Duke of Debauchery

by Scott, Scarlett

  Her legs opened. He stepped into them, and for one awe-inspiring moment, his aching cock was nestled against her mound. Separated by the barrier of his banyan alone. He gritted his teeth as he forced himself to go no further. Tonight was about teaching Hattie about desire. About making her want him as much as he wanted her. About taking her to the razor’s edge and giving her a first true taste of passion.

  He kissed the curve of her breast, murmuring his approval and appreciation. And then he withdrew just enough to sink to his knees on the plush carpet, her cunny was before him. Pink glistening flesh, blossoming like a flower, shielded by a satiny nest of dark curls. The scent of her, musky, sweet, earthen, reached him.

  Need pounded through him.

  “You cannot mean to…” Hattie was speaking. Protesting. Not bold enough to give voice to what he was about to do to her.

  “Taste your cunny? Bring you pleasure? Lick you until you spend on my tongue?” he asked, being deliberately coarse, for part of the raging need inside him was founded in his complete claiming of her innocence in every way. “Yes, I absolutely can, my sweet. And I will. And you shall like it. I promise.”

  “But Ewan…”

  All her protests died a swift death when he flicked his tongue over her pearl.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  Oh, indeed. The taste of her was decadent and rich, and he lapped her up as if she were the finest spirit, the most decadent dessert. Because she was all that and more. She was wet already, so perfect. He sucked the responsive bud of her sex as he had her nipples, gratified when she shifted instinctively on the bed, bringing her nearer.

  But this was not enough. Still, he wanted more. He slid his hands under her bottom, filling his palms, and adjusted her angle as he teased her. Slow, steady licks alternated with fast pulses. He used his teeth to gently score the sensitive underside before running his tongue down her seam.

  He could not resist penetrating her with his tongue. He dipped into her channel, humming with appreciation as her tight, wet heat greeted him. His cock throbbed with anticipation. God, he could not wait to sink deep inside her. This seduction was fast becoming a game of sensual torture. It was anyone’s guess which of them would be first to succumb.

  She was delicious, her dew coating his lips, his tongue. Her soft thighs cocooned his face. Her breathy gasps of appreciation spurred him on. He licked deeper, inhaling deeply of the musky scent of her excitement. She was moving against him now, her body undulating, and he knew she was getting close to release. He returned his attention to her pearl, drawing her into his mouth. Ever so gently, he bit.

  The husky cry of her spend echoed in the chamber as her body stiffened beneath him. She shuddered, her fingers once more in his hair, gripping with painful pleasure as she rode out the waves of pleasure. He waited until the last tremor radiated through her, doing everything he could to prolong the moment. Finally, he pressed a worshipful kiss to her mound, then stood.

  She was like a dream, his wicked innocent perched on the bed, legs still open. Her hands ran down his chest, caressing. Her eyes were wide pools of emerald fire. He could still taste her on his tongue. He was as jaded a lover as could be when it came to bed sport, but Hattie was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld.

  “Oh, Ewan,” she said softly, sliding her hands inside his banyan to reach his bare skin, “that was…”

  Her cheeks flared with a pretty pink as she struggled to finish her thought. As far as he was concerned, there were no words which could suffice.

  “Yes. It was.” He settled himself between her thighs once more, still standing, his cock hungry and hard and longing to be buried inside her.

  Slow, old chap, he warned himself.

  Slow and steady.

  But then her nails raked over his nipple, and a fierce arrow of need shot to his ballocks. He groaned, his hands on her, devouring the smoothness of her warm skin, traveling the curve of her waist, lifting the curtain of her long, dark hair aside so he could caress up her back. His fingers found the strength of her spine. He did not think he could ever tire of touching her.

  He kissed her neck, her ear.

  “I want to see you, Ewan,” she whispered.

  Hellfire.

  She was already pulling the twain ends of his dressing robe apart. He reached between them to help her, the silk falling from his body as he bit her earlobe. “You are glorious.”

  Adding action to his words, he cupped her breast, rubbed his thumb over the hard peak. She inhaled, tipping her head back as he kissed down her throat. She smelled so damn good here, and he thought he could spend all day worshiping the graceful column. Or the pronounced slash of her delicate collarbone. Or the elegant space where her neck and shoulder met.

  Slow, he cautioned himself again. But it would not be easy. It was as if he had unleashed a sensual tigress. Hattie’s hands were all over him, learning his chest, his back. She gripped his buttocks. Leaned forward and kissed his chest, directly over his stupidly thudding heart.

  “You are more glorious,” she declared, her voice low and sultry.

  Her fingers dug into his arse. His hips canted forward. His cock nestled in her dew-slicked folds, and it required every bit of his sanity to keep him from driving home.

  He kissed his way across her smooth, rounded shoulder, then gave it a bite. She filled him with a curious combination of ravening beast and tender lover. He wanted to possess her, to claim her in every way. But he also wanted to kiss her, to hold her close, to cherish her.

  Rather than dwell upon it, he planted a slow path of kisses down her arm. She continued her exploration, touching up his back to his shoulders. The way she explored him took his breath. Almost brought him to his knees. For she caressed him with a reverence he had never known. She touched him as if she cared for him.

  How could it be possible that a man who had bedded more lovers than he could even recall would be undone by a virgin? Impossible, said his pride. Yet, he could not deny the response her tenderness won. The need to be inside her bore down upon him with such force, he had to grind his molars to keep from spending then and there, on her thigh instead of inside his wife.

  His wife.

  Ah, yes. She was his, was she not?

  Time to make that true in deed as well as word.

  “Lie on the bed for me, pet,” he told her, giving her a lingering caress before disengaging and taking a step back.

  Her pupils were huge. The musk of her desire tinged the air. She knew what he was asking. The time had come to claim her. To consummate their union. Wordlessly, she slid onto the bed, doing as he commanded.

  He was upon her in an instant, wedging his big body between her pale thighs. Spreading them. He lowered himself over her, stopping to kiss and suck the offerings of her pretty pink nipples. As he leveraged his weight on one arm, he gripped his cock in the other. He glanced over her folds once, then twice.

  She sighed in contentment, moving against him, nestling him deeper. He rewarded them both by teasing her pearl with the tip of his shaft as his tongue flicked over her nipple. Then he kissed his way back to her throat. Her hands had settled upon his shoulders once more, holding him to her. Her small fingers were tense, biting into his muscles, her nails digging in.

  She felt so damn good. So hot, so wet. She felt like home. Like forever.

  But that was probably just the delirious fever of lust infecting his brain. He had not bedded anyone since the accident, since his decision to make Hattie his wife. Taking himself in hand to thoughts of her had not been enough. And now that he at long last had her precisely where he wanted her, he was thinking with his cock.

  Yes, that was it.

  That was all.

  He had worked his way to her throat. And then he could not resist kissing her sweet, kiss-swollen lips. The kiss turned open-mouthed and demanding, their tongues slid against each other as she made soft sounds of need, her body writhing against his, seeking another release. Her uninhibited eagerness was the greatest a
phrodisiac. He could still taste her, and he knew she must taste herself in the kiss also. He wanted her to. He wanted her wicked and helpless, ruled by desire.

  Just as he was.

  His ability to last was diminishing by the second. He guided himself to her entrance, and the head of his cock was caressed by her heat. She was even wetter now, slick with need. And she was all his.

  He broke the kiss. “Are you ready for me, darling?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He eased himself inside. She was tight, her channel gripping him, almost squeezing him out. “Breathe,” he told her. “Relax.”

  Then he kissed her again. His fingers dipped into her sex, finding that exquisite center of her desire. He teased her gently as he thrust. The pleasure was intense, slamming into him with so much force, he almost forgot to breathe himself. The tension ebbed away from her body, and he felt her inner muscles relax. He moved again, seating himself even deeper.

  There was the slight resistance, she tightened on him again, her body stiffening. A gasp from her lips. His name.

  “Ewan. I…”

  He would never know what she had been about to say next, because need was roaring through him. His body took control. He thrust. One long pump, and he was all the way inside her. So deep inside her. Her welcoming heat embraced him, and dear sweet God, he never wanted to leave her body.

  He kissed her languorously. White-hot pleasure shimmered through him. His body was on fire. Need for her was more potent than anything he had ever consumed in an effort to render himself mindless. She was all he could feel, taste, see, hear, breathe. Everything. And though he claimed her body with his, she did the same with hers.

  Pleasure owned him.

  He lost control. It was impossible to stay still. He was moving within her now, long, deep thrusts. Measured at first, and then uncontrolled. Wild and frenzied. Again and again.

  He tore his lips from hers, his breaths harsh and ragged. Torn from him like his desperate command. “Come for me, pet. Come on my cock.”

  He circled her pearl with two fingers, increasing his pace and pressure, thrusting in and out of her. On a dazed cry, she gave him what he wanted, her complete surrender. Her body bowed from the bed, head rolling back into the mountain of pillows and the wild nest of her dark curls. Her cunny gripped him, dragging him deep.

  As her spend rocked through her, the rein on his control snapped. He could not prolong this bliss a moment more. The violence of his own release took him by surprise. It was as if lightning cracked. Heat licked down his spine. His ballocks drew tight. His entire body seized with the feverish swell of his climax. He spilled himself inside her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hattie sipped her tea. Alone, save for Sir Toby, who was curled on her lap and happily purring away as he dozed. She wished she could summon even an inkling of the feline’s easy contentment. Montrose’s mother had left for the country in an effort, Hattie supposed, to give the newlyweds some time alone. The sudden nature of their nuptials meant no honeymoon had been planned.

  As far as she knew, Montrose intended to remain in London. But then, there was so much of Montrose and his plans that remained a mystery. This morning was no different. She had woken in her rumpled bed. Alone, save for the scent of him upon her sheets and the incendiary memory of his lovemaking.

  Later that morning, she had broken her fast. Once more alone, but for Sir Toby, who ate his kippers with greedy relish on the floor at her side.

  The ormolu clock on the mantel, with its golden eagle about to take flight perched atop, mocked her with each tick. It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon. She replaced her teacup upon its saucer with less care than she should have. Some of the liquid, now tepid, sloshed over the gilt-lipped rim.

  Her initial disappointment at her husband’s absence, following a night that had left her forever changed, was transforming with each passing minute into a different emotion entirely.

  Anger.

  Low, the Hamilton House butler, appeared at the threshold of the cheerful salon where she had decided to take her tea. He was not unfamiliar to her, as she and Montrose’s sister, Catriona, were as close as sisters. But in spite of the previous occasions when she had come calling, and in spite of her new position as mistress of the house, he remained as stiff-backed and expressionless as a marble statue.

  “How may I be of service to you, Your Grace?” he asked now as if she had not already called for him half a dozen times that morning.

  “Has His Grace risen yet?” she asked, not even bothering to disguise her query this time.

  Her tact was fast waning, much like her patience.

  Last night, Ewan had made love to her so fiercely and passionately, she had fallen into a delicious, sated slumber with him at her side. Her heart had been bursting with love, her body humming with the newfound pleasures and hungers he had awoken within her. And then she had blinked her eyes open to early-morning gold slashing through the window dressings, her bed empty.

  He had left her in the night.

  “His Grace has yet to leave his chamber, Your Grace,” Low informed her.

  Once more, she made no effort to pretty her request. “Does His Grace often rise late, Low?”

  “His Grace’s schedule is at his discretion,” the butler offered.

  Oh, this fellow would be indomitable at cards. His countenance was carefully blank. The absurd urge to ruffle his feathers struck her, but she supposed that would not provide her with answers or an understanding of the man she had married. Nor would it solve any of her problems.

  “I understand, Low.” She scratched Sir Toby’s soft head between his perky little ears, trying to calm herself. “What you are saying is that His Grace does not generally rise early.”

  He inclined his head. “I would not presume to say so, Your Grace. Would Sir Toby care for a snack? Monsieur Tremblay has set aside some livers for him.”

  Now, she understood the loyal retainer was attempting to distract her. But there truly was no means of forgetting the fact that her husband appeared to have been sleeping for far more hours than was ordinary. Or that he had left her alone last night. Or that it was clear he had not felt what they had shared last night as keenly as she had.

  Had she expected any less? He had warned her, had he not? And she knew he was an experienced rakehell. Of course, the Duke of Debauchery would not find the act of making love with his wife transforming. What a simple, stupid woman she was. How foolish, how naïve, to have supposed for even an instant that he would have been as moved as she had been.

  After all, it had been the first time she had ever made love. But for Montrose, it must have been a tired old chore by now. Bedding his wallflower wife surely paled in comparison to the pleasures he indulged in with experienced demimondaines.

  “Your Grace?” Low prodded, frowning.

  Pulling her from her vicious musings.

  She stood, carrying Sir Toby in her arms. “That will be all, Low. Thank you. Sir Toby will be accompanying me. Please do convey my gratitude to Monsieur Trembley, and ask him to send them up in about an hour, if you please.”

  Low bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  She swept out of the salon with Sir Toby, determined that her time of waiting and politely inquiring after her husband must come to an end. She was going to beard the lion in his den, as it were. Up the steps she went. Sir Toby protested on her march down the hall, wriggling and attempting to escape. Perhaps he could sense her ire.

  Hattie made her way to her apartments, still feeling a bit as if she were trespassing in a stranger’s home. Though her belongings had been settled in yesterday, neither the chamber nor Hamilton House felt like hers.

  Nor did the master of the house, she thought grimly as she crossed the threshold, closing the door at her back lest Sir Toby attempt to wander. She did not trust the domestics enough yet to allow him free reign of the house. She settled him upon his bed and rubbed his head.

  “There you are,
my little cherub,” she cooed. “Be a good lad.”

  Sir Toby watched her with his knowing gaze. One more scratch of his soft head, and she rose. Because Sir Toby was a cat, he had left his smaller bed in favor of making himself at home on hers before she had even made it halfway across the chamber.

  But she had other matters to distract herself with now.

  Namely, a husband who had seemingly disappeared.

  She stopped at the door adjoining their chambers, wondering for a moment at the wisdom of invading his private space. She had only seen his chamber briefly the day before during her official tour of Hamilton House as the new Duchess of Montrose. Her impression had been that it was a starkly masculine space, filled with heavy, dark furniture.

  There was no hope for it, she told herself. If she wanted to see him at all today, she was going to have to venture over the unseen boundaries between them. Moreover, she could not shake the concern pricking at her mind, that sleeping so late was unusual. The servants did not seem surprised by his behavior, which meant it was likely a regular occurrence.

  But why?

  There had been no gin on his lips last night when he had kissed her. Indeed, the only taste on his mouth had been her, and the shocking, raw intimacy of the act still made her cheeks heat today when she thought of what he had done to her.

  And how very much she had liked it.

  Do not think of wickedness now, she chided herself. You have a lion to beard.

  Firm in her decision, she opened the door. The first thing that struck her was the darkness within Montrose’s personal realm. The window dressings had yet to be drawn back to admit the afternoon’s sun. Or at least what remained of it, since a slow drizzle had begun to fall earlier that morning and had yet to relinquish its grasp.

  The second thing she noticed was the silence, which told her that her husband was yet abed. Shoulders back, determination weighing her down, she crossed the threshold, breaching his lair. The previous day’s abbreviated tour had not provided her much of an opportunity to familiarize herself with the layout of his chamber.