The Duchess War (The Brothers Sinister) (32 page)

God, that voice. God, that body. She was wearing a gown of sheer white fabric, embroidered in white scrollwork that twined suggestively from her hips to her breasts. Which were unbound. All too visible through the fabric. There was a bit of openwork by her legs; she took a step toward him, and the fabric swirled around her, giving him flashes of bare skin, long legs.

Had he actually been going to suggest that they put off their wedding night until they’d had some rest?

“I thought,” he said as his blood rushed south, “that I’d spend the remainder of the evening ravishing you.”

She smiled. “That’s what I thought you were going to say.”

“Look at you.” And he could, now. He stood up from the table and circled her. “Just look at you.”

The fabric molded to the peaks of her nipples. Dreams and fevered imaginings paled before reality. A dream conjured up a perfect half-moon of a breast, but it missed the light smattering of freckles. He might imagine smooth, pale skin. This close, he could see that her skin was pebbled with cold. And it was a smattering of colors—a light overlay of pink, where her blood pounded beneath the skin, hints of tan and white. He could even make out a pale white line along one rib that could have been a scar.

Those minor imperfections riveted him. This was no painter’s imagination, no unreal fantasy displayed in his mind. This was Minnie, and she was here, real and breathing.

Red ribbon bows held the gown together at her shoulders. The one over her right arm was loose, and it seemed to taunt him, that half-made knot, not quite pulled firmly together, threatening to loose itself and let the sheer fabric slide down her skin.

“Do you remember that fundamental physiological flaw?” he muttered.

“Remember it? I’d hoped to exploit it.”

“Oh.” He reached for her. “Good. Then assume I said something brilliant.”

He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss, lips on lips. It wasn’t even just his body, pressing against hers. He could feel her breaths speed up, unbound by a corset. His hands slid up her body. Her breasts were round and firm; her nipples hardened as his fingers brushed them. This was the beginning of
everything.

“Assume I said something bloody brilliant,” he muttered.

From her breast, it was only a short way to that loose ribbon, only a twist of his fingers to undo it and draw the silk down. He found her breast again, this time uncovered. The texture of female skin—so warm and vibrant, soft to the touch and yet firm when caressed—enthralled him.

But she was even less shy than he. She slid her hands under his coat, around his waist. She kissed him long and slow.

“Are you afraid?” he whispered, drawing her closer to the bed.

“I know I’m supposed to be…but no. No.” He’d always found her voice sensual, but now it was downright erotic.

She sat on the bed and crooked her finger. “I’m not feeling particularly clever myself. I want you.”

Any hope he’d had of restraining himself evaporated at that. He shed his coat while she undid the buttons of his waistcoat. They pulled off his shirt together, both of them laughing when his hand got stuck in one cuff and she had to turn it inside out on his wrist to pull it off. Her fingers explored his chest, setting him to shivering while he undid his trousers.

When he’d shed trousers and smallclothes in a great mass on the floor, she pulled him back on the bed and kissed him again. This kiss was even better—skin against skin, her hands brushing his thighs, then gently exploring his organ. He fumbled the other ribbon tie off her shoulder as their tongues met. They were chest to chest, then, as he clumsily extricated her from her gown, bare legs to bare legs. He took hold of her hands in his and pressed them together full-length.

Her mouth was hot against his. His cock was hard against her hip. They kissed, his pelvis grinding into hers, and all his dreams, all his most sordid imaginings, paled before reality. He was going to have her. He was finally, really, truly going to have her. He spread her legs and got on his knees between them.

When faced with the pretty pink folds of her sex, it was impossible not to touch her. She let out a little gasp when he touched her there—not of shock, but encouragement. She strained against his fingers. Fingers weren’t enough. He came on top of her, careful, so careful with his weight. She moaned when he rubbed the head of his erection against the opening of her passage.

“Oh, God,” she said, in that so-arousing voice. “Robert…”

“God. I want you so badly.”

He pushed an inch inside of her.

She inhaled and set her hand against his chest—not a caress, but a slight pressure pushing him away, and he stopped. His biceps ached subtly, frozen as he was above her.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No…” She smiled weakly and then said, in direct contradiction, “Only a little.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pop the bubble of unthinking lust that had taken him so thoroughly. He was making a hash of things. He was forcing himself on her with scarcely a kiss and a fumble to ready her.

“Don’t stop,” she said, but when he thrust deeper inside, her entire body tensed. The pleasure he felt only magnified his unease. She closed around him—soft and warm, tight, so tight. She felt good. But he could feel her muscles, tense and unyielding beneath his body. Her fingers clenched in the bed sheets. Her jaw was set, as if she managed to grit her teeth only through strength of effort.

“I’m sorry.” He tried to kiss her. “I’m sorry.”

She lifted one hand and touched his cheek. “Stop
worrying,
Robert. I’ll tell you if it becomes unbearable.”

Bearable. This was
bearable
for her, when it was good for him.

Only good.

Somehow, he had had some notion that sexual intercourse with her would be different. That the complexity of what he felt for Minnie, their rapport… He had imagined that all of that would make this moment different in some way. That somehow, he would slide into her and his world would catch fire.

Knowing that it was just bearable for her robbed the act of anything but physical pleasure. This was his wedding night. It was supposed to be magical, as stupid and naïve as that sounded.

When he thrust inside her, it was supposed to feel different. He yearned for something magic to come out of her flesh—some secret thing that would transport them. Something that would make this more than
good
for him, more than bearable for her. As it was—he tried to suppress the terrible thought with her body so wary under his, but couldn’t quite—he’d have preferred his left fist to this.

No matter how he took her, whether slow or swift, no matter whether he curled his hands in her hair or set them next to her shoulders, there was no magic in the act. When one made love to a woman one really cared for, it was
supposed
to feel different.

If you’re any good in bed, I might fall in love with you.

She’d said it with a smile, but he hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to love him. He yearned for it, and he felt the possibility drift away with every thrust that was merely bearable.

He shut his eyes and thought of England, concentrated on the smaller pleasures of the act—the pleasant hum of his body as he slid inside her, the slow burn of his pleasure, gathering at the base of his spine.

“God, Minnie,” he said, and drove harder into her. It
was
good. Good was enough. She was enough—her body, tightening around his, her hips, her breasts brushing against his chest with every last thrust. And then it was very good, in those final ragged moments. He came hard inside her, his release catching him up in a moment that was almost as sweet as what he’d wished for.

When he was finished he disengaged from her and lay down, trailing his fingers along her ribs.

So. One more romantic, idealized dream, fallen prey to reality. No sense crying over that. And…and it couldn’t always be like that for her, could it? He hoped not. He almost wished he
had
asked Oliver for advice.

Beside him, Minnie turned to him. He still couldn’t look her in the eyes. Slowly, she set her hand on his arm. “I don’t wish to alarm you.” Her voice was a little cool; he tipped his head to one side and looked at her as best as he could in the failing light.

“What is it?”

“I think we were doing it wrong.”

His whole body grew tense. If she hadn’t said it, they could have pretended. He pushed subtly away from her. “The first time, I hear, is the worst. For women. It will get…better.” It had to.

“No,” she repeated more gravely. “We were doing it wrong. I know what it’s supposed to feel like, at the end. And what happened for you? It didn’t happen for me.”

“I know,” he snapped. “God. You don’t have to tell me that. You could barely tolerate the act. You don’t need to rub in the fact that I couldn’t bring my wife to orgasm. I’m well aware of the truth.”

This outburst was met with silence, and Robert let out a shaky breath.

“I’m not trying to criticize,” she finally said. She sounded astoundingly reasonable, under the circumstances, and that made him want to snap at her more. “It’s just—the way we were doing it, it wasn’t ever going to happen for me. And…well, I had rather hoped that it would.”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t going to happen? How would you know?”

She simply looked at him, and he realized he was snapping at his wife because he’d not brought her to ecstasy. Because he’d had a better time of it than she had.

Excellent work, Robert.

“I’m sorry.” He let out a sigh. “I shouldn’t yell at you. It’s not your fault.” He took a deep breath.

Minnie took his arm. “We’re intelligent. We’ll figure it out. We have ten days in Paris to get it right.”

Hell. Ten nights like this one? He really would beg off first.

“Nine,” he corrected. “One down.”

“This one isn’t over.” Minnie bit her lip. “I have no experience with men, but… Do you want me to show you?”

“Show me?”

Her cheeks went slightly pink. “You know. Show you what I would do on my own.”

After the debacle he’d made of the night, it was impossible that he should want her again. And yet those words set in motion a tickle at the back of his mind, a hint of interest. He cleared his throat. “I don’t have anything else planned for the evening.”

She let out a little laugh. “I suppose. It starts here.” Her hand crept between her thighs.

“I started there.”

“A little higher up.” She did something with her hand—something he couldn’t see until he sat up and focused on her fingers. They slid, not into her passage, but higher, focusing on the glistening nub between her legs. Her strokes were light and swift. Her breath caught once and then evened out.

So did his. “What are you thinking about?”

She met his eyes. “You. Do you remember when you threw the paste at me?”

“Mmm.”

“That night, I went home and thought of you taking off my gown.”

He’d just spilled his seed in her. He shouldn’t have been capable of an erection for a good long while. But blood was flowing to his cock. “Funny,” he said hoarsely. “I thought something similar that night.”

“I thought about you a lot at night,” Minnie said. “It was…embarrassing.”

“There was a point, there, where I thought my left hand had your name branded on it. All I had to do was touch my cock and think of you…”

Her body was spread before him, her hair a great mass on the pillow.

He nudged her knees apart so he could see what she was doing. As he did, his throat grew dry. Her skin appeared to soften as she touched herself. She was a deep pink between her legs, her nether lips unfolding like a flower in the rosy lamplight. That dark rose beckoned him in, inviting his touch.

Her hands pressed into her flesh in a smooth, practiced motion, and he could see her passage glisten. He could smell the difference in the air—the scent of her growing arousal.

“All I had to do,” he said fiercely, “was think of you, and I’d be hard as a rock. God, Minnie, keep doing that.” He’d never thought of her doing this—pleasuring herself—but it was by far more arousing than any of the scenarios he’d dreamed up.

“I need a little more.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “Would you like to help?”

His throat was dry. “I’d love to. How?”

“Touch me.” She curved her hand around one breast. “Here.”

He leaned down and cupped her breast, slid his finger along the curve of it.

“More. Harder,” she urged him.

So he took the coral bud of her nipple in his mouth. She let out a little moan as he did so, her whole body arching next to his. That moan—that brought his arousal roaring back to life. His cock went from mildly interested to fully engaged.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Please. Just like that.”

He licked her first and then nibbled lightly at her. Her moans grew louder.

He set his other hand over hers, on her sex. He could feel her touching herself, could feel the bed swaying with the rhythm of her fingers. She’d been lightly moist when he entered her; she was wildly slick now. Slick and glorious. Her fingers were pushing harder; harder; his own played alongside hers, glorying in the smooth silkiness.

“Do you want to know the first time I thought about you?” he asked. “That first night we met. God, that encounter played out so differently when I imagined it again. A woman with a voice like yours, a figure like yours, encounters me alone behind a davenport? I thought about you on your knees, fastening those clever lips of yours around my cock. And I wanted you.”

She came with a fevered cry. Her whole body shuddered in waves of pleasure. For a moment, it felt as if those waves were traveling through him, too. When she was done, he could hardly think. His entire body screamed in demand. He didn’t ask. He didn’t talk. He simply spread her legs farther apart and pushed inside her.

This time, he sank into her depths in one solid thrust. This time, he could feel the difference in her body. The little shuddering waves that still traveled through her clutched at his cock. She was slick from want.