Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  He growled in response.

  “Touch me,” she instructed, gasping with arousal.

  He skimmed his hands down to gather her skirts. His fingers stroked along her bare thighs, and he made another animal sound of approval to touch her.

  As she pumped his length, he brought his hands higher, one palm curving around her arse while the other hand found her soaking quim. She gasped as his fingers delved between her folds. The smallest smile tilted her mouth.

  “You paid attention to our lesson yesterday,” she murmured.

  “Memorized every word, every touch.”

  With incredible skill, he caressed her, knowing exactly where she needed softness and where she needed more intensity. He circled her clitoris, sparking sensation, and stroked around her inner folds before sinking two fingers into her. She moaned, hitching her thigh up to give him better access.

  There was no hesitancy in him now as he fucked her with his hand. She sensed his restraints falling away, his thrusts sure and demanding. Yet she wanted more. “Fuck me.”

  He glanced back toward the bed.

  “I can’t wait,” she panted. “Fuck me against the door.”

  His brows climbed. “Will that be comfortable for you?”

  “I’m not seeking comfort, but pleasure.”

  “And it will be pleasurable for you?”

  “Oh, yes. The question we should ask is, are you suitably motivated?”

  “I am motivated,” he said roughly. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Keep holding my leg like that. Tilt your hips forward and fit the head of your cock at my pussy’s opening.” Arousal flowed along her body as she instructed him. She loved using plain, coarse language.

  He followed her direction, his body strong and purposeful as he positioned them both. She sucked in a breath when he notched the crown of his cock at her entrance, reveling in the feel of flesh to flesh.

  “Yes?” he rumbled.

  “Please,” she said on a shaky exhale, the word tight with wanting.

  He gripped her thigh, anchoring her, and then—

  With a thrust of his hips, he was in her, seated all the way to the root in a single stroke.

  She clung to his shoulders, moaning as her body stretched to accommodate him. He filled her superbly, and for a moment, neither of them moved. They were speared on a fragment in time, completely inside and surrounding each other.

  Much as she wanted to lose herself in this moment, she whispered, “We must be careful. I cannot get with child. Do you know what to do?”

  “I’d heard of it,” he gasped. “Been told that it robs pleasure.”

  She couldn’t stop her rueful chuckle. “Your male friends gave you that information, I’d wager.”

  He gave a single nod.

  “We’ll both enjoy ourselves more if we know there’s no chance of a babe.”

  He nodded again. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  “When you feel yourself on the verge of coming, pull out.”

  “But…what about my seed?”

  She curled her hand around the back of his neck. “We’ll watch it spill all over my belly.”

  His expression sharpened with excitement. “I want to do that. And I want—” He swallowed hard and tremors worked through his body. He seemed to choke back his impulses and instincts, unwilling have faith in himself. She had been the same way, before she’d gone abroad.

  “Trust yourself,” she pressed. “And trust me. If there’s anything I don’t want, I will tell you. Now you tell me, what do you want?”

  “To fuck you,” he confessed. “Hard. Against the door. May I?”

  Tightening her fingers around his nape, she urged him on. “Do it.”

  He held her up as his hips drew back, his cock moving magnificently within her. She gasped as he plunged forward with enough strength to lift her higher. He slid almost completely out and then thrust into her, again with blazing power, holding her as each of his strokes raised her up. It was brutal and forceful, the kind of fucking that came from long pent-up need.

  She moaned, “Deep—yes.”

  “Too…much…?” he rumbled with each thrust.

  “I love it.” To be filled with his unleashed desire was bliss.

  He made a sound of satisfaction. “Hold tight.”

  She wrapped her arms securely around his shoulders and, to her gratification, he cupped his hand against the back of her head, protecting her from the hard, wooden door. And then…

  He fucked her ferociously. Quick, powerful strokes that filled her completely and robbed her of the ability to do anything other than lose herself to ecstasy. She clung to him for support as he drove them both relentlessly toward release. She’d never had anyone give her so much intensity, such purpose. Her climax loomed, teasing her with its explosive possibility.

  “Touch my clitoris,” she gasped. “I need that. Time it with your thrusts.”

  He gave a low growl and delved his hand between them.

  She came with a long, high cry, safe to give voice to her ecstasy in this remote place. He anchored her as her climax stretched on and on, pleasure suffusing her in unending waves.

  Then he pulled from her and snarled with his own release. As she had promised, they both watched as his seed coated her stomach.

  His forehead tipped forward, resting against hers, their heaving breath mingling in the tiny, intimate space between them. She was boneless, holding onto him to keep from sliding to the floor. Yesterday, in the schoolroom, she’d come harder than she ever had in her life. But this had been even more intense, her body robbed completely of strength, yet also bright with energy.

  “Volume one, lesson one,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “Make your teacher scream—in the best way.”

  “Exemplary work,” she answered in a haze of lingering pleasure. “Especially as we haven’t even made it to the bed.”

  He pulled back enough so she could see him smile crookedly. “That must be volume one, lesson two.”

  The press of his hips against hers revealed that, incredibly, his cock was already hardening again. How wonderful to have a young lover.

  “We’ve all night,” she said, and pressed her lips to his endearing, sensual smile. “And there’s so much material to cover.”

  “The privileges of being a duke,” Owen said to her as they delved into the basket he’d brought, “is that I can tell Mrs. Baines I’m raiding the larder for a hamper full of food, and she won’t press me for an explanation.”

  They sat at a small table next to the cottage’s diminutive hearth, where a fire blazed, illuminating the many delicious items he’d procured. There were pork pies and wedges of sharp cheese, as well as apples from Tarrington House’s own orchards. And, to Cecilia’s delight, no fewer than three plum tarts. Owen had also brought an earthenware flagon filled with cider from the selfsame orchards.

  In the wake of a mind-altering orgasm, no meal had ever tasted better.

  “Just because Mrs. Baines didn’t ask for a rationale,” she noted, “doesn’t stop her from gossiping that the duke has suddenly developed a late-night appetite.”

  “Growing up, I did eat an awful lot,” he said with a smile. “All the time, especially after bedtime. By the time I was coming home from Eton, she grew used to me nosing about the larder at all hours.”

  That was some relief, knowing the housekeeper wouldn’t find anything suspicious in his behavior. And the cottage had been cleaned only last week, so there was no chance of anyone discovering that someone had recently occupied it—not for a little while, at any rate. Cecilia would be certain to clean it thoroughly, just in case, including removing the ashes from the hearth.

  “Before this,” she pointed out after taking a drink of cider, “you were the heir, so you still didn’t have to explain yourself.”

  He flashed her the smile that made her stomach flutter with awareness. Incredibly potent, that smile.

  “But I used to offer rationales for my behavior anyw
ay.” He brushed back a lock of black hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Father used to admonish me about it. Said dukes weren’t supposed to be deferential.”

  A shadow crossed Owen’s face, and silence fell, broken only by the pops of the fire in the grate.

  “It’s a difficult thing, to lose a parent,” she said quietly. She reached across the table and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I lost my mother in childbed when I was about Maria’s age. The babe died as well, so I never had a sibling.”

  “Was it hard to recover from her passing?” His eyes were dark and imploring, and while it would have been easy to mouth a meaningless platitude, he deserved better than that.

  “Everyone tells us that the best way to face grief is to put it behind us,” she said, her voice soft. “But then I had to wonder, best way for whom? Certainly, it makes other people more comfortable if we’re stoic, or cheerful, or don’t let anyone know that we’re in pain or full of sadness. Yet for us, the ones who are hurting—it’s not good at all. We’re supposed to choke down our feelings and then pretend we haven’t poisoned ourselves.”

  He rubbed his free hand across his jaw. “All the people I met with in London, the solicitors and men of business and Father’s old associates, they would look at me with stony faces and give me approving nods, saying things like, ‘Good man. You’re holding up well. It’s what your father would want.’ But,” he went on, his gaze beseeching, “is it what he’d want? For me to simply put him in the earth and then walk away as if suddenly he was no longer my father? To forget about the rock samples he’d bring me, or the way we used to take rambles through the estate and talk about a book he’d just read?”

  The anguish in Owen’s voice resounded within her, and she ached for him.

  Slowly, she said, “Grieving for him, missing him, it all speaks to how much you cared. And that is never a bad thing. He must have loved you very much.”

  His smile was small, but heartfelt. “I’m trying to be a good Duke of Tarrington. Theoretically, I’ve been preparing to be the duke my whole life—yet it feels sudden. I thought I’d have more time to learn what I need to do in order to fulfill my obligations. I want…” He struggled to speak, as if searching for the right words. “I want to bring honor to the title.”

  “You do,” she said without hesitation.

  “How do you know?” he asked wryly.

  “I’ve faith in you.” She gave his hand another squeeze.

  He exhaled. “Glad one of us does.” Firelight played across his face, and shadows dipped between the furrow in his brow. “You said your mother passed away when you were Maria’s age.”

  “Yes,” Cecilia said quietly. It hadn’t been fast or gentle. Her mother had screamed for hours, but attempts to save her and the child were in vain. “They said it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. It was supposed to go easier than that—but then, there was well over a decade between me and the next child, so…” Her bones felt rusty as she lifted her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Holme,” he said, his voice genuinely regretful.

  She accepted his condolences with a small nod. “I’d been hoping for a baby sister, or even a brother, and thought for a bit that it was my fault, wanting something that turned out so dangerous to my mother’s health.”

  “Of course it wasn’t your fault,” he said vehemently.

  She gave him a little smile. “I know that now. But thirteen-year-old girls are less inclined to understand the world from a position of cold logic. With her gone, though, it made me take a long look around at my life, at the little world of my town that was to contain the whole of my existence. I discovered something about myself.”

  “What was that?”

  He poured her more cider, and she took a drink, savoring its tart taste.

  “I wanted more than to take my place beside my father at the shop counter. I wanted more than marrying someone I had known my whole life. So when I was old enough, I advertised my services as a governess.” She laughed ruefully. “To say my father was displeased vastly diminishes the scale of his fury.”

  “He should have been proud of his daughter’s spirit,” Owen asserted.

  She sipped at her cider in an attempt to wash away the bitterness caused by her father’s anger. “A spirited daughter was not one of his objectives. And he was doubly furious when I revealed to him that I was going to be a governess on the Continent. But I could not resist the opportunity to learn so much about the world.”

  She had learned about herself, as well. Her father had insisted that she choose: be a governess, or be welcome in his home.

  She missed Edgar Holme—he never answered her letters—but she valued herself more.

  “Regarding our lessons,” she said, guiding the conversation back to more comfortable territory.

  He straightened, ever the attentive student.

  “Taking into account that you’ve already given me several shattering orgasms,” she continued, “I think you can call me Cecilia, rather than Miss Holme.”

  “Does anyone else call you Cecilia?” he asked.

  “You’d be the first in a long time.”

  Ah, that smile of his, warm and bright and genuine. “It’s just for us, then.”

  “Just for us,” she repeated softly, then crooked her finger at him. “Kiss me.”

  Chapter Five

  The following night, Owen stood at the lone table in the gamekeeper’s cottage. As he waited for Cecilia, he arranged and rearranged the plates of food into a display he hoped would please her eye. Perhaps he should slice the pears rather than leave them whole. There was the worrying possibility that she didn’t like pears—he couldn’t very well ask anyone in the house if she had a fondness for them, or any other dish, without arousing suspicion.

  He moved the pears back into the basket, which he then tucked under the table. If she didn’t prefer the fruit, he wouldn’t give it to her. All he wanted was to give her exclusively the things she loved.

  He drummed his fingers on the small, paper-wrapped parcel he’d placed at her seat. A single sprig of cornflowers was tucked into the string tied around the gift—he’d picked it earlier today when out for a stroll with his mother and sisters, and had tried to keep it fresh by setting it in a small bottle filled with water. As he’d hurried to the cottage tonight, his thoughts had been circling over all his preparations, including fretting as to whether or not the cornflowers would retain their freshness and vibrancy until she saw them.

  Owen let out a small, rueful laugh. “Christ, look at me,” he muttered. Since parting company with Cecilia last night—after an hour of delicious fucking—he’d been in a frenzy to see her again, and not just to see her, but to make her smile, hear her laugh, run his fingers through the mass of her dark honey-colored hair as it spread on a pillow.

  His fantasy of her far surpassed the reality of who she was. Her boldness, her quickness of mind, her humor. There was so much of her he didn’t know, and what he had glimpsed had been, in all ways, exceptional.

  Merely thinking about the waves of her hair made him bite back a growl of desire. God Almighty, there wasn’t a part of her that didn’t arouse him.

  A glance at his timepiece revealed it to be five to midnight. He’d been early, too early, but he wanted to make sure everything was perfect for her.

  He went to the bed and smoothed his hands over the blankets, where he’d scattered fresh green herbs that would release their scent as he and Cecilia lay atop them. The heat of their bodies would also bring out the herbs’ fragrance.

  She taught him so much, but he had other means of learning. This little gambit with the herbs, for example, he’d read about years ago when a secret book about seduction had made the rounds at Eton.

  He’d taken many of the lessons to heart, but never until now acted on them. Before Cecilia, he’d been too diffident, too hesitant. There had been a few girls who had intrigued him, but he had remained locked inside his own apprehension. Yet with her,
she gave him both knowledge and freedom, urging him to liberate that dark, surging need within him.

  His father had alluded to the fact that he and Owen’s mother enjoyed robust bedsport. Distressing as it was to have the image of his parents’ amorous life in his head, it had encouraged Owen to believe that perhaps someday, he might have a wife whose fierce desires were equal to his.

  At Eton, and later Oxford, his friends taught him something altogether contradictory—that exciting sex was for courtesans and mistresses, but intercourse between husband and wife was dull and dutiful.

  He didn’t know who to believe.

  He did know that he wanted Cecilia. To the point of madness.

  His wildness last night hadn’t frightened her. She had…enjoyed it. He could still hear that gorgeous sound she made when she came from his rough, hard thrusts against the door.

  And hell, there went his cock again, already hard from imagining her.

  His heart rammed into his throat when he heard a soft tread on the wooden stair outside. For a brief moment, he considered waiting by the bed, or perhaps sitting in the armchair by the fire to prove he wasn’t entirely besotted and overeager.

  The doorknob turned, and in three strides, he was there, ready for her.

  Cecilia stepped into the cottage, eyes bright and smile wide. Remembering how she’d guided him last night, he took her in his arms without hesitation.

  She wrapped herself around him. Their caressing hands were feverish, their kisses ravenous. Her taste was of sweet, spiced brandy, a flavor he would forever link to her and the feel of her mouth against his.

  “Impatient for your next lesson?” she asked throatily.

  Last night proved that she seemed to like it when he spoke to her, especially if he used coarse language. “Been hard for you all day.”

  In response, she kissed him greedily.

  “I could barely concentrate on giving the girls their lesson,” she gasped when she pulled back. “All I could think of was you—teaching you.” Her hands slid down his back, then lower until she gripped the cheeks of his arse. She purred as she dug her fingers into him. “My God, you’re delicious.”