by Alyson Chase
One thick finger slid between her folds, and her breath caught in her throat.
“So soft,” he murmured. “Like the dogwood blossom.”
“I’m wet.” She wondered if that was something she should be embarrassed about, but the duke didn’t seem to mind. And embarrassment would only diminish her pleasure, so she shoved it aside.
“And getting wetter,” he agreed. “Your body is softening for me. Preparing for an intrusion. Releasing its sweet essence to maximize both of our enjoyment.”
He dipped his finger into her body, swirled the tip around her opening.
Her brain fogged, making it hard to concentrate. “The moisture makes it easier . . .”
“For my cock to slide deep into that sweet pussy.” He pressed his thumb on the little nub above her opening. “The human body is an amazing creation. Designed to give and receive bliss. This right here”—she sucked in a breath as he pressed harder with his thumb—“your lovely little clit, is a focal point for your desire. When you’re alone in your bed, thinking naughty things that no maid should think, you can stroke right here until your crisis overtakes you.”
Her hips arched into his touch. The tension in her body wound tighter and tighter until that magical moment he spoke of was right over the horizon.
He pulled his hands from her drawers, and she let out a cry of dismay.
Holding a finger up to her lips, he said, “Shh.” His breath tickled her ear. He pressed that finger into her mouth, slid it over her tongue. “Can you taste that? That’s the flavor of you wanting me.” He nipped at her earlobe when she sucked his finger more fully into her mouth. His chest heaved beneath her back.
“You can’t be greedy.” His voice was as rough as sandpaper. He tugged his finger free. “When it comes to two people pleasuring each other, you have to learn to share, and share alike.”
Liz bit down on the inside of her cheek as he stepped out from under her arms. She’d be only too happy to reciprocate, except she didn’t quite know how to touch a man in that way. And her hands were tied. And he’d left her with an ache that demanded satisfaction first.
She opened her mouth to tell him all this, to ask, politely, that he finish what he started, when he pushed her back against the rock and knelt at her feet. The sight of the duke on his knees before her struck her mute. The look he sent her as he worked her drawers down her legs and over her boots was so scorching she was surprised she didn’t burst into flames.
He rocked back onto his feet. “If you insist on hunting me down to seduce me perhaps you should do so without your underthings in future. I do believe Mr. Todd has lectured you on economy of movement.”
Rolling her skirts up, he held them pinned at her waist with one hand while he looked his fill. A cool breeze raked against her heated skin, and deep inside she throbbed.
“Yes.” She drew in a ragged breath. “He wants us maids to be most efficient.” He slid his thumb between her folds, separated them. “We do work for a duke, after all. Highest standards and all that.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “A very demanding duke, by all accounts.” His thumb pressed into her. “One who will take everything you have to give.”
Streaks of gold glinted in his hair as he brought his head closer to her. She couldn’t figure out what he intended to do, unless—
“Oh dear God!” Her voice startled a bird from its perch, but she couldn’t care how loud she was. Because his mouth was on her, kissing, sucking, biting. She didn’t think she could take it, so she moved her bound hands to his head and tried to push him away.
Batting her arms away, he reached around and grabbed her bottom with one hand, pressing her more deeply into his kiss. Her legs shook, and a strangled gasp was ripped from her chest.
Slipping an arm under her left leg, he pulled it up, draped it over his shoulder, opening her wide. He ran his tongue from her clit to her core, lapping at the opening, before retracing his path. When he sucked her nub into his hot mouth, she went boneless. Her body lay limp against the rock, her head resting on the soft earth as she stared up into the trees. She watched as a blossom above her lost a petal and it drifted away on the breeze. She knew how the flower felt, because she was coming apart, too.
She couldn’t get enough air. Her lungs were working like bellows, but the oxygen wasn’t reaching her head. Montague thrust two fingers into her clenching channel, twisted them, and she just about flew off the rock.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Her hips rubbed shamelessly in his face. She was so close. If he stopped now she would die. He brought her up to the peak, and she hovered there, knowing the crash was inevitable. Lifting her hands to her face, she bit into the cravat binding them, and screamed her release.
Her body shook as he kept pistoning his fingers, extending the ecstasy, until she was as limp as a noodle. Slithering down the rock, she landed in a heap in his lap, and tried to catch her breath.
When her heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a trot, she opened her eyes. “Oh God.”
Montague’s lips curved against her neck. “You’ve said that. Many times. I think you’re giving the wrong man credit.”
“That was . . .”
Lifting his head, he stared down at her, one eyebrow raised. “Finally something that was, how did you put it? ‘So tremendous as to remove your abilities’? Speech seems to have been lost to you.” He began unbinding her wrists.
Liz frowned until she saw the glint in the duke’s eye. The man was teasing her. It had been so long since someone she cared about had done so, she’d almost forgotten how to recognize the gesture. Warmth curled through her chest.
“Speech, perhaps.” Liz wiggled her bottom against the hard bulge pressing against her thigh. “But maybe my mouth can be useful for other tasks?”
She held her breath as Montague’s jaw dropped open. She’d shocked him, and Liz suspected the duke wasn’t easily shocked.
“What do you know of such things, little bird?” Setting her on the ground beside him, Montague rose to his feet. “Here I thought I was introducing you to your carnal nature, but I see you’ve already had some lessons.”
He extended a hand down to help her up, but Liz ignored it. Standing as he was, he was at the perfect height for what she had in mind. Rolling to her knees, Liz braced both hands against his firm thighs.
“I once saw a woman . . . kissing a man down there”—the Earl of Westmore had been only too happy to make Liz watch as prostitutes serviced him—“but I never knew a man would do so on a woman. I thought—”
“That men only took pleasure from women, never gave it.”
Her cheeks heated. “Yes.” All this man had done was give; he’d yet to take. Liz wanted to change that. “You said this was about sharing. Both parties have to give.” Shrugging, she ran a hand along the bulge in his trousers. “It’s my turn.”
Montague sucked in a deep breath, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t remove her hand. “You don’t have to.” His voice was as rough as crushed gravel. “I wasn’t expecting reciprocity.”
“And if I want to?” She worked her fingers at the buttons of his falls. The junction at her thighs started to tingle again, and she shifted. “I suspect I will enjoy this as much as I hope you do.”
Then he did still her hands, but only to tear away the drop to his trousers himself, shove his smallclothes down his hips. His member rose, thick and long, to rest against his stomach. A pulsing vein ran from the base up to the ruddy crown.
Liz sat back on her haunches. Were they supposed to be so large? Montague had several inches on Westmore, and the fact that she knew Westmore’s size turned her stomach the smallest bit.
Darting a glance at his face, she tentatively ran a finger around the tip, then down along its side until she met his curling hairs. He was softer than she’d expected. She’d thought something so intimidating looking would have to be rougher. A bead of moisture pooled at the head, and she rubbed it away with her thumb.
Montague growl
ed.
She snatched her hands back. Men were extrasensitive on this area of their bodies. Seeing one of their neighbor’s boys butted by a young goat when she’d been a child had taught her that.
Montague bent down and took her hand, wrapped her fingers around his warm flesh. Guiding her movements, he slowly stroked up and down. She marveled at the way his skin moved with her hand. Nothing on her body slid in that manner.
Rubbing her cheek with his thumb, the duke leaned back upon the rock. “That feels wonderful, Liz.”
Her given name falling from his lips jolted her. She squeezed her fist, and a curse followed her name.
She paused.
“Don’t stop,” he said, his voice catching. “I’ll let you know when I want you to stop. My poor language means that I’m enjoying it.”
With a smile, she slid her hand up his length, stopped at the crown. “Your . . . you are . . . leaking.”
Biting out a laugh, Montague spread his legs wider, bringing him closer to her face. “Cock. You have your hands wrapped around it, you should at least be able to say the word.” His eyes glittered darkly. “You are stroking my cock and proof of my desire is escaping. That liquid is the result of what you do to me.”
His cock. Just thinking that word sent a naughty thrill down her spine. She stared at it, swallowing hard. She’d seen what men enjoyed. Wanted to give Montague the same pleasure he’d shown her. But it was like standing before a horse with no riding experience. She understood the basic mechanics, but with no practical experience she worried about her ability to please him.
Stretching her neck, she licked the tip of him, of his cock, and was gratified to hear a string of curses escape his mouth. Emboldened, she licked up and down his length, found the groove beneath his head, dug the tip of her tongue in.
He grabbed her head like a drowning man a log. He liked that bit, she could tell. With a wicked smile, she rose up to her knees, angled his cock down from his stomach, and swallowed his head.
Swirling her tongue around, she slowly bobbed her head in imitation of what she’d seen. His fingers tightened painfully in her hair, but she didn’t stop. At that moment, she was completely free. Mindless of duty, of societal expectations. Her own woman. A little hair pulling wasn’t going to take that away from her.
He thrust his hips, his body wanting to go deeper. But Montague never pulled her head down, for which she was grateful.
“Suckle me.” It sounded like a plea, but the duke would never beg. “Suck my cock.” And there was the demand in his voice. Quickly back to his natural state of giving orders.
She sucked, and he slid deeper. His musky scent overwhelmed her senses. She gripped the base of his cock, more to keep her centered, in the moment, but the jerk of flesh in her mouth told her he liked when she used both her mouth and hands. So she stroked him with her hand, from his base up to her mouth and down again. She sucked and licked and took him as deep as she could without choking herself.
Cupping the back of her head, Montague said, “You’re going to need to stop in a couple of seconds. A couple more seconds of heaven, then”—he leaned his head back against the hill—“I’ll pull out.”
Yes, she’d seen Westmore do that. Shoot his essence onto the prostitute’s chest. While the thought of being marked by her duke didn’t disgust her as it had when she’d seen Westmore do it, she wanted something different for her first attempt at pleasing a man. Pleasuring Montague.
So she slipped a hand around to grasp one hard buttock, and pulled him snug. Between that and her firm grip on his cock, her mouth sucking for all she was worth, he didn’t have a chance of getting away.
His hand tensed in her hair. “Liz, I’m going to come down your throat if you aren’t careful.”
Humming in agreement, she shuffled closer on her knees. A pebble dug into her shin, but she ignored it.
“Elizabeth . . . Oh, fuck it.” He thrust deep once, twice. Holding himself deep, he groaned, and filled the back of her mouth and throat with his warm seed.
Breathing was difficult, lodged as he was, but she waited until Montague sagged back and relaxed his grip on her head. Waited for the swearing to die out. Lifting her head, she licked him clean, enjoyed the slightly salty tang that was the duke. His cock softened, and she tucked him away, buttoned his trousers.
Leaning her head against his thigh, she sighed. As his breathing slowed, the air around Liz became thick, heavy. Her holiday from her duties was at an end. It was time to return to reality.
She rose on unsteady legs and tried to tuck loose strands of hair back into their pins. She brushed leaves and a crushed blossom from her skirts, then stood tall before the duke, chin lifted. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am much obliged.”
His nostrils flared, his eyes slivered. Nodding his head curtly, he pushed off the hill.
With a short curtsy, Liz turned on her heel and headed back down the path. The duke’s eyes bored a hole in her back until she turned out of the glen and out of sight.
Chapter Fifteen
Loose wisps of Arabelle’s fair hair escaped from her bonnet and brushed against Marcus’s shoulder as she chattered on about one of her father’s new horses. They walked among the low hedgerows that formed the central maze of the east gardens. A maze easy enough for a child to decipher as the hedges only rose to mid-thigh, allowing an explorer to see to the heart of the design. Gravel crunched beneath their feet and the sun warmed their faces, by all accounts a lovely day.
Marcus had never felt lower.
His actions with Liz had been a mistake. One he couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to make. Twice. Never mind that Liz’s sweet face, filled with tension and surprise as she came, had featured prominently in his visions as he stroked himself to completion last night, and would for the near future. Or that the crack of the ruler against her bare flesh when mingled with her breathy moans was the sweetest music he’d ever heard.
For fuck’s sake, he was getting hard just thinking about it, a situation he didn’t want the woman on his arm to notice. She would probably take it as a personal compliment and it would give her more expectations.
That, at least, was an issue he could resolve. He had let her and her family’s hopes linger for far too long. “Arabelle,” he interrupted. She was taken aback; her mouth opened and closed silently before she directed a small frown his way. “We need to talk.” Leading her to a wrought-iron bench along the path, he settled her down. He remained standing.
“Arabelle, our families have known each other for a very long time, been very good friends.”
She scooted forward on the bench. “The best of friends.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Because of that, I want there to be no misunderstandings between us. It has come to my attention that you may be waiting upon marriage in hopes that you and I will form a union.”
She gave a breathless little laugh and waved her hand dismissively. “You have said before that you had no interest in marriage.”
“I have, and I said that because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “But we both know that’s not true. I am a duke; I will need to marry.” She sucked in a breath, a smile dancing beneath the brim of her beribboned hat. “But it will not be to you,” he said firmly.
She stood then, a tight bundle of angry energy. “Are you betrothed to another?”
“No.” He watched her pace back and forth in front of him, his shoulder blades drawing closer together with each of her strides.
“Then might I ask why you have determined to never marry me? As you say, our families are close. Your parents would have approved of the match. We are of a similar station and age.” She stopped in front of him, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Whyever not me?”
Pressure began to build beneath his skull. Being that they were of similar station, he should not have to be so explicit. His subtle warnings to her over the years should have been sufficient to get his point across. “You ar
e not suitable.”
She took a quick step back and raised a hand to her cheek as though he’d slapped her. “I am not suitable to be a duchess?”
“You are not suitable to be my duchess. Our characters are too different. You are high-spirited and wild. Those are not characteristics I desire in a wife. Other dukes may feel differently.” That was as plain as he could be. He hoped it did not ruin the friendship with her parents.
Her blue eyes glittered dangerously. “This is about James. You continue to blame me for his death.”
“No.” Marcus spoke the truth. He no longer did. “My brother’s death was my fault. I made the decision to let you take the reins. The responsibility was mine.”
Looking away, he squinted into the sun’s rays. She gently squeezed his arm. He glanced down, and the petulance was gone from her face. He saw the girl he and James used to play with.
“Can’t you accept there are accidents in life that happen beyond anyone’s control? Why does someone have to be at fault?” A breeze ruffled the absurd feather sticking up from her bonnet.
“A man must take responsibility for his actions.” Tucking her gloved hand back into the crook of his arm, he headed back the way they came. His shoulders lifted. One task was done. Now he could focus completely on his duty to his country, discovering the spy within their midst.
The image of his maid bent over his desk, skirts raised, invaded his thoughts. Once he removed her from his mind, then he would focus completely on his duty. Now, how to rid her from his thoughts?
Arabelle cocked her head, and Marcus jerked his own back to escape the damned feather attacking his nose. “High-spirited? What an absurd thing to say.” Her ice blue eyes glared into his. “Are you looking for a meek little mouse to be your duchess? I must say that would disappoint me.”
“Not a mouse.” Penetrating dark brown eyes and a stubborn chin could hardly be thought of as timid. “A woman can be strong willed and still not feel the need to express every emotion she feels as she feels it. Restraint and discipline in equal measure with passion.”
