by Karen Ranney
Moncrief moved unerringly to a chair, where he set her down. She immediately stood and watched him turn and devote himself to building a fire.
“I didn’t know a duke was adept at such chores.”
“Remember, I wasn’t born into the role. I had to do for myself for fourteen years, and the experience prepared me well for living as a normal man.” He turned to glance at her, the firelight behind him. “But not necessarily as a duke.”
“You’ve done well at both, I think, Moncrief.”
“Is it your aim to charm me to bed, Catherine? It isn’t necessary, you know.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
He stood. “Don’t look so stricken. I was teasing you.” He reached her side and touched her face with his fingertips, stroking a path across her cheek. “Lovemaking shouldn’t be a dour thing, Catherine, but should be entered into for joy, for the passion of it, in friendliness. Perhaps for comfort, or simply to ease an unbearable ache. It should not be done with excess piety and words like honor and duty and obligation.”
She could hardly speak, her heart was beating so hard. “The vicar says that all women are punished by God for having licentious thoughts. Do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t. But the important thing is whether you believe it or not.”
“I haven’t had many licentious thoughts.”
“Then you’re safe from the wrath of the vicar.” He smiled, and she felt captivated, so much so that when he placed his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her gently forward, she didn’t feel any fear.
But she kept her eyes open until the last moment, until his lips touched hers. Then all thought simply stopped as he kissed her.
Her senses were caught up with how his lips felt against hers, the brush of his breath against her cheek. He tilted his head just a little, and she followed his lead, the kiss deepening. She felt his thumb brush against her hairline, and her hands, kept clasped in front of her, loosened of their own accord and sought Moncrief. She placed the tips of her fingers against the skin at his throat, feeling his heat.
She sighed, and his mouth coaxed hers open wider, his tongue touching the center of her bottom lip. Her senses were too acute. She could smell Moncrief’s soap, feel the curious warmth of his silk dressing gown, feel the beating of his heart.
He moved his mouth, ending the kiss. But he didn’t go far, only enough to embrace her, his chin resting against her temple. His breath was harsh, his heart beat as frantically as hers, and something audaciously large and hard pressed against her hip.
Slowly, Moncrief led her to the side of the bed. This mattress was not as high as that in the ducal chamber. Here there were only two steps. She climbed up, sat on the bed, and faced him.
“Do you remember me once telling you that you were beautiful?”
“Yes. Have you changed your mind?”
The fire had caught, the flames were growing brighter, casting an orange glow to the room. He was arresting in fire and shadow, his eyes seeming dark and slumberous, his lips curved in a faint smile. He reached out and traced a path from her shoulder to her hand, and she wondered if he could feel her tremble.
“No, if anything, you’re more beautiful than before.”
“Who is being charming now?”
“I’m not in the mood for charm,” he said, enfolding his arms around her. “I’m too hungry.”
A shaft of something that felt like pure flame arced through her, stealing her breath.
She was adrift in sensation and he’d done nothing but hold her, touching her with gentleness and the shivery stroke of a fingertip on her arm, hesitating in the juncture of her elbow, testing there as if pleading permission to go farther.
She loved the texture of his skin, the softness of a man’s face newly shaven, whiskers tamed, yet hidden for only hours. Her temple was pressed against his cheek, her chin shelved on his collarbone.
Her fingers reached up and stirred the hair at his nape, where it curled softly.
Loving had not been something she’d missed. She’d wanted to be held more than anything else. Yet she’d never before felt this exultation. This sense of being lifted above and out of herself was so odd and different that it was strangely frightening.
Right at this moment, she only wanted to feel. She didn’t want to think, or reason, or rationalize.
“Moncrief,” she said.
“What?” A gentle whisper with a note of teasing in his voice.
“Nothing.” Just Moncrief. He seemed to understand because he pulled her closer, kissed her cheek in an infinitely tender gesture.
His touch was like the delicate filament of a spider’s web sliding along her skin, prickling nerve endings. With one finger, he tipped up her chin, traced the line of her throat, back up to her nose and over to her ear, a triangle of flesh delineated with precision. She licked her lips, unprepared for the softness of this, the tenderness of his restraint.
“Catherine?”
She turned her head, swerving away from lips tracing the line of her jaw, memorizing each placement of bone, each line of muscle.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
Another demonstration of Moncrief’s honor. She nodded, almost overwhelmed by him.
His kiss was soft, barely discernible, and when she reached out for him, hands on his shoulders, he pulled back.
“You’re trembling, Catherine.”
“It could be the cold.”
“Or fear. Don’t be afraid.”
She didn’t respond.
He slowly bent forward and kissed her again, gently and persuasively urging her lips apart. Long moments later, he drew back.
“There, your lips are warmer.”
She nodded.
“I’m going to take my dressing gown off now and get into bed with you. Is that acceptable?”
She nodded again. But where a more circumspect woman might have looked away, she was intent upon watching him. He shrugged off the silk garment with one movement and turned to throw it to a nearby shrouded chair.
His thighs were smooth, his calves heavily developed. Muscles arched across his back below his shoulder blades. Her eyes traveled to his hips and buttocks, so firm and perfect in shape that she had a shocking urge to cup them in her hands.
When he turned to face her, her face was flaming, but more at her own wishes than his nakedness.
“I would like to see you naked now.”
“You would?” Her voice came out in a squeak. “Is it entirely necessary?”
“It’s customary.”
She had never been naked with Harry, but that confession didn’t seem at all proper for this moment.
Moncrief circled the bed and sat on the other side. She was facing away from him now and grateful for the respite.
“You have a beautiful body, Catherine. The sight of you naked has been one that I’ve not been able to banish from my mind.”
The flush that swept through her now was oddly comprised of both hot and cold sensations.
“Is that why you married me?” she asked, turning to him. He was sprawled against the pillows, his arms behind his head, so indolently nude that he could have posed as a satyr at that moment. Her thoughts slipped and then re-formed. “Because you saw me naked?”
Instead of answering her, he reached over and pulled her to him, then rolled with her so that she lay half beneath him as he bent his head and whispered against her lips. “Partly, perhaps. Or it could have been that I lusted for you immediately and had to have you in my bed.”
She was stripped of words, pressed against him as she was. His erection lay nestled between her thighs and if she moved just so, he would be inside her. He bent his head and kissed her.
A moment later he moved away, and she was oddly disappointed.
“Aren’t you going to do the rest? Are you only going to kiss me?”
“Don’t you like kissing?” he asked, reaching out and stroking her bottom lip with the tip of his finger.
“I do,” she said, a strange confession, since she’d never particularly liked it before. “Would you like to kiss me again?”
His lips were infinitely skilled, his breath hinted of spices. There was nothing to do but match him kiss for kiss, a simple battle joined for the sport of it. She smiled just for a second until he held her tighter, angled his head for a more thorough invasion, sent his tongue darting into the recesses of her mouth, tasting her warmth and her receptivity.
Wasn’t it strange that a mouth could feel so much? That lips could tingle? Her skin was as tactile, sending messages of excitement to her brain. She pressed her lips to his neck, feeling the pulse beneath her lips beat as strongly and as rapidly as her own. Her tongue darted out, tasted the salt of his skin, felt him shudder in response.
His hands were at her shoulders, pushing back her wrapper, and skimming it down her arms. His gentleness was somehow too slow, too careful of her. She wanted to urge him to hurry, but instead she remained silent, trapped within a web of sensation.
His warm palm flattened on her nipple, a gentle touch despite the insistence of it. She arched against him, feeling the heat of her own flesh as her nipple lengthened, silently imploring a deeper contact.
This time, she pulled his head down for a kiss. Moments later, his head was on the pillow beside hers, his forehead buried in the down, his lips resting against her earlobe.
He was breathing as hard as she was, a circumstance that delighted her.
Suddenly, he drew back and looked at her.
“What is it, Moncrief?”
“Harry was a fool.”
The comment was so unexpected that she could only stare at him.
“Why the hell would that idiot ever look at another woman when you were his wife?”
He sat up and pulled her into a sitting position, then very calmly grabbed her nightgown and ripped it from neckline to hem.
“I hesitate to think what you might have done if it had been black,” she said, staring at him.
His laughter was as unexpected as his next words. “Damn it, Catherine,” he said. “Don’t you know enough to let a man be angry?”
“Are you angry? If so, Moncrief, perhaps we should wait for another night to do this.”
“I am not angry with you, Catherine. At myself possibly, at circumstance. Never at you. Besides, I’m afraid a delay is impossible,” he said firmly. He laid her back among the pillows and looked into her face. “I would never survive it.”
When she would have covered herself with her hands, he grabbed her wrists.
“You have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen, Catherine. Your torso is long, and there is an unbroken line of beauty from your shoulders to your ankles. Everything about you is supple and curved and as graceful as a Grecian statue. You’re the epitome of all things female.”
Her eyes closed.
“Do I embarrass you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I can’t think of anyone who should be less embarrassed than you. There is not a mark on your body, not a defect, not a blemish. You are as perfect as Eve.”
Her eyes flew open to meet his gaze. “Now you are being sacrilegious, and the vicar would lecture you for such a thing.”
“Then he can add it to the list of my numerous sins. But the vicar has no place here.”
His fingertips trailed across her rib cage. Not quite a caress, only a bare whisper of a touch. She closed her eyes against the gentleness of his hand stroking upward to cup a breast, then fall away.
Touch me. A command she uttered deep in her mind. She arched toward him, a wordless entreaty he obeyed. Cupping her breast in his hand, he stroked the waiting nipple just once.
As if in apology for his teasing, he gently squeezed her breast, then lowered his head. Catherine felt as if a lifetime elapsed until she felt his tongue on her nipple. A moan escaped her, and she bit her lip as he moved to the other breast.
She placed her hand at the back of his head, pressed him forward in wordless encouragement. A small, nearly soundless moan escaped her as he drew her nipple fully into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue.
Exploring fingers brushed against her closed eyes, counted the eyelashes, sank into the hair at her temple. And all the time he touched her, he said nothing. Silence, except for their breathing, as if they labored at loving.
She shivered when he touched her, warmed when he palmed her. His lips replaced his fingers, as he began an exploration of her more fierce than before, more domineering. The inside of her elbow, her knees, her stomach, were all gently stroked. She opened her legs slightly, aching for him to touch her there. He seemed to know, because he threaded his fingers through her hair at the apex at her thighs but didn’t go deeper.
“Please.” A damning word, a licentious thought.
He cupped her, fingers pressing against her as if to assuage her sudden need. One finger entered her, pressing hard in one long stroke that had her almost lifting off the bed. His thumb danced in a circular motion, inciting a response from deep inside. Her body moistened, readied for him.
“You are so soft, so wet,” he whispered against her ear. A lover’s conversation, one between only the two of them.
He was trembling, as was she.
Her breath escaped her in a rush and she gripped his arms with both hands. “Moncrief.” His name had become a plea, a word to express so many feelings.
His thumb rested against her, boring softly down, then slowly, achingly slowly, around one swollen, sensitive spot.
She buried her head against his shoulder, biting her lip to keep the sounds restrained. Her legs widened, and she arched against him. Her hands reached up to wrap around his neck as she kissed him. Passion was only a word she’d read. What she felt at this moment was something so alien that she wanted to stop time to study it.
He traced the outer lips with his fingertips, then inserted two fingers inside her just hard enough for her to need more. He curled up his fingers, stroking deep and rhythmically.
His lips and teeth were devoted to her breasts, his hand to teasing her to torment. She was heating up from inside, her skin drawn and tight and too hot.
He rolled with her over the mountain created by the heavy coverlet. His knees on either side of her legs, his forearms bracketed on either side of her head, he lowered himself so that he was only inches from her body, warming her.
Only his erection touched her now, engorged, heavy, hard, it brushed the curls between her legs in a teasing dance as old as time.
For long moments he remained that way, his body a brazier of heat, keeping the chill of the room from her skin.
Her body was beginning to hum, as if a bee were trapped inside, fighting for freedom. It was like nothing she’d ever felt, like no experience she’d ever had. Catherine wanted to move, her undulations instinctive, necessary, as ancient as the act they would soon share. She remained still, instead, holding all these trapped feelings together to experience them more fully.
He bent his head, his lips touched her throat before moving to the curve of her shoulder. Just that, and no more. She reached up and kissed him, and felt him smile against her lips.
His kiss became more carnal as his hands roamed over her body. She did the same, feeling his muscles, the brush of hair on his chest, the powerfully built shoulders and chest.
Time both raced and slowed, measured not by minutes but by touches: his fingers moving her hair aside, thumb resting in the well at the base of her throat, cupping her breasts and stroking the sensitive flesh of her areoles. Over and over he returned his hands to her skin, as if reacquainting himself with her form. Catherine closed her eyes, her hands resting on his shoulders and, selfishly, simply felt.
He leaned over her to take her breast in his mouth, the soft hair on his chest brushing across her other breast, the nipple so acutely sensitive that she shivered.
Then he rose up and knelt between her legs, studying her. She wanted to cover herself with her han
ds, anything but be exposed to such an intense regard. But he shook his head when she would have done so, leaned forward and gripped her wrists, placing a tender kiss on the inside of each.
“I want to remember you as you are now, Catherine, bathed by the firelight, your breasts wet with my kisses.”
Should he be doing that? Talking to her as if this was a conversation they were having at dinner? Surrounding her with the deep sound of his voice, his words improper and vastly arousing?
She licked her lips and his face changed, becoming more severe. He leaned forward and mirrored her action, their tongue dueling just beyond lips. She sighed as she closed her eyes, hearing him murmur something before deepening the kiss.
He speared his hands in her hair and held the heels of his palms against her cheeks. His fingers slid through her hair and rested behind her ears, toyed with the lobes, then dusted over her collarbone to her shoulders. She arched upward, wanting them on her breasts again, but he traced an invisible path down to her fingers.
He held her hand in one of his, cupping and studying it as if he’d never before seen a hand. Time slowed as he took one shuddering breath after another, then gently kissed the palm in a gesture that felt somehow reverent.
All he said was her name, his voice deeply resonant. “Catherine.”
He raised himself over her again. Catherine was adrift in a river, not a gentle meandering current, but one strewn with waterfalls and churning water, boulder-filled. She clenched her hands hard on his shoulders but he didn’t invade, did not urge himself within the wet and willing cocoon of her body. He remained, like a dark and slumberous cloud over her, dominating without touching.
She rose up, imploring, impatient, her nipples brushing against his chest, her knees cushioning his. She felt him, gently insistent, aroused and hot, against her and widened her legs. He did not, however, take advantage of her artless invitation, nor did he move from his position, other than to bend his head and trace her lips with a tender tongue.
His delicate touch was no more substantial than that of a ghost, a friendly, lustful spirit lightly touching a corporeal body.
She could not breathe, could not open her lungs far enough or deep enough for the air she needed to inhale. There was a pounding in her head, and her body, that demanded she pay attention to it, a thrumming that screamed for release.
