her clitoris with the slickness covering his prick before slamming back into her. Thumb pressed and rotating against her swollen nub, he rode her harder.

  Pulling her hips higher off the bed, he grasped her buttocks tight and ground their bodies together. He leaned over her to taste her skin, sucking on the pearly tip of her titty through the linen.

  There was no holding back. Her body was so damn sweet, so damn perfect his balls drew up tight against his body and he exploded in her.

  Well, shit.

  He ground into her cunny and rode out his release. When the pumping finally ceded, he realized that she was tense beneath him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She took a great many minutes to answer his question. So long he wondered what in hell he’d done wrong, aside from finishing before her.

  Finally, she replied, “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not. You’re just different tonight. I’m sorry. I must be doing something wrong.” There were tears in her voice. Unfamiliar with causing tears in a woman through acts of congress, he stroked her leg as he would a skittish mare.

  “I want you to find release.”

  Afraid he’d frighten her with any bold words of exactly what he wanted to do to her, he said no more. If he could excite her to a fever pitch, maybe she would relax in his company.

  He held himself over her body, keeping most of his weight from crushing her. He was not willing to move from the warm haven between her legs. For Christ’s sake, her inner muscles still milked at his cock.

  They were far from done. If he left, her thoughts would be free to wander, and he’d give her no reason to think or compare him to any other man—namely the duke. So help him God, he’d kill the blighter the next time he dared to touch his wife.

  He was a little shocked to realize he wanted to spend the night in his wife’s company. He’d never spent a night with any woman. The women he’d enjoyed in the past had been nothing to him but a means to an end. To be counted amongst Emma’s friends meant more to him now than anything, including his business.

  The knife wound to his side must have addled his brain. He’d never been the sentimental type, and here he was sprouting sweet platitudes while he thought about Emma.

  Truth of the matter was, he did want more. Sometime in the last few days, he’d decided he wanted his wife all to himself. Maybe it was his near-death experience. Or was it part of growing older? Quite possibly it was seeing his wife in the arms of another man that sparked this added possessiveness, this desire he had to own her.

  Why had he wasted twelve years? Had he been less cowardly as a youth, she might be happier and more willing to receive his attentions now. Had he contacted her even once during their marriage, she might be warmer toward him. His own bloody fault she was at odds with him. He excelled at ruining good people.

  He didn’t like where his thoughts were going. He pulled out of her body. Lying on his back, he stared up at the blackness the canopy created. The taper on the candle was burning out and giving off less and less light. His breath had long ago calmed so he could hear her fidgeting with the ribbons on her torn chemise. He should have torn the damn thing off so he could suck the tips of her breasts into his mouth. His prick reacted to the thought. Filling out and ready for another round with his pretty wife. He ignored the desire to act on that thought, for now. There were things that needed to be said between them.

  “I haven’t done well by you, have I?”

  He needed to hear the truth from her lips.

  Rolling back to his side, he rested his head in his hand. The curtains remained open, but what little moonlight shone through did nothing to illuminate the still form of his wife. The rise and fall of her chest was so minimal that he almost reached his hand out to make sure she hadn’t fallen into a deep slumber.

  “I don’t necessarily see,” she answered, “how you could have done me wrong.”

  “Who knows what my point is.” He flopped back down on the bed, staring up at nothing as thoughts tumbled over in his mind. Would she ask him to leave now that he’d finished having her? “Do you hate me? Hate what I did to you?”

  She sighed and put one hand between them on the bed. “We were so young when we married. When you left, I thought you disliked the idea of marriage. I was barely a woman, for heaven’s sake. A mere child, really.”

  “What did you think after a year? After five years, even, of not hearing from me? You couldn’t have remained indifferent. I don’t think anyone could.”

  He rested his hand over hers. Needing to touch her.

  “Hate is too strong a word,” she said truthfully. “Angry would have been more apt to how I felt. At first, I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. Nor what I could do to make you come back. Then I grew up, and I understood the unfair predicament you’d been put in by marrying me, and me y
ou. I was angry for a long time.”

  The greater question was if she was still angry after all these years. “There was nothing you could have done to make me stay. As you said, we were both young when we took our vows.”

  She sat up, pulling a pillow into her lap, to cover her bare legs, he thought. He stayed where he was. Watching her. He studied her pale skin in the dim light, the white night rail she wore as a shield, her beautiful golden locks of hair tumbled all about her shoulders and arms like Helen of Troy come to life. This wife of his could probably fell a whole army of men with her shy yet vivid beauty.

  She’d tucked her legs under her. The bedding beneath him pulled tight as she tried to tug them higher. He wasn’t willing to give them to her just yet. He wanted to get a visual fill of his wife. He had a lot of time to make up for. Starting now.

  “Why discuss this now?”

  “Does my presence in your bedchamber distress you so much?” He knew it for the truth without having to ask the question.

  “No.” There was a waver in her voice, belying her answer. “Did you run off so you could live the grand adventure?”

  “Some would say that.”

  “Was it worth it?” She paused, her finger tracing the piping on the pillow. “I mean … would you change what you did or do the same thing all over again?”

  “Hard to say. Some say you are doomed to make the same mistakes if given a second chance.”

  They both grew quiet. The only sounds to be heard were the odd creaks in the old house.

  Emma gave a great yawn, barely covering it in time. It was an obvious hint that he should take his leave. He didn’t much want to go. Would she welcome him in her bed overnight? He’d never spent the night with a woman. He’d never had need to.

  He should do that with his wife, wanted to do that, because she was different from any other woman he’d made use of over the years. Not that he could explain that to her. And not that it was about making use of her. There was something more between them. Indefinable, but more.

  The awkwardness of their after-moment was enough to convince him he needed to leave. She’d not welcome further advances. Maybe tomorrow night he could demand more from her. He pulled himself up and stretched his feet down to the soft-carpeted floor. Hating that he’d been so quick about reaching his finale without so much as a care for hers. Part of him insisted that wouldn’t be the case if he stayed.