The duke pushed the sleeves off her
shoulders and halfway down her arms before about-facing her. Stooping, he
pressed his mouth to her décolletage.
His lips were deliciously warm and moist
against the bulging tops of her flattened bosoms.
His hair tickled her flesh in a pleasing
sort of way and smelled faintly of lavender. He moved upward, kissing her
collarbone, her throat, the side of her neck, and her earlobe. After blowing in
her ear, he whispered in a voice like velvet, “Why did you marry me, knowing
what you knew?”
A hot lump formed at her core. “Because.”
He ran his tongue around the folds of her
ear, sending delicious shivers through her. “Because why?”
“Because you are a duke.” Mouth suddenly parched,
she licked her lips.
“And you dreamed of being a duchess?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I would prefer not to say.”
“Why?”
“Because it will make me sound small and
petty.”
His tongue’s explorations undermined her
concentration. “Now I really must know.”
She heaved a sigh of surrender.
“Survival,” she said, forcing the half-truth from her throat. “Since you insist
upon an answer, I married you because you asked me to…and I had nowhere else to
turn for protection.”
His mouth returned to her neck and
proceeded to kiss, lick, and nip her flesh, turning her insides to syrup.
“Thank you,” he said betwixt kisses.
“For what?”
“Your candor.”
Guilt crushed her chest like a bounder.
Yes, she’d married him to gain security, but she'd left out the part about
lusting after him deep in her heart. She moved away, removed the full-sleeved
bodice, and laid it over the bench at the foot of the bed.
He came up behind her, slipped his arms
around her waist, and kissed the back of her neck, setting her aflame.
She spun in his embrace and looked at
him. His dark hair tumbled in soft waves over his broad shoulders. His features
were shadowed, making him look dangerous. The need she’d stuffed down for so
long erupted from her core, thick and molten.
Bringing his mouth to hers, he kissed and
nibbled her lips as his hands untied the strings of her petticoat. It billowed
to the floor, leaving her in only her fancy wedding stays and shift.
“Now, 'tis my turn.”
Stepping back a wee ways, she pulled the
diamond stick-pin from his cravat, loosened the knot, and unfurled the long
strip of linen encircling his neck. Was it the same one he’d used to tie the
maid’s hands?
“Why did you dismiss Mistress Honeywell?”
she asked, letting his neck cloth slip from her fingers to the floor.
His beguiling mouth hitched into a
crooked grin. “Had I known you’d seen me swive her, I could have saved myself
the trouble—and a few sovereigns.”
“I’m sorry for your trouble, but do not
regret her loss. Truth be known, I never liked her—though I do not doubt part
of my aversion stemmed from what I witnessed.”
He lifted her chin, pulling her gaze to
his. “Were you jealous, Rosebud?”
“Not at the time, but afterward, I
resented her relationship with you.”
“There was no relationship. ‘Twas merely
a one off.”
Unsure what to say in response, she
unbuttoned his collar, opened the front of his shirt, and slipped both hands
inside. As her fingertips met the warm, hair-garnished flesh of his chest, she
nearly swooned.
How many times she had fantasized about
touching him in this way. How much better he felt in real life—a pleasing quilt
of smooth skin, solid bone and muscle, wiry hairs, and petal soft nipples. She
pinched one until it grew erect.
“You feel good, husband” she said. “You
are well put together.”
“It gets better.” He laughed.
“I know.” She blushed at the memory. “I
saw everything you own that day in Mrs. McQueen’s closet.”
“And you married me anyway?”
“Oh, no. I married you because of it.”
The smile he gave her warmed her all the
way down to her toes.
She swept her hands downward, shuddering
when they touched the tartan draped around his hips. The wool was finely woven,
soft. She brushed the apron, pleased to find he was aroused. So was she.
Mightily.
Since that day in the closet, she’d
pictured his hard phallus a thousand times—in her hand, her mouth, and her
cunny, and now 'twas at last within grasp. She bent to unbuckle the belt
circumnavigating his hips, but, changing her mind, reached underneath the curtain
of plaid instead.
He sucked in a breath as she ran her
hands up the backs of his thighs. They felt exactly as she’d dreamed they
would. Lean, hard, and flocked in bristly hair. Would his phallus feel the way
she’d imagined, too?
