by Sharon Page
Control, Anne! She cradled his handsome face and kissed him hard. She tried every wonderful maneuver he had bestowed on her in the rain. Coaxing his lips open, she plunged her tongue inside, tasting the heat of his mouth, the bitter flavor of his coffee. She thrust and parried her tongue with his and daringly tried to make love to him with just her mouth.
The kiss scorched her from lips to toes. But she knew he would expect a more erotic thank-you than this. She slid off his lap and lowered to her knees beside him.
“Angel, where are you going?” he asked in confusion, but she gave him his answer without words. She undid the falls of his trousers.
The duke took a sharp breath. He wore nothing beneath. And he was very aroused.
She bent and gave a kiss to his erection. He jolted up beneath her lips. Fancifully, it seemed to her that the taut head of his member was straining to kiss her back. She closed her eyes and set about pleasuring him.
But try as she might, she could not bring him to release. She worked, changing her position, her motions, and though he groaned and rocked beneath her, he didn’t climax. Heavens, why wouldn’t he? What had she done wrong?
He let his head fall back against the top of the tall chair, sucking in deep breaths. “Lovely, angel, but I have something else in mind. Have you ever made love on a swing?”
Chapter Eight
HIS IS NOT like any swing I’ve ever been on before,” Anne said, then blushed acutely as the duke exploded with laughter. Perhaps she did sound oddly … prim for a courtesan. But it was the truth. The swing was a shocking thing, since it was supposed to be for lovemaking and he had it permanently attached in the master bedchamber of his home.
No, of course this wasn’t his home. This was his hunting box, used for his wild parties. And she was supposed to behave like an adventurous mistress.
He had climbed on the bed, had slid away a panel in the canopy, and a bundle of white silken cords had tumbled down. The ropes were fastened in some mysterious way to the wooden structure above them. As he untangled them, she could see the swing had a woven sling, made up of the cords. He gave it a push when he was done, and it made lazy passes over the bed.
“Are you sure this thing is not dangerous?”
His chuckle rumbled through the shadows. A candle sat upon a dressing table and cast a guinea-gold light on him. “No, love. Perfectly safe. Or so I’ve heard. I had it installed a long time ago, long before I went to war.” His smile vanished as he swung the ropes again thoughtfully. “I’ve never used it.”
“Why not?” He looked troubled and she wished to know why.
“I had decided to take a bride, and that meant no more mistresses. No more orgies, no more courtesans at the hunting box.”
“Because you planned to marry?”
“When a man loses his heart, there is no other woman he wants in his bed,” he said simply.
She might be naïve, but she believed him. Yet what had happened? Why had he not married, if he had fallen in love? Kat had told her never to ask awkward questions of a protector, certainly not questions about love, and never to pry. A gentleman wished a mistress who always agreed with him, who soothed his worries instead of provoking them.
But what lady with sense would not marry this man if he’d fallen in love with her?
The duke got on his knees on the bed, holding the swing steady. He was nude, wearing nothing but a wide, lusty smile. On him, nakedness was very alluring.
She used to be a hoyden; she used to climb trees, walk along the slippery railings of bridges, daringly ride bareback. Years in the brothel had sapped her strength and made her soft. Could she do this? Get on that precarious thing and make love to him without hurting them both?
“I’ll help you up,” he offered. He wore such a look of hopeful anticipation, she knew she must try. He held her hand, as a gallant knight would, but getting her onto the seat involved much squealing, the heart-dipping fear she would fall off, and his gentle, desire-roughened laughter.
She must be making a dreadful mess of this. This must be a fantasy for him. She knew erotic fantasies were tremendously important to men. If she kept squealing with shock and almost falling off, she was going to ruin it—
“Up you go,” he rasped, and her bare bottom landed on the silky rope seat. It dropped with her weight, and the ropes followed the curve of her rump. They were surprisingly soft, the touch of them unexpectedly exciting.
Her feet brushed the bed and she carefully pushed off. The instant she took flight, swinging beside him, she had to bite her lip. This was what it was like to be wild, young, and carefree.
The duke stretched out beneath her, and she forgot to breathe. The swing dipped so low, her quim brushed his stomach. Her privates were scandalously exposed by the holes in the seat.
He caught her hips. Desire turned his expression harsh. “Take me inside you, angel. Swing on me. Be as daring as you want.”
“All right.” Cupped in the swing, she reached down, almost toppled off. “Eek!”
“Cerise?”
“I am all right.” She wriggled back on. She felt more herring than daring—a fish caught in a net. “You’ll have to … um … hold yourself. I can’t reach.”
“Ah, not quite that well endowed, am I?”
“Oh, yes!” she cried, afraid she’d made a mistake. “You are very much so, but my hand cannot reach unless—” Then she saw the teasing twinkle. He wrapped his right hand around the hilt of his erection and held the astonishing length straight up. He slid into her, filling her. Goodness, it was true—it was a thrilling sensation to have him inside, to be floating on top of him, barely touching him except where his thick shaft was buried deep in her. It was so new and different, she could not take her mind somewhere else. She didn’t want to. She’d wanted to do this for his delight, but she actually liked it too.
He pushed gently, making her swing on him. Agony contorted his delectably handsome face. “I wish I could see you. I want to see you sway. See my cock inside you. Hell, I want to see your face as I pleasure you.”
She didn’t want this to remind him of loss. “I wish I could see you, but I have my eyes shut.”
The silence left her breathless … then he laughed gently. He pushed the swing, twirled her, swayed her from side to side. Sensations exploded inside her—so much so, she almost let go of the ropes. Then she opened her eyes and saw herself in the large looking glass.
A wild creature floated on the white silk swing, one with loose, tumbling hair. With flushed breasts and pink cheeks. The curves of her derrière squeezed between the mesh pattern of the seat.
“Oh, goodness. I look scandalous,” she gasped. Forgetting. Hastily she added, “I mean, I look a mess and, well, a bit silly caught in the swing. You are not missing much.”
“Don’t say that.” He stopped the swing. She ached for the pleasure of rocking on him, but he wouldn’t let her. “I cannot see you, but I know you are beautiful. In every way.”
It was so sweet, it made her throat tight. She was supposed to be saucy, not teary. “Let us swing, Your Grace,” she said, trying to sound bold, “and soar to a climax.”
He swung her back and forth, her legs and derrière flying atop him. Pleasurable tension grew inside her. The ache intensified. The need for more … to move harder …
Anne wriggled in the seat, for it made her swing the perfect amount. It made her most sensitive place rub against his shaft. Unexpected pleasure slammed into her. Then he touched her there, on her clit, and stroked her as she glided along him. She had to close her eyes again. She gripped the ropes so hard, her nails broke strands.
This time she didn’t want to simply endure his touch, she yearned to enjoy it. How did she do that? She tried to think of nothing but how he felt inside her. She shut her eyes and rocked on him. Desperate. Determined. But the more she tried, the more she felt the pleasure slipping away. She opened her eyes wide, drinking in how beautiful he was, how erotic and wicked this was, how perfect …
> It was too late. She just couldn’t. She had to pretend, as she always did. Frustration hit her so hard she could have screamed. But whatever she did, she couldn’t disappoint him. “Your Grace!” she cried. She made her quim pulse around his shaft, squeezing him tight. She moaned and wailed as though in the grip of shattering ecstasy. He gripped her hips to plunge up into her. He roared his orgasm, the harshness of the sound stunning. He arched up into her, while his body bucked, his eyes closed, and he cried out her name.
He fell back, his chest heaving. His member softened and slid out of her on a wash of hot fluid. He held out his arms. “Come to me. I can’t see you to help you.”
She clasped his hands. “That doesn’t matter. This is all I need.” He supported her as she put her bare feet on the bed and struggled off the swing. She lost her balance and tumbled on top of him, but he only laughed. “My adventurous Cerise,” he whispered.
Her heart made a giddy little trip at his words, pushing away her disappointment with herself. He rolled them over so they lay on their sides, facing each other. He kissed her, gently and lovingly. “Thank you,” he murmured. He took a long, ragged breath. “That was … unbelievable. Angel, would you tell me what it looked like?”
Perhaps giggles were not the best response for that. She thought of what she’d looked like on the swing, how awkward she’d felt but how sensual and thrilling it had been. And how much she had liked hearing him laugh—she realized she’d never heard a man laugh while making love. “Well, you looked exactly as you always do, devilishly handsome, rather like a Grecian statue come to life, except for your magnificent erection, which was sticking up. I looked like I had been scooped up in a net—”
His booming laugh stopped her. Suddenly he slid his fingers into her underarms. “Teasing me, are you? I can do the same to you.”
“Your Grace—” He tickled her! She couldn’t help but laugh. Then she couldn’t stop, because he wouldn’t stop tickling. Her face was burning hot—it must be red from all her helpless giggles. Hardly the look of a skilled, enigmatic courtesan, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. She felt buoyant with pleasure, the kind of wonderful delight she hadn’t felt for a long, long time. When was the last time she’d laughed like this? She couldn’t remember. For years she hadn’t had any reason to laugh. But she was giddy with mirth now. It spilled out no matter how much she tried to make it stop.
Finally he withdrew his fingers and she gasped for breath. “I never took you for a giggler, angel,” he whispered. He levered up onto his arm, facing her. “I haven’t laughed so much in longer than I can remember.”
It would be wonderful if the laughter did not have to end. And the way to stay joyful would be to make love again, wouldn’t it? He began to get up, but she wrapped her arms around him so he couldn’t leave the bed. “When you are ready for more,” she asked, “is it possible to make love with you on the swing, Your Grace?”
This time his brows shot up, almost vanishing into his black hair. “That sounds dangerous from my point of view, love. Why don’t we try it together? With you on top, of course.”
He’d sensed Cerise’s tension when she rode on top of him on the swing. Devon felt it again as she straddled him while he settled on the rope seat. His hands bumped hers where she gripped the rope, clutching it tight. Hades, her knuckles must be bone-white.
Was she just scared of the swing?
She lowered on him so her silky, hot quim pressed to his rigid, naked cock. Pure pleasure rushed through him. But he still felt her tension. He’d noticed the same stiffness in her when he first performed oral sex upon her. He thought he’d pleasured her enough to make her relax—she’d certainly shouted loudly when she came. On the swing, she’d laughed for him. She must have enjoyed it.
Why, then, was she so tense? What did she fear?
He remembered how she had taken his fingers and traced bruises on her back. Of course she was afraid. She had been in a brothel, and she claimed her madam had beaten her. Was she afraid he might use his fists on her? Realization hit him hard. He’d warned her he could hurt her, told her he could inflict worse damage than her madam. Of course she was terrified of him. She must have been afraid each time they’d made love.
“Don’t be afraid, angel,” he murmured. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers slid around his shaft. He was hard as a brick. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.” With her hand wrapped around the pulsating hilt of his rod, she stroked him against her, teasing him with the heat of her moist cunny. “I know you won’t.” She took him inside her, and he struggled to think against the onslaught of fire and need that flooded him.
Pump into her, pleasure her, his body insisted. But he didn’t want to take his own pleasure while she was perched so stiffly on him. He struggled for control. “What are you scared of, love? You were tense on the swing. And as brittle as ice the time I kissed your lovely quim.”
“I—oh, I’m not tense.”
“Angel, you are. I can feel it. Since I can’t see you, I have to focus on everything else.” He ran his hands along her forearms. “They are locked with tension.” He caressed the back of her neck. “Your muscles are as tight as knots.”
“I don’t have my balance on the swing. That’s all.”
He wanted to believe that was all, wanted to ease her fears, make her come. He loved the crescendo of her cries when she found her pleasure. He was determined to give her every bit of the ecstasy she gave him. “Hold me then, and let us swing,” he said gruffly.
He gave a gentle kick and they coasted back. She squealed on top of him. They swung forward, and his cock followed the arc, sliding deep inside her. Hell, the sheer heavenly joy of it shot through his brain. But she was still stiff. Relax, Cerise. Come on, angel. Enjoy it. Dimly, he realized he was begging out loud for her to do so.
Then she moaned. A moan as dark as chocolate, as deep as his thrusts felt, as hoarse as he knew his voice sounded. With each pass of the swing, she cried, “Oh! Oooh!”
But now he could hear it: the forced quality in her voice. She groaned, and her voice dropped to a sultry purr guaranteed to drive a man mad as she gasped, “I’m coming! Oh, Your Grace.” But even though she was wailing through a climax, she was still like a board on top of him. She was screaming with pleasure—but was she feeling any of it? He felt his arousal slipping away. He focused on Cerise, on every throaty wail and breathy gasp. He slid his hands between them and touched her quim. She wasn’t wet. Not lushly slick, the way she would be if she came. Had she made all that noise even though she hadn’t liked it? Had she been giving him a performance?
He asked, wondering if he really wanted the answer, “Angel, did you like it?”
Then he knew—no matter what she said, he had to know. Making love should not be only about him getting serviced. He wanted her to enjoy it too. It wouldn’t be pleasure for him if he thought she was going through the motions, unhappy, uncomfortable, scared. “Is it good, Cerise? Am I good?” Hell, was she too afraid of him?
“Your Grace, you are wonderful. Of course it is good. You make me come so many times.”
He heard the fear in her tone. “No, I don’t, angel, do I?” Was it because he was blind? Or had he lost some of his technique? It had been a long time since he’d made love. He hadn’t done it since he lost Rosalind and went to war.
“You do,” she insisted, and she sounded almost desperate. “Let me prove it, Your Grace.”
“You don’t have to prove anything, Cerise. I just want to give you pleasure.”
How had he known? What had she done wrong?
Anne froze on the duke’s lap. The women in the brothel had insisted every man loved a good performance. Men, they claimed, always wanted to think they were superb lovers—so they readily believed a woman’s screams and moans. But the duke had guessed hers weren’t real. He’d said he felt her tension. Heavens, had he been that perceptive of her during sex?
It was so ironic. She had enjoyed it. She was not
afraid of him. She had been so very close to pleasure, but an orgasm would not happen for her. And now he feared she hadn’t liked it at all. “You do give me pleasure,” she insisted. How could she convince him? He sounded … hurt. The whole point of being his mistress was to keep him content in bed.
“Is it because I’m blind?”
The question confused her so much, she muttered, “Is what—” before she stopped herself. “You are so very good. Everything you do to me is wonderful. It is perfect.” If her performances had not been enough, what could she do now? Why should it matter whether she came or not? “You are the most perfect lover ever, Your Grace. And all I want to do is give you pleasure.”
In the silence, her heart thundered. She had told him the truth—he was wonderful at lovemaking and she truly did want to delight him. Finally he groaned. “All right, my dear. Then let us share pleasure together. Perhaps this time on the bed?”
Anne snuggled sleepily against the duke’s chest.
Goodness, had they really spent two whole days making love? That night, after he questioned her about her orgasms, they’d indulged in three more sexual bouts. She was certain the duke now believed she was climaxing. She suspected he wanted to believe it, as the other women at Madame’s had said. The frustrating thing: She simply could not come. Perhaps it was the way she was. Or it was because of her past. She loved to make love with the duke, but she could not find the ultimate pleasure from it. And she must keep that a secret.
They’d stopped lovemaking only long enough for the meals that were served to them in the bedroom. She’d quickly learned why the duke had not wanted anyone to witness him dine. He was still learning how to cope with eating food he could not see.
Using a trick from her grandfather, she had shown him how to arrange his plate in a pattern that suited him: his meat at three o’clock, his potato at nine, his vegetables at twelve. Quietly, she instructed Treadwell to teach the footman to serve His Grace this way. They must arrange his food in the same way at each meal and discreetly explain each dish they served onto his plate.
