Kathryn, The Kitten

by Lavinia Kent

  She lay there naked—and wanting. He could feel the need coming from her in a physical wave.

  He wanted to proclaim his victory. This was his wife. His wife wanted him.

  The perfect duchess banished.

  She started to slide toward him, and he stepped back. “Do you trust me, Kathryn? Answer.”

  She stopped, and looked at him. He could see the serious thought behind her eyes. “Yes, Robert. I do trust you. I would not be here if I did not.”

  That was all he needed. He reached forward, grabbing her wrists as they rose toward him, pulling them high over her head, pulling her back against the pillows. He placed a quick—but not gentle—kiss upon her lips, distracting her as he quickly tied her hands to the slender wood rod that ran across the headboard of the bed.

  “What?” She tried to push up, to sit. Her hands constrained the movement.

  “Remember you trust me.” He slid off the bed, quickly doffing shoes, and shirt and trousers—until he stood as bare as she was. Ah, that distracted her.

  Her glance slid low, and stopped, her eyes widening.

  “Do you know I’ve never . . .” Her voice was barely audible.

  “Never what?” His own eyes were busy devouring her. He’d never realized how slight she was beneath her clothes—and yet so lush, plump thighs and round hips.

  “I’ve never seen your male organ.”

  “My what?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” And her eyes certainly let him know what she meant, her gaze never leaving him.

  He felt himself swell further—which he had not thought possible. “My cock. I refer to it as a cock.” He dropped his hand and stroked himself once, granting both relief and further agony. A single drop of liquid formed at the tip.

  She licked her lips.

  He dropped his hand, drew in another deep breath and held it. She doesn’t know what she doing, what she’s implying. He blocked the image from his mind, denied his desire to explore every inch of her soft, deep mouth.

  He climbed onto the bed, pulling her legs apart and kneeling between them, her knees propped by his sides.

  He stared at her face for a moment, memorizing the light sheen that marked her temples, the high color of her cheeks, the softness of her lips—no, do not think about her lips—do not think about her lips. He looked deep into her eyes, seeing the desire and the honesty.

  He loved her. He had known it from the first, but as he watched her, full of desire and innocence, he felt his heart grow full. He had asked if she trusted him and he now he realized just how fully he trusted her, how much he offered her, how much he wished to give her.

  He had fallen in love with her beauty, but it was not that which held him now—now it was just her, the whole her.

  He leaned forward and laid a sweet kiss upon her mouth and—and said the words. “I love you.”

  Her eyes opened wide, staring into his own. He felt her moment of shock and then the smile that filled her face. “And I love you too, Robert. I didn’t realize how much I needed this, needed to know how you felt—and how freeing it would be.” She pulled at the tie above her head. “Now free me, so that we can—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I will free you but not now. There is too much I want to do to you now, too much I want to show you. I wish you could know how I feel seeing you like this, bound and helpless and all mine. I feel the beast for saying it, for feeling it, but I love knowing that you are mine, mine to do as I want with, to please as I want.”

  He watched her swallow, watched her grow nervous—and yet felt the tightening of her thighs about his hips, the increase of her desire. “And what I want now,” he continued, “is to teach you about your breasts. You’ve kept them hidden by linen and by darkness and now they are mine.” He placed a palm over each breast, leaning forward and allowing a fraction of his weight to fall upon them. He squeezed, and pulled, and squeezed again, watching the reactions play upon her face, the intake of breath, the further flush of cheeks.

  Sliding his hands up, he pulled his fingers together until he held her nipples between them. He squeezed again, plucked slightly—tightening his fingers until just before the point of pain. Her breath caught and held.

  “I never knew,” she gasped when air finally filled her lungs again. “Why did nobody tell me?”

  “So you like that, do you? What about this?” He leaned forward and flicked his tongue against one hard peak.

  Her whole body shuddered. He caught the tip beneath his teeth and nipped.

  She squealed—and not with pain, her thighs tightening about him drawing him closer.

  He leaned more, drawing her whole nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, tasting her, loving her. Her head swung back and forth upon the pillows, small moans escaping her mouth.

  Caressing her other breast with his hand, he nipped again, her cries heaven to his ears.

  “I wish I could reach the port. I’d love to dribble it upon you and lick every drop no matter where it might fall.” He slid his hand lower, enjoying every quiver of her flesh. He circled her navel. “I’d love to drip it here. Do you know how sensitive you are?”

  His lips moved down the curve of her breast, following the trail his hand had laid. He dipped his tongue into the indent of her stomach. The first curls of her thatch were under his fingers now, and he drew lazy circles, his tongue slowly moving to follow.

  “And should I pour some here?” he asked, pushing her thighs wide, revealing all her secrets before him.

  “No,” she gasped, trying to sit, but held tight by her restraints.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Tonight I can do anything. And even without the port I want my taste.” He drew a finger down her center, watching every clutch and shiver of legs and body, her eyes black with pleasure. He ran his finger up and down and then in small circles, only the lightest of touches, the gentlest of teases.

  He bent forward, blew, watched the curls bend, watched her whole body rise in delight. And then he kissed. First, a sweet kiss, as he had placed upon her lips, and then he circled, tasted, devoured—tongue and lips combining to find her most sensitive of spots—he nipped slightly—and then laved in relief.

  She was so sweet.

  This was such heaven.

  His slid a finger into her. She was sleek and wet and tight.

  Her whole body twisted now, only his weight on her thighs holding her steady and open before him.

  And then it happened—her whole body rose, her inner muscles clenching about his finger, again and again—and the cry, a sound he never thought to hear upon her lips, his name drenched in passion.

  She fell back, the aftershocks still coursing through her.

  Chapter Eleven

  What had happened? Had the world ended? Kathryn knew that it had not, but she knew no other explanation for what had happened to her. She’d hoped to enjoy sex, but this, this was beyond any degree of comprehension.

  Another spasm took her as Robert ran his tongue across her one more time.

  Had he really done that? Had she really let him do that? Not that she’d had a choice. She had not understood why he had tied her hands and now she felt the deepest relief that he had.

  She could never have let that happen if he hadn’t—and she was glad—oh, so glad—that he had.

  Could she look at him? The thought would have brought a new flush to her body if she had not already been so pink.

  She opened her eyes, and peeked down at him.

  He lifted his head—and grinned, his face full of pride.

  She closed her eyes again. Now she was sure she was red—no longer pink, but red—as red as any cherry had ever been.

  “Did you like that?” His breath tickled against her overly sensitive flesh.

  “I am not even going to answer that.” She kept her eyes closed.

  “Then I’ll have to do it again.”

  She felt his tongue dart out. “No—I mean . . .” She ope
ned her eyes and looked at him. “I mean I want you to have a turn —” She swallowed as his gaze moved to her lips. “I mean I want you in me. I want to be filled by you. I want to watch your face when that happens to you. It’s always been dark and I’ve never seen you. That does happen to you—doesn’t it?”

  He pushed up on his elbows. “Yes, it very definitely happens to me. I don’t know if it’s exactly the same, but it very definitely happens. In fact, I’ve been working very hard to not have it happen prematurely.”

  “Can that happen? I mean when you’re not—it can happen like that?”

  He blew out a long breath. “It can happen anytime—although not as often as when I was a boy. A man seeks more control.”

  “Oh—can I watch?”

  He laughed. It started low and grew, the sound filling the room. “No—at least not tonight. Sometime I would quite adore having you watch, but not tonight. Tonight I like your other idea better—me in you.”

  He rose up on his knees, and positioned himself between her legs.

  His—his cock was large and magnificent, full and long, the skin stretched tight across the tip. A single drop of moisture glistened there.

  She felt the briefest moment of fear. It seemed impossible that it should fit within her. She knew it had before, but now as she watched him move forward, watched him place it against her it seemed impossible.

  The tip pressed against her for a moment, the sensation unbelievable—and then he was in her, filling her. A single slow thrust and she felt her muscles draw tight again, felt it all begin again.

  Could that happen twice in a night?

  He leaned over her, his elbows locked tight, his eyes firmly upon her, his hips moving slowly. The strain was evident upon his face and yet he held himself steady, the chords in his neck outlined, his lips tight with effort. Again and again he moved, in, out. Each thrust drawing her again closer to the moment.

  She didn’t know if she could take it, her body would surely burst.

  Her muscles clenched, tightened. Her head fell back. Her brain emptied of all but sensation.

  Of all but sensation—and of him, of that steady gaze, that look of understanding and passion.

  It was the look that did it.

  Her whole body rose again, tightened as one again—and then it did burst, the world flying free about her in a kaleidoscope of color. She cried his name.

  And he cried hers.

  Nothing had ever sounded as sweet as the echo of “Kathryn” rebounding from the walls. His weight came down upon her.

  The world cracked again.

  And was then whole.

  Her body fell loose upon the bed, the very thought of movement gone.

  Breathing was all she could manage.

  His arm came up, she felt the ties that bound her wrists loosened, felt herself drawn into his arms, cradled against his chest as if she were the most priceless object in the world.

  They lay there together for awhile, silent and at peace. Kathryn breathed in the heavy musk that scented the air and wondered that it had taken them so long to find this place.

  “I am sorry,” Robert said after awhile, “sorry about the baby and that you needed me and I wasn’t there.”

  “I am sorry too.” She didn’t know exactly what she was sorry about, but she knew the sentiment exactly.

  “It hurt too much to talk afterwards. I couldn’t believe the pain you went through. I hadn’t ever considered that things could not work the way I wanted. I know these things happen, but I never considered that it could happen to me, that it could happen to you.”

  “It happened to us, to us. I didn’t even realize how deeply I was hurt until later. At first, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. I felt that I had let everybody down, myself, you—our son. He was real to me. I felt him move, imagined him in my arms, at my breast . . . and then he was gone and the world pretended he had never existed.”

  “I never doubted he existed—I only worried at what it had cost you. I could not bear to do that to you again.”

  “And I felt that I failed you. And that was without realizing how I had failed—that I never knew this existed.” She waved her arm across the bed, ending in a strong hug.

  “I never expected this of you. Perhaps I should have—no, that is wrong—I should not ever have expected this of you, but I should have realized that I could give this to you.” He hugged her tighter, pressing her close as if he wished they were one.

  She nuzzled her nose against his chest, enjoying the tickle of the hair. “I do want a child—do not doubt that. I want to hold your son and love him, to know that he is part of us.”

  She felt his chest still. “My son or my heir?”

  The question caused her to pause. “Are they not the same—forgive me, I do understand the question, but I want both. I want our child, yours and mine. My arms are empty and I wish them filled. I love you. If I can never have another child, I will be fine, but I do long for him now. But, I must admit that I have been raised to believe that producing an heir is my sacred duty. I feel lacking that I have not done so.”

  “It does not matter.” He rose up on one elbow, staring down at her, his face serious. “My cousins are not bad folk and they have a passel of children between them, of sons.”

  “I know, but I cannot change who I am, what I expect of myself.”

  He was silent for a moment, staring across the room into the darkness, then he looked down again—and smiled. His hand spread on her belly as if hoping that life was already forming. “Then perhaps,” he said, his tone serious, “we should work further on the matter.” His hand slipped lower.

  She crossed her ankles, pressing her thighs tight, and placed a hand on his chest. “I have only one thought, I do wonder—and I know this is not the time—but, if you are not the father, and I do believe you are not, of Linnette’s baby, then who is?”

  “I. Do. Not. Care.” He punctuated each word with a kiss.

  And a moment later, neither did she.

  The Maids

  “Ooh, is that another one?” Abby’s voice called to Jane from behind, causing Jane to step away from the shop’s large window.

  “Do you mean the one of the Dowager Duchess of Doveshire? I am surprised you haven’t seen it before,” Jane responded. “This one is mean — just like the last couple. And not nearly as well-drawn — not like that first one with all the duchesses. Do you really think the dowager duchess could have one in the oven? And to say that the father is a married man! My sister, Mary, saw her last week at Harrington House and didn’t say anything about her belly. She is young enough, but I’ve never heard that she wants to marry again.”

  Jane’s thoughts returned to the pleasure of the day to come. She wondered if she had enough pocket change for some fresh chestnuts. They were more fun in the winter but she had a hankering.

  “But who’s the gentleman? Do you think his shoulders are really that wide?”

  “He’s the Duke of Harrington. That’s what makes this one so awful. I believe he loves his duchess — I think I even saw a different print of him making lovey eyes at her. I’d tell you some of the things my sister has whispered to me but they are too shocking. I can’t believe that he’d have a child with another woman. If he is the father, I think that’s just horrible.”

  “No,” Abby said. “I saw that one days ago. Look more closely. The cartoon is almost the same, but this time it’s a different man. The pose is the same, and it looks like he’s wearing a ducal coronet, but it’s not Harrington. This one looks like a man who’s worked hard in his life.”

  Jane peered more closely, thoughts of chestnuts forgotten. “Oh, my! I see what you mean. No, I don’t know who he is. Maybe Mary will know.”

  “Why would they show the dowager duchess with two different men? Do you think she’s been sleeping with both?”

  “I told you, I don’t believe she was sleeping with Harrington — although it would be a good bit of gossip if she was. Can you ima
gine two men?”

  “I have trouble when I even think about one. Cook always says that’s what men are — trouble.”

  Jane thought about her handsome footman. Lady Smythe-Burke did like a footman with a well-shaped leg. “You may be right about that. And,” she turned to look more closely at the print, “I would like to know who he is. You are right about the coronet — hmm, what duke aren’t we thinking of? I thought I’d learned them all by sight — at least the way they look in cartoons.”

  Abby suddenly grew very still. She turned to Jane with wide eyes. “You don’t suppose he could be . . .”

  Linnette

  Linnette stared down at the print that lay in the corner of her breakfast tray. She felt the gorge rising in her stomach.

  It couldn’t be. Nobody knew!

  How could this have happened?

  “I am so sorry, your grace.” Her maid’s quiet voice came from her bedside. “I saw it this morning when I stepped out for a breath of air. I hated to bring it to you, but . . .”

  “No, you did the right thing.” Linnette swallowed, fighting the bitter burn in the back of her throat. “Bring me paper. I must send a note to him.”

  Carol did as she requested and within moments the note was written, summoning him. She handed it to Carol and then turned back to the print.

  She placed a finger on it, tracing the strong curve of his arm.

  She didn’t say his name even in her mind.

  He was her secret, her treasure.

  The gift she had been granted after all these years.

  And now—now he might ruin her life.

  As a secret he was the perfect lover, but as . . . The thought was too awful to complete.

  Her gaze rose, seeking her maid’s face.

  As if reading her thoughts, Carol began to ramble, “I didn’t say anything. I promise. I haven’t even told my sister. I know how to keep a secret. Even when the last print came out—the one of you with Harrington—I didn’t say a word to anyone.”