My American Duchess

by Eloisa James

  “I do. Not that Aunt Bess was a font of information other than her explanation of”—she waved her hand—“the essentials. Did you know that ducks can only copulate in running water?”

  When she was nervous, Merry dropped facts like an oak did acorns. “Don’t worry,” he said, putting his hand on her hip and just letting it rest without moving. “The first time may not be wonderful, from what I’ve heard. But it will improve.”

  Her eyes drifted down his body like a caress, even though there was nothing soft about him, nothing refined or gentlemanly. He was all muscles and tendons, corded power. Cedric’s distaste for his “burly” chest popped in Trent’s head.

  Merry seemed unintimidated by his size and power. Her eyes were fascinated, small teeth biting her lower lip and turning it crimson.

  There was something vivid and present in her, perhaps owing to her origins or perhaps just to her fearless person.

  The thought made him grin and he moved closer so he could kiss her mouth. Even that brush with her silky lips shot molten fire down his limbs.

  He ran a hand over her belly. She shivered at his touch, and he bent to taste her, running his lips along the curve of her breast. “You have glorious breasts,” he muttered.

  “My governess, Miss Fairfax, said that I glittered like a cheap trinket. She thought they were much too large.”

  “Miss Fairfax is an idiot,” Trent said thickly. He’d reached a rosy tip, leaving him no choice but to lick it.

  Merry gasped and rolled on her back. She made an achy little sound in the back of her throat, so he licked her again.

  “Do you like that?” Trent managed, reasonably coherently.

  Merry moaned by way of reply, which made him, impossibly, even harder. He lifted his head to inquire just what information her aunt had managed to pass on, but a hand wound into his hair and held him in place.

  After that, Trent gave in to a primitive self, and couldn’t seem to shape words. Or maybe words just didn’t matter. He suckled her, listening to Merry’s breathing catch and quicken.

  It wasn’t until the fingers caressing his chest began to slide south that he caught her hand and pinned it above her head.

  “You can’t touch me,” he said hoarsely. “The frolicking will be over before it starts.”

  Merry nodded, her eyes trusting, no understanding of how provocative he found her submission. He was the first to touch her . . . everywhere.

  The first to kiss her breast. Her stomach. A bit lower. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move. In fact, when his cock jerked against her leg, a shiver went straight through her body.

  Mine, he thought, feeling drunk with heady pleasure, with the impulse to claim his woman—so much so that a warning chimed in his mind again. He wasn’t a primitive, after all. It was essential that he made the bedchamber—the frolicking—pleasurable for his bride.

  Merry lay beneath him, her skin like milk and honey. Everything about her pleased him, every hollow and curve, tint and texture. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to fall on her, spread those creamy legs wider, and bury himself in her softness.

  Letting go of her hand, he kissed his way down her stomach and a little lower.

  “Jack!” she cried, as he nuzzled a curl at the top of her legs. “Jack, what in tarnation do you think you’re doing down there? That sort of thing is not proper. I’m certain of it!”

  “Improprieties are proper within marriage,” he told her, stroking his tongue over a sweet bit of pink flesh. Merry had been tugging at his hair, but she froze.

  So he licked that soft spot again. She smelled like flowers and pleasure and sin all at once.

  His wife squealed, and the sound of it was so enchanting, so innocent and yet so pleasured, that some part of his heart that had frozen years ago melted a bit.

  “Do you like this, Duchess?” he whispered a moment later. Merry’s legs were twisting under him, and her hands, still clenched in his hair, were holding him in place rather than pushing him away.

  “Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered. He blew gently against her honey pot and she let out a ragged moan.

  “I still think this—” she began breathlessly, but Trent didn’t want her to think about proprieties or anything else. His finger breached her most intimate, most private spot and Merry made a desperate sound in the back of her throat. His balls tightened to the point of pain.

  Damn it, he couldn’t possibly lose control now, could he?

  His body answered that question. He would spend like a mere boy at the first sight of a woman if he didn’t regain control.

  Merry’s eyes opened.

  “You’re soft and rosy, and everything I’m not,” Trent said.

  He moved up, just enough so that he could suckle her breast again, at the same time he slid his hand down past a silky tuft of hair. A gasp broke from Merry’s lips as he thrust a broad finger inside.

  Slowly he caressed her in little coaxing circles, watching as her white teeth bit down on her lip, as she made little panting noises in the back of her throat, as her hips began moving irresistibly, her hands tightening on his forearms.

  “Jack,” she whispered.

  His tool had never been harder in his life, but he waited until she broke, crying out, her fingernails digging into his skin with the strength of the waves of pleasure that jerked her body against his. He swallowed her cries like a starving man, half his body lying heavy on hers so he could feel every pulse and shudder.

  As her helpless trembling quieted, Trent didn’t stir a finger, waiting so she could enjoy the last quiver of pleasure. Her skin was damp and curls clung to her forehead. Her legs were flung apart in abandon, her hair spread across the pillow, her closed eyelashes dark against the high flush in her cheeks.

  He had never had anything that was truly his. Cedric had battled him for the house, for the estate, for his parents’ love. By the time his mother and father died, he hadn’t much more of a relationship with them than he had with the butler—in fact, it could be argued that he and Oswald had a better relationship.

  But Merry was his. In a queer way, he was even glad that she hadn’t known who she was marrying.

  She was with him now, in this bed, because she wanted to be, not because she wanted to be a duchess. If she hadn’t wanted him, she would have taken passage to Boston in a rage.

  That was one thing he knew about Merry: she didn’t lie. Her cries of pleasure were as real as the scolding she gave him in the carriage.

  It took her long moments to open her eyes, but she was his bride, his virgin bride, and he refused to ruin her experience by leaping onto her. Into her.

  When at last her eyelashes fluttered open, she peered at him and said, “Unless Aunt Bess is much mistaken, the evening is not supposed to end there.”

  A smothered bark of a laugh burst from his throat.

  “When I first met you, I thought you looked like a man who hadn’t laughed in years.”

  He slid one of his legs between hers, nuzzling her neck, drinking in the faint perfume of flowers that clung to her skin. “I hadn’t.”

  “You’ve laughed three times tonight,” she said with satisfaction.

  He couldn’t help himself: his hand went back between her legs and a rough moan caught in his throat, because she was drenched and ready for him.

  “It’s my turn,” Merry whispered, giving him a gentle push. “You told me not to touch you, but that’s not fair. I want to, and you’ll simply have to put up with it.”

  Trent had never felt anything like his urge to be deep inside his wife. Somehow the idea that he was the first was making him crazed, possessed. But he forced himself to lie back and allow Merry to drop kisses on his chest.

  Her fingers were velvet caressing him, more enticing than if the most celebrated courtesan in the world had him in her grasp. Merry touched his nipple, and a shiver went through him, as if a stone had struck a lake.

  He watched as she traced the muscles that laced his chest,
leading to a stomach carved by hard physical work, the sort no duke ought to do. The kind he had always done, in an effort to separate himself from his mother’s perfumed boudoir and his father’s brandy-soaked nights.

  “This will sound foolish,” Merry said, raising her head. She was heavy-lidded, the unmistakable look of a woman who’d been pleasured. “I love the way you look. It’s manly.”

  “American?” he suggested, mouth quirking up.

  “Nationality has nothing to do with it,” she murmured. She had kissed her way down to proximity with his cock and was staring at it with fascination.

  “Touch me,” he said, managing, barely, to keep a pleading note from his voice.

  She wrapped her hand around him, causing an explosion of searing heat that made his back arch instinctively and his lips draw back in a hoarse snarl. Any lady he knew would have squealed and dropped him, frightened by his rough response.

  Not Merry.

  Instead, her hand tightened and slid. Trent’s mind went blank and he only dimly heard his own hungry groans.

  He kept his eyes open, though, so he could see her watching as her small hand slid tightly up and down. She licked her lips, and that was it.

  He lost all control.

  He surged up and flipped her over so the hard length of his cock met her softness.

  “I want—” He gasped, and tried to collect himself. He was never like this, never.

  But Merry’s hands wound into his hair. She tugged his face to hers and licked his bottom lip. It was so tantalizing that he leaned down to nip her in reply.

  “Jack,” she whispered, “I want you.”

  He growled something, fighting to keep himself in check. Braced above her, he let his head hang, closing his eyes so that he couldn’t see her. But it didn’t help because his other senses just flared more keenly, and his muscles quivered, dangerously close to thrusting into her.

  “This part is going to hurt, Merry,” he managed. “Or so they say.”

  She shocked him again by arching up and whispering against his mouth, “I want you, Jack.” And then she tilted her hips, rubbing against him.

  With one last breath of sanity, he moved backward, pulled open her legs, and looked at her pretty folds. He lapped her like a cat, holding her down as she twisted against his hand, shrieking.

  She was loud, his American wife. The thought came dimly because he concentrated on giving pleasure, learning which touches she loved until she burst into flames in his hands and came again.

  Enough. He cut the fragile threads of his self-control.

  He reared over his wife and slowly pushed the plump head of his cock inside her.

  Merry’s fingers tightened on his shoulders, her eyes grew wide, and she whispered something he couldn’t hear.

  She was so tight that he instantly broke out in a sweat. He’d never felt anything like it. He was thrusting into molten honey. He started shaking. How could this not be painful for her? Her eyes were closed and she looked puzzled, not in pain.

  He took a deep, rasping breath. “Does it hurt?” he whispered.

  Merry opened her eyes and shook her head. “No, but it’s very odd.”

  “You feel so good,” he said in a voice that rumbled in his chest. “I wish I could stay like this forever. Never move.” He meant it, too. Though at the same moment, he thrust forward again.

  Merry took a deep breath and wiggled under him, forcing another groan from his lips. Then she tilted her hips and curled her legs around his waist. The tight grip of her body relaxed and let him in.

  Just like that, the blazing ache in his loins went to his head. Pleasure made him mindless, nothing more than a body, sweat beading on his chest in the effort not to plunge into her.

  Yet he dimly recognized the sharp bite of her fingernails in his shoulders, her husky moan. He dragged his mouth down the clean line of her jaw, pulled back and waited a second, just enough so that her eyes drifted open again.

  There was nothing more delicious in the world than the look in Merry’s eyes. Dazed, longing. “Jack,” she whispered.

  Jack was the new him, the him that finally had someone of his own, someone to cherish and to protect and to make happy. Trent felt a strange sensation all over his body, a trembling intense kind of heat that licked his skin and made him feel raw with . . . something.

  “All right?” he whispered.

  “Mmmmm.”

  He began to move, steady and slow. Words came out of his throat without conscious thought, rough, harsh words that grunted as he thrust. Merry couldn’t be feeling too much pain, because her eyes were half shut, sloe-eyes, pleasured eyes, and she was clinging to him with her arms and legs.

  She was giving permission.

  Finally Trent really did let go—or was it Jack who let go? He went a bit mad, his body surrounding Merry, hers surrounding him, warm, fragrant Merry who was his wife to have and to hold, to know, as the Bible said.

  She started meeting his thrusts, awkwardly at first, forcing him even deeper inside with every stroke. He could feel a storm gathering in his loins. Her hands were curled around his forearms, so tightly he felt the prick of her nails again.

  He clenched his teeth, not willing to let go of the delirious pleasure of it, thrusting short and deep, watching a fever spread over her damp, creamy skin. He suckled her breast, tasting salty sweet Merry-sweat, loving the way she twisted under him.

  He was covered with sweat, chest heaving, hips pounding into the woman who clung to him, panting, kissing him with pillowy sensual lips.

  Freezing when her body finally clenched around his cock, setting him free.

  Trent let his head fall forward, and with a rasping groan, he emptied himself into her. Again, and again.

  His, and his again.

  His only, his first, his last.

  Something had broken inside him. Or dissolved. Something hard and cold. He finished . . . but he hadn’t softened. Instead of withdrawing, he watched a drop of sweat run down Merry’s temple and disappear into her lavish hair.

  “Was it painful?” he asked. “Should I withdraw?”

  Merry’s eyes blinked, then opened, met his. Indigo blue. He catalogued that: gray when she was angry, the violet-blue of sea-water when the sun clouds over when she was satisfied.

  No, not just satisfied: happy.

  The look in her eyes went straight to the base of his spine and he nudged forward. He was still with her, in her.

  “No,” she said, gleeful. “That is, it was uncomfortable for a minute, but then it was more than comfortable, if you know what I mean.” She wiggled her hips, and he felt it in the soles of his feet. Another groan broke from his throat.

  He pushed back toward her in a silent question, watched as she cocked her head to the side and smiled. Then she bent her knees and nudged back up at him, an invitation, a challenge.

  “Are you certain you can take me again?” He thrust, a voluptuous slide that sent fire through his body. “We should wait, a day or two. A week.”

  He didn’t mean it. He’d go mad not touching her for a week. But he was a gentleman; if she was sore, he wouldn’t go near her.

  She matched his thrust, still awkwardly, but she did. “It stings, but it feels good at the same time. Especially when you do that.”

  Heat spread through Trent’s limbs as if he’d taken a gulp of peppered brandy. “This?” He thrust, loving the way Merry’s mouth fell open as he struck home, eyes dazed, fingers curled into a fist before her hips rose a little and she pushed back.

  The sound that came from her lips was so desirous, so sensual that Trent lost his head completely. Again.

  He started all over, as if the last hour hadn’t happened, his balls as tight as if he hadn’t given her everything—in fact, he must not have, because already he could feel coal-heat at the back of his knees and his groin. She made another sound and bit his neck. Bit. His. Neck.

  Trent felt his face contort and he lost himself, thrusting into her over and over, so
fast and low that she gasped every time he slammed home, her head tossing, her hands looking pale against his skin, slipping over his body.

  “You’re—” he said finally, growling the word.

  She opened her eyes, pleasure-drenched. “Jack.”

  She was clinging to him and then he realized with a jolt that tears were slipping down her cheeks.

  He instantly stopped and whispered, “Tell me you’re not crying because you’re in pain.”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered back. “It doesn’t hurt. I never imagined this.”

  God, but she had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen: eyes he could look at every minute of his life.

  “This isn’t what I expected,” she said with a gasp, because even though she was talking, he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting forward, slow and soft.

  He dusted her lips with a kiss. “No?”

  “No.”

  A moment’s silence. She was getting the rhythm of the thing now, rising to meet him. He braced himself on one arm again, and thrust low, playing with her pink nipple, loving the peach color rising in her cheeks and the way her breath was coming short and choppy.

  Then Merry suddenly said, “If you ever do this with a woman other than myself, I’ll have to kill you, Jack.”

  “I will not,” he said, keeping it simple. No need to tell her that he felt raw and new inside, as if he’d never bedded a woman before. He couldn’t imagine ever having another woman in his bed. Not after this.

  Her eyes searched his, and then she nodded. That warning heat at the base of his spine was turning to pure fire, so Trent hunkered down and threaded his shaking hands into Merry’s curls, pulling her face to his and ravishing her mouth.

  He couldn’t have stopped if he tried. He concentrated on kissing her, hungry and wet. Their mouth melted together, each kiss fading into another, and all the time, he kept moving.

  “Jack!”

  Pleasure chased across Merry’s face, her eyes shut tight, her heart beating so fast that he could see her pulse beating in her throat. She threw back her head with a cry and he felt her body go rigid.

  Down below, her velvety softness suddenly gripped him so tightly that he let out a grunt, and he was lost, falling forward, one last thrust . . . madness. Mind gone. His stones pulled tight, a shout burst from his mouth, and he gave her everything.