“So delicious, darling,” he murmured, kissing the flesh he had just tormented. “You taste sweeter than honey.”
And then, his tongue was upon her again. Faster. Harder. The pleasure he had already given her meant she was teetering on the edge. Bliss was a wave crashing over her, a torrent all at once, threatening to drown. Her hips bucked. He caught her in his teeth and tugged.
Everything inside her tightened. She was ready. Desperate. He sank a finger inside her sheath and nibbled at her again. That was all it took. She was lost. A spasm rocked through her. She thought she gasped. Maybe she screamed. She was incoherent. Her body was a slave to the pleasure he gave her.
It did not matter. Nothing mattered but Ewan.
He rose over her suddenly, and in one thrust, he was inside her. Deep. He was hot, hard, stretching her. Her body was still not accustomed to such an invasion, to the size of him. She tightened on him instinctively, and a wave of shudders rocked through her as another spend seemed to possess her.
He braced himself on one arm and cupped her cheek with his other hand, remaining still within her. “Relax for me, pet.”
He kissed her then, and she welcomed his kiss, his mouth. His tongue tangled with hers, bringing with it the musky flavor of her own sex. She clutched at his shoulders, kissed him back with the frenzied need driving her. Desperation mingled with desire. She bit his lower lip, moved against him to bring him deeper. Her nipples grazed his chest.
He groaned into the kiss and began to move at last.
“My wildcat,” he murmured, his tone laden with approval. “You like it when I bed you, don’t you Hattie?”
There was that vulgar word again. How she loved it in his dark voice. How she loved him inside her, the delicious weight of his big body pinning her to the bed.
“Yes,” she gasped as he increased his pace, sinking inside her only to almost withdraw entirely, again and again.
“Say it,” he commanded. “Say it, and I’ll fuck you harder.”
Did she want that? Yes, she did. She was splintering. She wanted anything he would do to her. Everything he would do. She was breaking into a thousand shards of light. Her body was his to claim, his to control. The pleasure was all she could think, all she could feel. She was so wet, the slippery sound of him sliding in and out of her channel echoing through the chamber.
He withdrew and held still, staring down at her, his countenance harsh, the tendons in his neck raised in testament to the restraint he exercised. “Tell me, pet.”
“I love when you fuck me, Ewan,” she said, breathless.
The rest of the words, even awash in the mad throes of ecstasy, she kept to herself.
I love you, Ewan.
As if he had heard those words, too, he wrapped her legs around his waist and slammed into her, driving deep. Intense pleasure overtook her. His mouth was on hers again, and this time, the rhythm was more punishing, yet more delicious. She tightened on him, her release abrupt and fierce. She cried out into his kiss, digging her nails into his shoulders as she came undone.
He moved faster, his strokes shorter. His body tensed against hers, and then he broke the kiss, burying his face in her neck. A hot rush filled her.
She had never loved him more.
Chapter Fifteen
Monty woke with his arm around a deliciously feminine waist and his hard cock nestled against the cleft of a luscious arse.
The scent of violets and lovemaking were heavy in the air.
Beautiful way to greet the dawn, he thought, nestling his face in the cloud of silken hair spilling all over the pillow. He had stopped spending the night in his lovers’ beds some years ago when the violence of his nightmares had rendered sleeping with another unwise. But as dawn light crept through the window dressings, bathing the chamber in seductive shadows and the promise of another round of bedding his wife, he found himself wishing he could begin each day just like this.
Hattie.
Sweet, wonderful, glorious, prim, wallflower Hattie. He had used her quite roughly last night. He had been crazed with lust for her, and he had not treated her with the proper care a husband no doubt ought to devote to a gently bred lady. But she had not seemed to mind. If anything, she had been as desperate and mindless for their joining as he had been.
He had treated her poorly. He kissed her shoulder now, determined to make amends. Determined to do better. To try to lock away the demons for her. Because she deserved the best he could give her.
His hand slid up to cup her breast. Her nipple was already a hard bead nestled in his palm, her skin soft, silken warmth. He wondered if her cunny was wet. He wanted her with a ferocity that shook him, for she was the first woman he had ever bedded whose allure had not diminished after he’d had her beneath him.
Instead, he desired her more with each passing moment.
She was an obsession, infecting his blood. All he wanted was to be inside her. To lay abed with her all day. To spill inside her until he had not a drop left to give.
His hand left her breast, gliding down the satiny curves of her belly, before finding her silken curls. She was hot. His fingers sought the answer to his question. Soaked. Dear God, she was so wet.
“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice throaty with sleep and desire.
“Minx,” he said lightly, kissing her ear. “How long have you been awake?”
“For a few minutes, no more.” She turned her head toward him, adorably sleep-rumpled. Her green eyes were half-open, lined with thick, dark lashes. “You stayed.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, keeping his voice light.
It would not do for her to know the enormity of the step he had taken, just how much of his guard he had abandoned in the wake of their lovemaking. His fingers were still happily drenched and warm between her thighs. He stroked her sex now, trying to distract her from further conversation.
“Thank you,” she murmured as calmly as if he were not petting her sweet cunny at that very moment.
He wanted to tell her he had not stayed for her but for himself. Because he was a selfish bastard who had wanted to wake with her within arm’s reach. But that was not entirely true. How surprising to realize he was not quite the bastard he had supposed himself to be.
He had spent the night in her chamber because he had been replete in a way he could not recall ever having felt before. Because Hattie…comforted him. Strange as it was. He had been lulled to sleep by her calm, even breaths in the night, by the scent of violet, by her body aligned to his.
Instead of lying, he kept his silence, distracting himself by taking a moment to admire her face. Everything about her was impossibly lovely to him. It was as if he was seeing her—truly—for the first time. From her high cheekbones to her softly rounded chin, her perfect, almost elfin nose, to her mouth. By God, her mouth was made for kissing. So lush, so full. Lips any courtesan would envy. Lips a man could not help but imagine sliding around his cock before she took him down her throat.
The mere thought made his prick twitch. But that was no way to introduce her to the pleasures to be had in their marital bed. There was time, plenty of it, to lead her down the path of debauchery.
He could not resist closing the distance between them, sealing their mouths. He kissed her with all the gratitude singing in his soul. With all the hunger burning inside him.
But then he remembered his determination to make amends. As much as he wanted nothing more than to love her all morning, all afternoon, and all night, too, he needed to attempt to ameliorate his sins against her. He pulled back, ended the kiss, and withdrew his fingers from the paradise between her thighs.
Oh, what an effort it took to lie there alongside her and roll her toward him rather than pouncing upon her. They faced each other now. Knowing he would be lost if his rampaging cock came into contact with any portion of her anatomy, he kept their bodies at a safe distance, settling his hand upon her waist to anchor her where she was.
A slight frown marred her otherwise flawle
ss brow. “What is troubling you, Ewan?”
Had he given himself away so well in failing to ravish her like the lustful beast he was? And where to begin? He had never before possessed a wife. Nor a meaningful relationship with any woman he cared about.
The thought was sobering, for along with it came a shocking realization, he cared about Hattie. She was not just a feminine body to slake his passions. She was not just the woman he had married. She was something far, far more.
He swallowed against a rush of unwanted emotion and forced himself to speak. “Yesterday, I was a bastard to you. I am sorry, Hattie. You deserved better treatment.”
She blinked, surprise softening her countenance. “You already apologized last night, Ewan. I have accepted. Our marriage is in its infancy, and I would not begin it in enmity.”
The good Lord’s chemise, she was such an angel. Practical as ever, his Hattie. How had he somehow been blessed with the fortune of taking her as his wife? There had been a time when matrimony was anathema to him, when there had been no inducement he could have fathomed which would have seen him caught in the parson’s mousetrap. But something about marriage with Hattie—hell, something about everything with Hattie—felt so damned right.
He reminded himself he owed her more than the apology he had given, when he had been too hell-bent upon seduction.
“I am sorry I was harsh with you,” he elaborated, hating himself more than he ordinarily did. “I am also sorry I left. I ought to have dined with you.”
Damnation, what was he saying? He did not want her to expect him to spend every evening with her like a loyal puppy at his master’s heels. Surely this newfound obsession with her, while unique, would not last forever. It was a matter of course that he would eventually tire of the novelty of having a wife to bed. His demons would come crowding in once more, and he would seek oblivion again in the usual fashions.
Drink.
Women.
Opium.
You did not leave the opium behind, reminded that insidious voice. Indeed, it was only a matter of time before he poured laudanum-laced tea down his throat.
Hattie was staring at him, unspeaking. Unsmiling. It was as if she was trying to see inside him, to read his thoughts.
“Why do you take laudanum in your tea, Ewan?” she asked. “Why did you wish to hide it from me?”
Damn.
“My ankle still pains me,” he lied, and hated himself for it. “I am a prideful man. I…did not want you to think me weak.”
But the truth was, his ankle was not his greatest pain, nor his primary ailment. And the more disgusting, humiliating truth was that the laudanum helped him to forget. It was more effective than gin or whisky. More effective than the oblivion between some wench’s legs.
More effective than Hattie? He could not yet say for certain.
“Your ankle,” she repeated, searching his gaze.
She was right to doubt him. Of course, she was. Because he was lying to her. Lying to everyone around him. Just as he always had.
“The sawbones did not set the bone properly, I fear,” he continued, adding another dark mark against his soul.
In truth, his ankle occasionally throbbed. But even this sporadic ailment was not the reason he was an opium eater. The true reason was one he would never reveal to another person for as long as he possessed a heart beating in his chest.
He saw her inwardly weighing her choices. Did she believe him, or did she further press her case? He held her gaze, unflinching, knowing it was what he must do for her sake as well as his. He would never tell her the truth. Not about this.
“It is particularly painful in the morning,” he added, hoping she would let the matter rest at that.
He had already had a word with Wainwroth about his laudanum tea and Her Grace. The mistake would not be repeated.
The furrow between her brows lessened, but still remained. “Do you take it every day?”
Tell her the truth.
He knew what would happen if he did.
“No,” he told her. “Only when it is necessary.”
She compressed her lush lips, and then her hands were on his face, so gentle, so tender, he could have wept at the beauty of it. At the beauty of her. Her thumbs traced the ridges of his cheekbones, her brilliant, green eyes boring into him, as if she could see through him if she only looked hard enough. Her caresses were like a brand on his skin, warming him to his toes. His still-hard cock jerked back to unruly attention. Although he had just had her last night, he wanted her again.
And he would have her, he knew.
Finally, she spoke. “I would never think you weak, Ewan.” Her hands slid from his face, traveling to his shoulders, his chest. One of her hands gripped his biceps. “You are strong. So very strong.”
There was physical strength and there was a man’s inner strength, and the two were not related. He could have told her as much. Within, he was a coward who could not face what had happened to him. The muscles he honed in gentlemanly sporting pursuits had nothing to do with the man he was on the inside.
But that was the Monty he hid from the world. The man he would do anything to hide.
“Thank you, pet,” he told her, kissing the tip of her nose once more. “I am trying to be a better man for you. Beginning today.”
That, at least, was true. He should have tried yesterday. And mayhap he had, but he had also failed, unutterably. He had ample reason to try to be the husband Hattie deserved.
Not that he could ever attain such a vaunted standing. For it was undeniable that he would never, ever deserve her. Just as it was undeniable that he would have her anyway. She was his. And he meant to keep her.
Monty decided the time for talking was over. Distracting her would be easy. Manipulation was one of his many talents, especially when it came to the women in his bed. He caught her hand, slid it lower, down his abdomen. Guided her fingers around his rigid cock.
Her eyes flared, her lips parting. “Th-thank you, Ewan.”
She was breathless. He released her hand, and she kept her fingers as they were. A telling and promising sign.
A slow grin stretched his lips as heat radiated from where her slender fingers grasped him. He was on fire for her. Ready and so hard, he ached. “Why are you thanking me, darling? Are you thanking me for my—”
“Hush,” she interrupted, her grip tightening on him as she chastised him. “Do not say anything else that is wicked, I beg you. I was thanking you for your words, and you know it. For wanting to be a better man for me. I… I want to be the same for you. I want to be a good wife. I want to make you happy. To please you.”
Beelzebub’s earbobs, there was no earthly means by which Hattie could possibly be a better woman. He was certain of it. Especially when she stroked him, from root to tip. The movement was untutored and hesitant, but it tore a growl from his throat and had his hips moving toward her just the same.
“You already make me happy,” he told her with ease. This, at least, was not a lie. Nothing in his life had ever made him happier.
He would not ruin this, he vowed to himself. Hattie was the sun in the bleakness of his days. Before, he had been seeking distraction and oblivion everywhere and with everyone he could. It had taken the kisses and the innocent passions of a dark-haired siren to make him realize he had been looking in all the wrong places.
“Will you show me what to do?” she asked, her voice hesitant. So soft he could scarcely hear her above the pounding of his heart.
Bloody everlasting hell.
This woman.
She had stilled in her strokes, her thumb rubbing over his cockhead. The air fled his lungs. Moisture had seeped from the tip, and she slicked it over him. He nearly spent in her hand.
Gritting his teeth, he sank his fingers into the lush curtain of her hair, cupping her head, drawing her mouth toward his. “More of what you are doing, darling.”
Though he itched to touch her intimately once more, there was something incredibly seduct
ive about giving her all the control. About allowing her to lead them in their lovemaking. His Hattie was bold, curious, and sensual. Beautifully fearless.
“I want to give you pleasure, Ewan,” she said against his lips.
“You do, my darling. Bloody hell, how you do,” he returned.
Their lips moved as one. The kiss was deep and decadent. Their tongues tangled. The musk of their lovemaking the previous night was redolent on the bedclothes. It only made him want her more. The seriousness of their conversation fell away. So, too, any thoughts of his past. His world had shrunk to the size of this bedchamber.
He had a brief, mad moment of wondering if the two of them could remain here forever, making love and calling for trays of food, never allowing reality to intrude. He thought he could live within these four walls with her always. He thought he could give up gin, opium, other women, anything at all for her.
But that was hardly realistic thinking. He had obligations, as did she. At some point, they would need to leave this chamber. Not now, however. Not even today. They were on their honeymoon, were they not? And whilst they had not traveled to the country since his country seat was the last place he wished to visit, and since their nuptials had been rather sudden, it stood to reason that they could remain at Hamilton House for at least the next sennight.
Perhaps fortnight.
Her hand had resumed its tentative exploration, and he groaned into their kiss, his hips thrusting of their own volition. He yearned to sink inside her. His ballocks drew taut as she moved her hand up and down his shaft with greater confidence. She was going to make him spill with her hand alone.
Good God, when was the last time he had spent in a woman’s hand? He could not recall. It had been years. And he was not about to do it now. On his third day of marriage. What was happening to him?
He was turning into a milksop.
Duke of Debauchery Page 17
