The Duchess in His Bed

by Heath Lorraine

  As she obeyed his command, she placed her hand over his, held it in place, taking not only his offering of a bit of cheese between her lips but also his forefinger, suckling, and taking great satisfaction in his low groan and the jump of his penis against her bottom. Removing his finger from her mouth, she chewed the tart cheese and scraped her nail over the scar that ran the length of his forefinger and beyond to the back of his hand. “How did you come to have this?”

  “Got into a brawl with a fellow who had a knife.” He began dotting her nape with kisses.

  “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen.” His mouth lingered until it seemed he was painting kisses over her.

  “You don’t strike me as someone who gets into fights without a reason.”

  A low grunt that could have served as agreement.

  The marred flesh was a ghastly ugly thing and yet the story of its existence called to her. “Why did you challenge him?”

  The kisses were growing ever more slower, ever more purposeful. She had no doubt they would soon be leaving the bath for the bed. “Aiden.”

  His mouth was near her ear now. “He called my mum a whore.”

  In his voice, she heard the pain from his youth, the embarrassment he might have suffered. “Is that what everyone thought of the woman who gave birth to you?”

  “He was referring to Ettie Trewlove.”

  Her heart tightened with the realization that for this man, only one woman was his mother—the good soul who had taken him in.

  Pressing his finger against her lips, she glided her tongue over the scar. “Did you give the lad a sound thrashing?”

  “I did. His nose never did straighten, remained a bit crooked pointing off to the side.”

  “You protect what’s yours.”

  He moved that scarred finger up and skimmed it along her chin, before using it to turn her face back slightly so he could hold her gaze. “Always.”

  She couldn’t help but believe that he considered her his, believed her worthy of his protection. Only she wasn’t. She was with him for a purpose, a purpose that would ensure she remain with him only a short while.

  Twisting about in the tub, she took his mouth with all the fervor she could muster. He touched her in ways she’d not foreseen—not with his hands, although he certainly did that, but with his soul, his heart, his very being. She’d not anticipated that of a man known for sin. Had expected him to be of loose morals and character, caring for nothing save his own pleasures. But he was nothing of the sort. Goodness had taken up residence within him, and she wanted to ensure he regretted not a minute that he spent with her.

  Leaning back, she cupped his dark whiskered jaw with one hand. The bristles were heavier, thicker now, and she considered offering to shave him, but she rather enjoyed the unkempt rugged look of him. “As a man, you have control over everything in your life. I’ve had very little control in mine, almost none at all.” Shifting, causing the water to lap around them, she straddled his hips. “I want to have complete and absolute control over you.”

  His hands bracketed her waist, his fingers flexed, his eyes darkened. “I am yours to do with as you please. What would you have of me?”

  “I would have you bound to the bed. I would have you at my mercy.”

  It was a wonder he didn’t immediately embarrass himself and spill his seed at her softly spoken words, edged with a desire that turned her blue eyes cerulean. He could deny her nothing, especially a request that had his heart galloping like a runaway stallion and threatening to burst through his chest.

  He still might embarrass himself. He’d never been so hard in anticipation of what was to come.

  Using his neck cloths, she secured his wrists and ankles to the four bedposts, leaving him spread-eagled over the satin sheets he’d purchased earlier in the day for her enjoyment. He’d never been in such a vulnerable position, couldn’t imagine placing himself thus with anyone other than her. He trusted her. Completely. It was a rather odd moment to come to that realization, especially as they’d known each other such a short while, but he didn’t think the heart measured depth of feeling using a timepiece.

  Not that he loved her, but he did care for her—immensely. Probably more so than was wise for a man in his position. He was not the sort a woman could walk proudly alongside. Until her, it had never mattered. He wished it still didn’t.

  But the ability to rationally argue any philosophical questions regarding his life left him as she sauntered around the bed, her heated gaze fixed on his. He made to reach for her, the linen wrapped around his wrist halting his movement, reminding him that he could do little except wait for her to have her way with him.

  The mattress dipped as she climbed onto it, never averting her eyes from his. God, but she was beautiful in her confidence that she could undo him. And she would. He knew that as surely as he knew that when she was done with him, he was going to reverse the tables, and have her bound and sprawled for his enjoyment. And hers.

  Strange how they seemed connected, how the more he gave to her, the more he gained for himself.

  Slowly, she trailed her fingers along his side, from the strip of cloth binding his ankle, along his calf, up his thigh, over his hip, up to his rib—

  He gave a little jerk.

  She looked as though he’d just handed her the Koh-i-Noor diamond. “You’re ticklish.”

  “A bit.”

  Leaning down, she pressed her open mouth, hot and dewy, against his lowest rib. He closed his eyes as the warmth seeped into him. “Only to fingers.”

  Lifting her head, she arched a brow and ran her tongue over her lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Straddling his stomach, she eased up, bringing those luscious breasts nearer. Again, he reached, testing the limits of his tether. “Perhaps you could give one hand the freedom to touch you.”

  Her smile was that of a saucy minx. “No.”

  Lowering herself, she rubbed her breasts over his chest before bringing one to his mouth. “You may lick.”

  He did so without hesitating, circling the pink areola with his tongue, before flicking at it. She dropped her head back, moaned.

  “You’re killing me,” he rasped.

  Her look was sultry, that of a woman relishing her power. “I’ve not even begun.”

  Pushing herself down until her knees were resting between his, she sat back on her heels and wrapped her fingers around his straining cock. “I’m amazed by the silkiness of it. I can’t decide if it feels like satin or velvet.”

  She kissed the head. He jerked.

  “Ticklish?”

  “No.”

  “You like that, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Then she did what he’d done with her breast and circled her tongue over him. He groaned low, deep.

  “Do you like that?” Her tone was rife with innocence.

  “God, yes.”

  “And this?”

  She took him in her mouth and he very nearly came off the bed, might have if he hadn’t been secured to it. How he longed to tangle his fingers in her hair, grip the sheets. She was all heat and slow strokes that drove him wild. He loved the feel of her closing her lips around him and sucking. “Oh, you wicked vixen.”

  He was fairly certain she smiled before continuing to torment him. “Lena, I’m on the edge here, on the verge of giving you a little surprise if you continue.”

  Pure enjoyment and satisfaction wreathed her face. “Nothing about you is little, Aiden.”

  She palmed him and stroked the length of him. “Tell me again. You’ve never been inside a woman without a sheath?”

  “Never.”

  Up and down, her hand pumped him. “Do you ever think about what it might feel like?”

  He knew how a woman felt around his fingers, but around his cock—

  “I imagine it.”

  “Are you ever tempted?”

  With her, he’d been tempted from the first. “Yes.”

  He hated h
ow the word sounded like an entreaty, a begging.

  She swung her leg over him, straddling his hips, rose up onto her knees. “It’s the only way I’ve thought about it, dreamed about it, imagined it. You with no barrier between us.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t risk—”

  “Just a taste, just for a minute.”

  Taking hold of him, she positioned him at her opening. His body reacted instinctively, straining toward the heat of her tunnel. “You’ll have to leave me before I spill—”

  “I know. But I’m in control now, and this is what I want. You inside me, slick skin against slick skin.”

  His body was so tense with need, with the eroticism of her sultry voice, her come-hither eyes watching him that he barely felt his nod, such a small thing, giving her permission. Slowly, tormentingly, she slid down, enveloping him in the sweltering velvet. Down, down, down. Until he filled her to the hilt.

  “Christ, you feel bloody good. Hot, wet, silky. And tight. So damn tight.” He’d felt it with the sheath, but without it, miraculously, she seemed even more snug.

  “I love the sensation of you, with naught separating us.” She lifted up, slid back down.

  His growl was that of a man in torment.

  With her head resting back, she began undulating her body, riding him. Bound as he was, his movements were limited, but he pumped into her as much as he was able, matching his movements to hers. He yearned to dig his fingers into her hips, thrusting faster, deeper, with more urgency. “Untie me.”

  “Not yet.” Her voice seemed to come from a far-off place where fantasy reigned.

  She guided her hands over his chest, splaying her fingers over his lower ribs, bracing herself. Her tempo increased. Mewling whimpers escaped her lips. Her back bowed, her breasts pushed upward as her cry of release echoed around them.

  Her climax came swift and hard, her muscles clenching his cock before throbbing around him. The sensations were sublime, more detailed than he’d ever experienced. They added to his own pleasure, his own torture as he fought to hold himself in check until she came back into herself.

  Her breathing was shallow, harsh, her smile pure satisfaction, her eyes aglow. Licking her lips, holding his gaze now, she began rocking against him in earnest, faster, harder, taking him deeper, deeper. Pleasure cascaded through him. He tugged on the bindings, needing to hold her. It was all too much as ecstasy built, shooting through him, building to nearly unbearable intensity.

  “Leave me, Lena. Now,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

  Instead she rode him with single-minded purpose as though her life depended on it. As though his did.

  “I’m close to bursting. Leave.”

  She shook her head, increasing the tempo, pistoning harder, faster.

  He was on the cusp, hovering at the edge of the abyss. “For God’s sake, Lena, I beg of you—”

  Then she was no longer encasing him, had left him completely. Knowing she was safe, he immediately gave in to his needs, his body jerking, spasming as his orgasm overtook him.

  In the farthest recesses of his mind, he was vaguely aware of a sob. Opening his eyes, he watched as she scampered off the bed, another sob escaping. “Lena? What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t, I can’t.” She began snatching up her clothes. “It’s just . . . it’s not fair.”

  “Couldn’t what? Lena, what the devil is going on here?”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Untie me.”

  Without looking back at him, clutching her clothing, she dashed into the front room.

  “Lena!” He tugged on the bindings. They held fast. He heard the rustle of silk and satin as though she was dressing herself. “Lena, get back here and free me!”

  More rustling, followed by hurried footsteps and the slamming of the door. “Lena!”

  But all he heard was the silence of her having left him.

  Chapter 14

  Sitting in the library, before a hearth as empty as her womb, she sipped the brandy, wondering if she’d ever known such desolation and despair, such shame and disappointment in herself. When it came right down to it, she’d been unable to go through with her plans to take his seed into her body, because he’d been so adamant that he had no desire to bring a child into the world. She hadn’t even been aware ways to avoid impregnating a woman existed. Why, then, were there so many bastards? Why were so many children orphans? Why didn’t all men take precautions?

  Even knowing his child would not have been labeled a bastard, that he—or she—would have been considered the legitimate issue of the Duke of Lushing, she’d not been able to place her own wants and needs above Aiden’s. She’d felt the tension in him increasing as passion gave rise to mindless lust, as his body sought surcease, as he went beyond the boundaries where he could stop. Because she had continued to ride him, determined to force his capitulation, the spilling of his seed—not into a sheath but into her. She’d felt powerful, in control, until the only thing that mattered was gaining what she wanted.

  “For God’s sake, Lena, I beg of you—”

  Then those words ground out through his clenched teeth had bombarded her soul, reached into her heart. She couldn’t imagine this man had ever before begged anything of anyone. And yet he begged of her. As his growl had echoed around her, his body had stiffened, and when she’d known his seed would be pouring forth, she’d not been able to stay.

  In the end, she’d not been able to stay at all—not on top of him, not in his bed, not in his rooms. She’d heard the confusion in his voice as he called out to her, and she’d been unable to face him.

  From the moment he’d first approached her at the club, he’d asked nothing of her. He’d charmed her and given her all she’d demanded. And then he’d requested something of her, and she’d not been able to deny him.

  The rawness of his entreaty had shamed her; her actions had mortified her. Not only because she’d been willing to steal something so precious from Aiden, but because she’d been planning to pass another’s child off as Lushing’s. She’d been willing to betray two men who had never done her any harm, and in so doing she’d have betrayed herself.

  As the guilt had bombarded her, all she’d wanted was to escape from Aiden and herself. But there was no escaping herself, her failure to protect those she loved. There would be no heir. She might be the Duchess of Lushing, but she would have no husband with a revered title to stand beside her, no great dynasty to provide power and influence. She had failed to produce an heir after seven years. No young titled gentleman in need of a son would risk taking her to wife. She would fade into obscurity. She deserved no less.

  What a fool she’d been to agree to Winslow’s plan.

  Finishing off the brandy, taking comfort in the lethargy it brought her, she set aside her snifter and shoved herself to her feet. The room tilted, righted itself. Her face felt immobile from the salt of the tears she’d wept, tears that had long since dried, leaving only their remnants. Because of her failings, a title would be declared extinct. And the ruination of her family would be her legacy.

  Slowly she made her way from the library into the hallway, following a path she knew by heart. She would become an old maid, living alone in the dower house. She would do what she could to see her sisters well married, but without dowries, it was unlikely they would find happiness.

  Trudging up the stairs, she felt as though she were striving to ascend an impossibly high mountain of rugged terrain. She couldn’t recall how much brandy she’d sipped or how long she’d sat in the library wallowing in despair. An hour? Two?

  She could barely think, put her thoughts in order, but she would find a way to see her sisters married well. “Tomorrow,” she whispered. “I’ll worry about it all tomorrow.”

  For now a keen sadness and sense of loss made her want to cry out. Never again would she see Aiden Trewlove, taste his kiss, grow warm from his smile, have her heart soar as his laughter circled her, be brought to her
knees by his gentle caresses. Never again would she share confidences without fear of judgment.

  Opening the door to her bedchamber, she welcomed the shadows emerging from the corners, the lone lamp on the bedside table burning too low to effectively hold them at bay. Then she noticed the toes of a pair of shining boots near the chair in the corner. Her brother, damn him. She was not in the mood to deal with him tonight. “Winslow—”

  “You left me bound to the bloody bedposts!”

  Her heart fairly jumped into her throat, her lungs froze. Not Winslow. Not Winslow at all. She watched in horror as a darker shadow slowly rose from the chair, tall and broad and menacing. When he stepped into the light, she knew she’d never seen such rage.

  “You left me bound to the bloody bedposts!” he repeated, as though perhaps she hadn’t heard him the first time.

  “Lower your voice. My sisters are down the hallway.” It wouldn’t do at all for them to discover this man in her bedchamber. She closed the door, locked it, leaned against it for support as though it could save her from his wrath.

  “Do you think I give a bloody damn? You just left me there. With no explanation, with no way to free myself.”

  His appearance had chased off her lethargy. Her heart was beating so rapidly, it had no doubt pounded the effects of the brandy into submission. “Yet, you managed it. I knew you were a man of resource.”

  “Only because trouble downstairs required my assistance. How do you think it looked to my gaming boss to see me naked and trussed up like a Christmas goose?”

  “How did you get in here?” she asked, unwilling to address his question, the mortification he must have felt.

  “I’m a man who can pick locks, sweetheart. Do you really think you can find any place where you’ll be safe from me?” He took a long stride toward her. “Why, Lena, why were you crying? Why did you run off?”

  It was so much harder to face him when he used her name rather than an endearment. So much more difficult when his first concern was her sobs and not her abandonment. Shaking her head, she felt the tears threatening once more.

  “Why?” he asked again, but this time his voice reflected no hint of anger, only true concern.