by Lavinia Kent
Her fingers moved ever lower and his breath grew ever shallower.
His lips moved then, down her chin to that most delicate spot where neck begins. She’d never noticed that spot before, never even considered that it existed. But now, as his lips explored it, she felt as if her whole being centered there on that wonderfully sensitive bend of skin and bone.
She didn’t know how she continued to breathe. Her dress was tight about her, her breasts pressing against the constricting fabric, her nipples rubbing with near irritation.
And then there was freedom. She felt her dress slip, without even being aware that his hands had been at her ties. Some small part of her brain sought to protest, but it was a very tiny bit. Far greater was the longing, the desire.
This was what she wanted. This was what would get her what she needed.
She ran her fingers up his chest, over his shirt, deep into the silky glory of his hair. She pulled his face back, wanting to see, to know.
She sought answers.
What she found was passion.
His eyes were dark, and full of desire. His lips swollen from her kisses.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. His gaze dropped low and her own glance followed.
She gasped. Her dress hung about her waist, her corset pushed down, one strap hanging off her shoulder, so that only her chemise covered her. If it could be called coverage.
Her nipples were sharp points, thrusting hard against the thin white fabric, their dark rose hue clearly visible.
She should have been shocked.
And she was. But the shock was that she saw herself as he saw her, saw the beauty, saw the glory.
She glanced up and met his gaze again. Holding her gaze in his, he reached out and ran a finger over the upward thrust of one nipple.
The sensation of that barest touch was unbelievable, the rasp of the fabric making her whole body jerk.
She saw the slight movement of his mouth at her response, felt his pleasure in hers.
He pinched her then, catching the peak between finger and thumb, squeezing with tormenting slowness.
She was going to die. There could be no other outcome to such pleasure, no other ending to the need that filled her.
She wanted to run, to scream, to do something to release all that grew within her.
But all she could do was watch, watch his eyes as his fingers moved. She would have thought his glance would be on her breast, on what he did, but he kept his gaze on hers, catching every piece of her response.
And then. . .
Then he bent his head, still holding her eye, and brought his lips toward the nipple he so tortured. She watched as he drew in a deep breath—and then blew. Then his mouth was on her, wetting the fabric, grinding it against her. He sucked. He laved. He twirled his tongue about her. He owned her.
And still he watched her face, watched her reaction, her passion.
He drew back and she almost cried, almost begged.
He smiled. He knew her thoughts. Not all the power was hers.
And then he moved to her other breast.
His tongue once again wetting, moving, laving.
She found her own hand rising to the other, now neglected breast. His gaze finally dropped from hers, his full attention caught by her fingers as they caressed her own breast, tugged at her own nipple.
His hands came up to her shoulders, slipped beneath the fine linen of her chemise, pushed it down in one quick movement.
She heard a rip, but it did not matter.
All that mattered was the look in his eyes as he gazed down at her naked breasts.
God, she was beautiful.
He thought again of telling her. It seemed wrong not to, but—but how could he take the risk that she would look at him differently? All that mattered was the warm passion in her eyes. He could see her insecurities, her innocence, her trust.
Damn it.
He had to tell her. How could he not tell her when she looked at him as if he were her whole world, as if she would believe anything he said? He could not betray that look.
“Isabella, my Bella, there is something I must tell you.”
It took a moment for her eyes to focus, for his words to be understood. She smiled, slowly, from under lowered lashes. “You’ve never called me by name before—Mark.” She breathed his name as if it were a sacred word.
This should not be so hard. She would be thrilled to learn his position, to know that he truly could take care of her, to understand that she need never worry again. He could live with not knowing if it was Mark she wanted, not the duke. He would do what was right. “Isabella.” He said her name again. “There is something you really must know.”
“What could I need to know now?” Her eyes clouded and she crossed her arms across her breasts, those magnificent breasts. “You don’t have a disease, do you? I’ve heard whisper of such things. Is that why you thought I needed to cover your—your cock when we first met?” A shiver shook her.
“You do not need to fear. I have never had such problems. I have always been careful.”
She did not look fully convinced.
“Ah Isabella, you do amuse me, make me happy. But I assure you I need no covering—not there.”
She wrapped her arms tighter. A shiver shook her again.
The air was warm. There was no need for her to feel chilled, although he could feel shivers coming on himself.
“Do you doubt me? Do you wish to examine me for pox?”
“No.” Clearly the question startled her. “I am just a little shy. It is all so real suddenly.”
He reached out and laid his hands over hers, squeezing them gently, and then drawing them down. “You are beautiful. You should never feel the need to hide yourself from me. I wish I could put it to words how I feel when I look at you. You make me believe in God and all his plans. The perfection of your breasts could not exist except by design.”
She blushed. The sheer rosy pink spread up over her chest and neck until it highlighted her cheeks.
“I think that’s blasphemous,” she whispered.
“I am sure some would find it so. But how can relishing beauty be wrong?”
She grew even redder and tried again to cover her breasts.
He looked down deliberately, let himself stare. He took in every detail, every freckle, every shade of cream and pink. Then he looked up and met her gaze evenly. “Does this feel wrong?”
Chewing on her lower lip, she looked unsure. “It feels strange, certainly. I am not sure about wrong. Can something that feels so good not be wrong?”
He chuckled. “Why the assumption that what feels good is wrong? You strike me as a woman who takes the time to relish the little moments in life. Can you not equally appreciate the—the bigger moments?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in this position before.”
“That is very clear.”
He had to stop teasing her or she was going to be redder than the ripest tomato.
Her hands pulled loose from his and he went to grab them again, but instead of covering her breasts she lifted them from underneath, raising them toward him like an offering.
“I understand so little of this,” she said. “I’ve never before understood what it is about breasts that drive men wild. I still can’t say that I understand.” She moved one thumb, flicking it across the nipple. Her gaze never left his. “I must say I do like it, though.”
He was going to explode, right here, right now, like a schoolboy caught in a dream. He was going to explode. He’d seen plenty of women, been seduced by the best. But he could never remember anything as erotic as her hesitant voice as she whispered those words, as her fingers moved over herself, as her eyes grew large at each sensation she aroused.
“I do love when you look at me like that,” she continued. “You do make me feel we truly will be together always.”
Always. The word gave him pause even as the slow movement of her fingers over her plump flesh drew h
im on.
She’d never felt like this before. They were such simple words and did not begin to encompass all that she felt. There was such strength in this moment. He would do anything for her, anything to keep her fingers moving, to keep her eyes on his, to keep open the moments that were to come. No man had ever looked at her like this—like he wanted to devour her and treasure her in the same instant.
For the first time she understood why her sister, Violet, had taken lovers. A woman could surely grow addicted to this, to the power of desire.
Desire. She’d been warned about it since she was in short skirts and never understood its danger. Now it surrounded her, almost physical. His desire for her—and hers for him.
His kisses had not been enough, a lifetime of them would not be enough. His touch had not been enough. When his hands had moved upon her breasts, when his lips had suckled at them, it had been the most amazing feeling. And yet it was not enough.
There was something more. She could see it in his gaze, feel it in the ache that began between her legs and rose, filling her.
She knew the basic mechanics of the situation. His piece fit into hers. She even knew about what his looked like. Several of the maids had owned dirty drawings, and of course she’d seen Joey’s and several other young boys’ over the last years. She had a feeling, though, that was not what she would be dealing with. Violet had books—books she was not supposed to look at. But she could not believe that this would be like that. Surely much of what she’d peeked at was impossible.
But this was more than mechanics. This was emotion—and commitment. He’d said he would care for her—did care for her.
That was not the same as proposing marriage, but she knew men were slow at such things. What came out of their mouths was rarely the same as what went on in their minds. Normally the words were meant to persuade, to reassure, while their minds ran far in the other direction.
Any woman in service knew the difference between what a man promised and what he delivered. She’d seen far too many maids promised everything by a man who disappeared or pretended to forget as soon as the event was over.
The event.
She was going to do that, here, now.
Her gaze left Mark’s and flitted across the duke’s parlor. It was not a grand room, the furnishings hardy and well used. But it was far finer than she’d known for years.
There was no bed. Did they need a bed? Did she want to do this without a bed?
It suddenly seemed tawdry.
She was thinking too much.
And then she met his gaze again. The desire was there. The need was there. But there was more. There was that— Oh, she didn’t know a word for what she saw. She wanted to say love, but she was not so foolish. But there was something.
“You seem nervous.” His voice was raspy.
“Yes.”
He reached out and trailed a finger over the curve of her breast, not touching the peak, but outlining it. He swallowed, hard, as he touched her. “We don’t have to do this. I promised I would be content with kisses.”
“You want more, though. You want this.”
He smiled at her words, his glance filled with irony. “I am a man. There is not a man alive who would not want you, as you look now, your lips swollen with kisses, your breasts tight from my touch, your hair mussed about your shoulders—and—”
“And what?” What more could he have to say? His every word convinced her more and more.
“And the innocence that shines from you, your uncertainty, your need to be kissed until you are blind with desire, kissed until you cannot think the thoughts I see spinning through your mind, the knowledge that every experience, every move, every feeling will be the first that you have felt. You drive a man to do things that he should not. Gads, I am not a man for fine words, and listen to me. You bewitch me, Isabella. You have from the first moment I heard your voice, saw your face.”
All she could do was stare at him. Her hands were still on her breasts. She knew her mouth gaped open. How could she resist such honesty? This was a man who held nothing back from her.
This was the man she would marry. She didn’t care if he could provide for her—although he did promise to—and she rather thought he could.
All she cared was that she had him.
He was a man she could trust.
She reached out and placed a hand on each of his shoulders, drawing him toward her.
Chapter 11
What was he waiting for? Mark was not a fool. No man would refuse what she offered. Far better to explain things later. Then it would be impossible for there to be any misunderstandings between them.
She would be his, would have to let him care for her. There would be no chance that she would stay with Mrs. Wattington.
And besides, no rational woman could be upset that he was a duke. She would be pleased.
He knew he was justifying his own actions, that he was finding an excuse to do what he wanted, but there was no way he could resist her, no way he could risk losing her, losing this.
He leaned into her embrace, letting her pull him tight. His lips found hers, felt them open beneath him, her tongue as eager as his. He forced his hands to the back of her waist, not allowing them to go where they wished. She might be eager, but he would keep this slow, keep her with him every step of the way.
And he would allow her to stop—this must be her choice as well as his.
She was not so controlled. Her fingers tangled in his hair, seeking to draw him closer than was physically possible.
He ran his hands down her backside, cupping her buttocks and lifting her until her legs separated, bending up to wrap around his waist. A simple shift of hip and she was where he wanted, positioned over him, only layers of fabric separating them.
She drew back, her eyes wide. Staring at him she shifted, feeling him with her body, her mind trying to comprehend. She swallowed, but did not pull farther away. She moved again, experimenting. Her hands slipped down his neck and came to clasp tight about his shoulders. She leaned back, pushing the apex of her thighs farther against him.
He gasped as she rubbed herself against his full length.
She smiled her delight at his response.
He longed to pull her to him again, to kiss that mischievous smile, but his hands were holding her to him. Glancing about the room he spotted the table and stepped toward it.
Her mouth opened at the bump and grind of the step. A light laugh escaped her.
How could such passion be such fun? He’d never before felt this mix of need and joy, delight.
Reaching the table, he settled her upon it. She glanced back, startled, and then dropped her hands from his shoulders, bracing them behind her.
He slid his hands down her hips and legs until he reached her slender ankles. He started to slide his hands back up, inside her skirts. Someday soon he would cover her legs in silk instead of coarsely knitted wool. He closed his eyes and for a moment saw her only in those fine silk stockings and rosetted garters. Pulling in a deep breath he opened his eyes again. The reality of her was so perfect he had no need for fantasy.
He slid his fingers upward, past her knees, up to her thighs. He was close, so close. His body throbbed with urgency, while his mind cautioned patience.
“Stop.” Her single word held him.
She couldn’t mean it. But he had promised himself he would not push past her desires.
His fingers stilled, but only with the greatest of efforts.
“You want me to stop? I thought you wanted this.”
The smile she gave him then revealed a far greater understanding than he would have believed. She might not know the act, but she certainly knew how to be a woman. “Yes, I want you to stop. Just be still.”
He obeyed, waiting.
“I want to feel you first. You mentioned I could examine—examine it.”
“What?” His heart missed a beat.
“I don’t want this hurried, rushed. If I am going to do th
is I want to know it all.” She leaned forward and traced a single finger down the front of his breeches.
It was a gesture full of seduction, of temptation, but more than that—he looked in her face and saw . . . curiosity.
She was caught in passion, filled with it, but she wanted knowledge. He swallowed. Straight seduction he could have handled, but this?
“Stop.” It was his turn to say the word.
“Am I doing something wrong?” Her hand pulled back and her eyes mirrored uncertainty.
“No, I just need a minute or neither of us will be happy with the outcome.” He drew in a deep breath and counted slowly to himself, then he reached out and took her small hand within his own, squeezed it once in reassurance, and brought it back to its original position.
He gasped as her hand traced his length. Her eyes were wide. Her gaze met his and then moved lower. Her fingers moved back and forth, outlining him.
He was going to die. Or else he already had. The sensations she sent through him were beyond words.
And the look on her face.
Her fingers suddenly moved up to his waistband, catching at one of the buttons of his fall. Her glance came back to his. She chewed on her lower lip and then slipped the button free and then the next. He could almost feel her caution and her inquisitiveness.
He took the opportunity to draw in another breath. He could not be sure he had breathed the whole time she had touched him.
And then her fingers were beneath the fabric, stroking his length.
“Your skin is so soft. I didn’t expect that.”
He couldn’t say a word, couldn’t do more than swallow as she ran her hand over him again, her fingers pausing to figure out his shape, to understand the movement of his skin over the hard strength beneath.
When her fingers wrapped all about him a tiny cry leaked through his lips.
Her mouth formed an O and then she ran her hand up him again, a grin growing as he jerked in response.
The smile that formed across her lips spoke of innate seduction. She might not know what she was doing, but she knew she did it well.
She leaned forward so that her other arm was free. She quickly worked at the remainder of the buttons until he was bare before her.
