Primrose and the Dreadful Duke_Garland Cousins 1

by Emily Larkin

  Her Oliver.

  Happiness shone from him, she could see it in every part of him—not just his mouth and eyes, but his chin, his eyebrows, his nose. Even his ears looked happy. But that was what Oliver was best at: being happy. He excelled at it.

  And his happiness made those around him happy.

  Her gaze drifted to his mouth, and fastened there. In addition to looking happy, Oliver’s mouth looked . . . There was really only one word for it, and that was kissed. His mouth looked kissed. Very kissed.

  Oliver reached out and touched her cheek, touched her jaw and throat, a deliciously light and tickling caress that made her shiver. His fingertips trailed down to her collarbone. He found the thin golden chain and the little acorn that was suspended from it.

  He held the acorn between thumb and finger for a moment, and then released it and stroked his way back up her throat.

  “Would you like to . . . you know?” Primrose asked.

  His eyebrows quirked. “That’s very cryptic, Prim.”

  “Put the acorn to the test,” Primrose said, and felt herself blush.

  Oliver studied her for several seconds, and then said, “Is that what you’d like?”

  “Maybe.” Her blush became hotter. “What would you like?”

  “I don’t mind. We can wait. We can do it now. Whatever you prefer.”

  Primrose tried to decipher his expression, because despite his diplomatic words Oliver undoubtedly did have an opinion. It wasn’t obvious on his face, though.

  “Your choice, Prim.”

  Do every act of your life as if it were your last.

  “I want to try it now.”

  Oliver considered her answer for a moment, and then grinned. “All right.”

  He didn’t kiss her, though; he climbed off the bed, crossed to the door, closed it, and wedged a Holland-covered chair beneath the door handle.

  Then he turned back to the bed. “You’re sure about this, Prim?”

  “I am.”

  Oliver stepped up onto the dais and shrugged out of his tailcoat.

  Primrose’s throat became a little dry. She sat up on the bed. Should she take off her clothes?

  Oliver removed his boots, with not a little effort.

  Primrose removed her shoes. Her heart was thumping fast.

  Oliver stripped off his neckcloth and tossed it aside.

  Primrose didn’t do anything. She was beginning to feel rather nervous.

  Oliver stood in waistcoat, shirt, and breeches on the dais, looked at her sitting on the bed, rubbed his hands briskly together, and said, “Right,” in a very businesslike tone. “Let’s get started. Should only take a minute.”

  “A minute?” Primrose said, both startled and disappointed. “It that all it takes?”

  Oliver winked. “Only joking, Prim.” He climbed up onto the bed on hands and knees. “We’ll be half an hour at the very least.” And then he paused, met her eyes, and said, “Are you certain about this?”

  “Yes,” Primrose said, even though, at this moment, she was more nervous than she’d ever been before in her life.

  Perhaps Oliver saw her nervousness, because he made a game of undressing. There were two rules. Firstly, that they had to undress one garment at a time, turn and turn about. Secondly, that they each had to act as valet or maid for the other.

  Oliver unbuttoned her dress; she unbuttoned his waistcoat.

  He removed her petticoat; she removed his shirt. His upper right arm was heavily bruised.

  “The stairs?”

  “The stairs.”

  Oliver’s chest had hair on it. Not a lot, but a very distinct line of it that ran down into his breeches. His nipples were brown, the areolae larger than her own. Muscles flexed beneath his skin as he moved. Primrose stared, transfixed.

  Oliver cleared his throat. “Focus, Prim.”

  She jerked her gaze up to his face.

  “Stockings,” he told her.

  He peeled off her stockings; she peeled off his.

  Oliver’s calves were hairier than his chest, and quite muscular. Her legs looked very smooth and slender in comparison.

  He undid her stays; she undid his breeches, blushing hotly. Now she was wearing only her chemise and he only his drawers.

  Oliver’s thighs were less hairy than his calves, but just as muscular. There was a bruise on one knee and another on his thigh.

  Primrose lifted her gaze to his drawers and forgot all about bruises. She found herself suddenly a little breathless. Oliver’s drawers were distorted in an extremely interesting fashion. She wanted to see what his organ looked like.

  Primrose reached for the waistband of his drawers, but Oliver evaded her hand. “Time for a different game.”

  “But I want to play this one.”

  “We’ll come back to it later. Lie down.”

  After a moment, Primrose did, wrestling with her disappointment.

  Oliver leaned over her. “I’m going to touch you,” he said. “And then you have to touch me in exactly the same way I touch you. You get it wrong, you lose your turn.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment fled. Anticipation took its place.

  He laid his fingers lightly on her inner wrist, over her pulse, and then slowly drew them all the way up her arm to her shoulder, a tickling, gossamer caress that made heat rise in her body, that made her belly clench and her nipples stand taut against the thin linen chemise. Primrose stared up at him, unable to look away from his intent gaze, her breath as shallow and fluttery as her pulse.

  Oliver did it twice for each arm, then said, “Your turn.”

  Primrose sat up.

  “I hope you paid attention,” he said, as he lay down.

  She had paid attention, although the sight of Oliver stretched out on the bed, wearing only his drawers, was extremely distracting.

  Primrose knelt alongside him, bit her lip, and mimicked what he’d done—her fingertips on his pulse, then gliding up his arm. The texture of his skin and the way his muscles quivered beneath her touch were fascinating. She trailed her fingers up his arm once, twice, a third time—

  “No,” Oliver said, sitting up.

  “What?”

  “Twice,” he said, wagging his finger at her. “I only did it twice.”

  “But—”

  “Rules are rules, Prim. You lose the rest of your turn.”

  Chagrined, Primrose lay back down. How could she have made such an elementary mistake?

  “Don’t move,” he told her. “That’s another rule: no moving while I touch you.”

  “I won’t.” She scowled up at the bedhangings, cross with herself, waiting for Oliver’s fingers on her wrist again . . . and felt them below her inner right anklebone.

  Primrose lost her scowl. She tensed in delicious anticipation. Was he going to . . . ?

  Yes, he was.

  Oliver’s fingers ghosted slowly across her skin, over her ankle, up her calf, under her chemise, past her knee. Primrose inhaled a sharp breath. His fingers tickled, and in their wake came a rush of heat. She’d never before realized how sensitive her inner thighs were. It took effort not to squirm. She began to feel rather breathless.

  Oliver halted halfway up her thigh, and removed his hand.

  Primrose dragged air into her lungs and braced herself for his exploration of her left leg. She barely survived it; the muscles in her stomach were clenched tight from the effort of not squirming, her hands were clenched tight on the Holland cloth, and her lungs were clenched tight, too, each inhalation so shallow that she might as well not be breathing. Her wits weren’t clenched tight; they were unraveling.

  Oliver lay down and smiled angelically at her. “Your turn.”

  Primrose let out a shuddering breath, and tried to gather her unraveled wits. She felt hot, flustered, and incapable of coherent thought. She released her grip on the Holland cloth, and sat up shakily.

  Concentrate, she told herself. Don’t make any mistakes this time.

  She inhaled
a deep breath, and a second one. Anticipation was gathering in her belly. What would it be like to touch Oliver the way he’d just touched her?

  Oliver put his hands behind his head and gazed up at the bedhangings, looking extremely relaxed. Nonchalant, even. Except for whatever was inside his drawers. That wasn’t relaxed.

  Primrose inhaled deeply again, and placed her fingertips carefully on his bare ankle. Slowly—very slowly—and very, very lightly, she drew her fingers up his leg, teasing him as he’d teased her, drawing it out. Up the curve of his calf. Past his knee. Up his inner thigh.

  Oliver’s skin twitched and quivered. His pose was still nonchalant but the muscles in his stomach were tight. His jaw was clenched with the effort of holding still.

  Was he even breathing?

  Primrose rested her fingertips high on his thigh, at the hem of his drawers, and watched his chest for several seconds—those tempting nipples that were so like and yet so unlike her own—and reassured herself that Oliver was indeed breathing.

  She removed her fingers and began again, on his left ankle. Obedient to Oliver’s directive she climbed no higher up his leg than he had hers, but she wanted to. Wanted to very much. She didn’t want to stop exploring him. She wanted to slide her hand higher and discover the secrets his drawers hid.

  What did his organ look like?

  It would be hairy, that much she had already guessed. She had hair on her pudendum, so it stood to reason that Oliver had hair on his organ. But how much hair? Would it be like fur?

  “Finished, Prim?” Oliver asked.

  “Yes.” Primrose removed her hand from his thigh and lay down again, eager for the game to continue.

  Oliver leaned over her. “All right. Pay attention.”

  She caught her breath, anticipating his touch, but this time Oliver didn’t use his hands; he used his mouth.

  He kissed the corner of her jaw, then licked his way down her throat and feathered light kisses along her collarbone, above the neckline of her chemise. A delicious shiver ran through her. Her wits began to unravel again.

  Oliver lifted his head. “Think you can remember that?”

  Jaw, throat, collarbone. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He bent his head again and then, to her shocked delight, pressed his mouth to one of her breasts, dampening the thin linen with his tongue, taking the nipple lightly between his teeth. The chemise might as well not have been there. She felt the softness of his lips, the warmth of his tongue, the sharpness of his teeth.

  He nipped lightly.

  Primrose gasped.

  Oliver gave a chuckle. “You like that?”

  “Yes.”

  He did it again, making her gasp, making her want to squirm, and turned his attention to her other nipple . . . and then it was her turn.

  Primrose sat up. Oliver wasn’t wearing a shirt—there’d be no fabric between her mouth and his skin—and she wanted that, wanted to taste him, so why was she nervous?

  She gazed down at Oliver, lying on the bed. He was watching her, his eyes intent on her face.

  Primrose moistened her lips. Jaw, throat, collarbones, nipples, she told herself. She inhaled a shaky breath and bent to kiss the very edge of his jaw.

  The nervousness evaporated, leaving only eagerness.

  Primrose did exactly what Oliver had done, licking down his throat. The taste of him blossomed on her tongue, subtle and salty. His scent filled her nose: sandalwood, and something else. Something as subtle and masculine as his flavor.

  His collarbone next, placing kisses softly, his skin smooth beneath her lips, and then . . .

  Primrose paused, while anticipation coiled tightly in her belly. She looked at those tempting nipples with their broad areolae, then bent her head. She felt bold and daring. Here she was, Lady Primrose Garland, about to touch her mouth to a man’s naked chest.

  She licked that taut, upthrusting nipple, then took it between her teeth and nipped lightly. Oliver’s whole body twitched. Encouraged, Primrose nipped harder. Harder than Oliver had nipped her.

  “Rules, Prim,” he said, breathlessly. “Rules.”

  “Your rules are silly,” she told him, and then, to see what he would do, she took his nipple between her teeth and tugged.

  Oliver’s whole body twitched again. He uttered a sound between a gasp and a groan.

  Primrose released his nipple. “I propose some changes to your game.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “Yes. For a start, I think you should remove these.” She slid her hand down over Oliver’s belly to the waistband of his drawers.

  He became very still. His muscles clenched beneath her fingers.

  She looked at his face. He seemed not to be breathing again. “Nothing to say?”

  Oliver swallowed, then said, “We could do that. If you wish.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I do wish,” Primrose said. She undid the two buttons. Her heartbeat accelerated as the drawers fell open.

  Oliver’s organ wasn’t hairy. That was her first surprise. It was surrounded by a thick thatch of dark hair, but the thing itself was quite smooth. Strong, sturdy, sleek, blunt-headed.

  The second surprise was its color. It wasn’t the color of his skin, or the color of his nipples. It was . . . She searched for a word. Rubicund? Rubescent?

  Oliver lifted his haunches to help her peel the drawers off, exposing another terrible bruise on his hip, and then he was naked. Absolutely naked.

  Primrose feasted her eyes on his body—and on his groin in particular—and then lifted her gaze to his face.

  He was watching her again, waiting for her reaction.

  “Classical statues are very misleading,” Primrose said.

  Oliver laughed—and then sobered abruptly. “Disappointed?”

  “Oh, no,” Primrose said. “Not at all.” She reached out to touch that fascinating organ, and caught herself, curling her fingers into her palm. She knew nothing about male organs. Could one touch them? Should one touch them? She glanced at Oliver’s face again. “What’s it called?”

  Oliver regarded his organ as if he’d never seen it before. “We can call it George, if you like?”

  Primrose laughed before she could stop herself, and then smacked his arm. “No, you great idiot. I mean, what is it called? Like arm, or leg, or elbow . . .”

  Oliver grinned at her. “I call it a cock.”

  Cock. What an odd name. Primrose wrinkled her brow. “You mean, like a rooster?”

  “Not like a rooster.” He shook his head with a laugh. “Honestly, Prim, you do know how to puncture a man’s vanity.”

  If he was vain, he had every right to be. Despite the bruises, he was beautiful. Magnificent. The sheer perfection of him, naked and grinning, took her breath away.

  “Your turn,” Oliver said. “Off with that chemise.”

  It was suddenly impossible to breathe. Her heart began to beat tremendously fast.

  Oliver knelt and gently lifted the chemise over her head—and he was naked, right next to her—and she was naked, too, and it was all . . . exciting and scary and almost overwhelming.

  Oliver tossed the chemise away and surveyed her body, an appraisal that took in her breasts, her waist, and the triangle of fair hair at her groin. She saw satisfaction in his expression. And hunger.

  His gaze wandered all the way down to her toes and then back up, pausing at the faint bruise on her hip. “The terrace steps?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes lifted and met hers. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  Oliver’s gaze fastened on the little golden acorn dangling on its chain. “Lie down,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  Oliver tutted. “We’re halfway through a game, Prim. Focus.”

  It didn’t feel like halfway. It felt much further than halfway.

  Primrose lay back on the Holland cloth, tense with self-consciousness and anticipation. Her skin pr
ickled with awareness of her nakedness.

  Oliver laid his hand on her right ankle. He slid his fingers up over her calf and then gently hooked his hand under her knee and lifted it up and to the side, exposing her more fully to him. Primrose instinctively stiffened.

  Oliver met her eyes. “Trust me, Prim.”

  She did trust him, utterly and absolutely, so despite the acute embarrassment of it, she allowed him do the same to her left leg. She was hot, flustered, torn between acute embarrassment and an even more acute sense of anticipation. She wanted to cover herself. But even more, she wanted to know what Oliver would do next.

  What Oliver did next was run his hand slowly up her inner thigh all the way to the top. And once he’d gained that vantage point, he allowed his fingers to wander.

  Primrose discovered that she was holding her breath. She was also gripping the Holland cloth tightly.

  Oliver explored slowly, his expression intent as he acquainted himself with that most private part of her, fingering his way intimately through her folds.

  Primrose tried to remember to breathe. Her entire being was focused on what Oliver was doing. Heart, lungs, belly, brain, all were focused on him.

  His thumb found a spot that sent a pulse of pleasure through her.

  Oliver glanced at her, and grinned. “Do you like that, Prim?”

  Speech was beyond her, but she managed to nod.

  He stroked her with his thumb, and Primrose realized that not only did Oliver have a magical mouth, he had magical hands. Her eyes squeezed shut as sensation built inside her.

  Oliver’s thumb stilled.

  Primrose opened her eyes.

  Oliver was watching her.

  She should have felt embarrassed, spread out like this on the bed, naked, but she didn’t feel embarrassed at all. She felt amazing. Incredible.

  Oliver held her gaze, and slipped a finger inside her.

  “Oh!” Primrose said.

  Oliver flexed his finger, and Primrose found herself incapable of speech again.

  He did it a second time. “Do you like that, Prim?”